Page 24 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

Across the bowl, Zeke’s rig angles left, hugging a ridge of wind-packed crust that curves like the rim of a shattered bowl. His form is a steady silhouette against the rising light, the kind of dependable anchor I’ve leaned on more times than I can count. Wren, riding behind him, flashes a gloved thumbs-up—sharp and confident—before she lowers her body tighter against his back, ready for whatever comes next.

The wolf ping darts south again—straight over the shelf, as if daring us to follow. My jaw tightens. She’s heading straight into the most unstable stretch of ice on the mountain, a death zone even seasoned hunters avoid. I glance at the glimmering ridge ahead and mutter, “She’s pushing us into the worst of it.” Bryn nods, eyes wide but determined. "Or she’s running from something even worse."

“Smart girl,” Bryn mutters. “She knows the cracks.”

“Or knows we don’t.”

I feather the throttle. Steel cables hum beneath us. The engine’s vibration buzzes through Bryn’s chest into mine, syncing heartbeats in a rhythm too steady to be accidental. She tightens her arms a fraction, and I feel it—our pulses lining up like twin wires humming with intent.

We crawl across the ice, the snowmobile's skis whispering like breath on a blade. Two hundred meters of glacial glass stretch beneath us, a thin skin over an abyss that wants to swallow us whole. Every exhale hangs like silver thread in the frigid air—fragile, breakable, trembling with the weight of everything we don't say. My palms sweat inside my gloves, a traitor heat against the cold, and I feel Bryn’s tension ripple through her arms, locked tight around me. Beneath us, the groan of ancient ice murmurs low—ominous, alive.

Bryn murmurs, “I hear it… little pops. Shear tension.”

“Keep your eyes down.”

A spider-web fissure snakes ahead, thin but fresh, glinting under a fresh dusting of powder. The ice shifts with a subtle groan—a sound that hums through the machine and settles deep in my spine. My breath fogs the visor as I steer left, veering from the danger like a hunter sidestepping a sprung trap, following a trackless lane of virgin snow that looks just sturdy enough to hold the weight of our pursuit—and the weight of what’s coming.

Ping—ping—ping.

The collar signal halts abruptly. For one breathless moment, the screen goes dead—no pings, no movement. Then, a new signal blinks into existence, fifty meters beyond the ice shelf, pulsing like a heartbeat in the tree line. Not a glitch. A leap. That wolf made the impossible crossing—clearing the dead zone like it was nothing. My breath catches as the implication sinks in: She survived, not by accident or chance, but because she believed she could.

The wolf made the jump. That means she’s alive—still out there, still fighting, still clever enough to outmaneuver every trap thrown at her. My heart kicks hard against my ribs. Alive—and thriving. That leap wasn’t luck. It was calculated. She knew the risk. She chose it. And she made it. Whatever else is out there—she’s surviving it. That gives us hope. That gives us proof. out there, still running.

I squeeze the brake. “Shelf’s closing behind us. We'll take the long route around.”

“Long route costs us fifteen minutes.” Bryn’s frustration flares hot against my back.

“Beats fifteen seconds of freefall.”

Nate’s voice crackles over comms. “Copy detour. We’ll circle from the north.”

We backtrack, hugging stable ground as the snowmobiles groan against the slope, engines humming low to avoid drawing attention. Bryn’s grip stays iron around my waist, her breath warm against my back, and every step beneath the treads echoes like a challenge. The air feels heavier here, thick with the scent of pine sap and anticipation, as if the mountain itself is bracing for the next move.

I glance behind—Zeke rides flank, Wren’s silhouette hunched low, eyes scanning. We’re exposed, but not helpless. Every shift in the trees, every flurry of snow carries the threat of a strike, and we move like predators re-entering the kill zone—silent, watchful, and wound tight with purpose, engines droning low through the brittle silence. Morning sun glints off the ice like broken mirrors, jagged and deceptive. Each shimmer cuts the landscape into fractured reflections of danger. I can almost feel the mountain watching—cold, ancient, and alive—judging our hesitation, weighing our worth.

We regroup on a ragged timberline where the wolf’s track dives into a choke of deadfall. Bryn toggles night-vision on the tablet. “Collar’s moving again—slow, like she’s stalking.”

Zeke swings his rifle. “Then so are we.”

I crank the sled forward. Thirty yards. Forty. The snow changes—shifts beneath the treads. Loose powder coats a layer of unnaturally compacted crust. My gut clenches. Something's off. The scent of disturbed earth mingles faintly with exhaust and cold air—wrong. I open my mouth to warn?—

The ice shelf hums low—then a puff of powder bursts beneath Nate’s snowmobile's skis, a sharp concussion tearing through the air like a slap of thunder.WHUMP.His rig jerks violently, skidding hard to the side before slamming into a birch with a sickening crunch of metal and bark. The blast kicks a concussion wave under my snowmobile—no searing heat, no jagged fragments—just a gut-thumping shock that rattles my bones. Not a kill strike. A low-yield motion mine, tuned to wound, not destroy. Designed for screams, not silence.

“Down!” I snarl, slamming Bryn down behind me and throwing my body over hers as another mine erupts—flash-bang brilliance and a thunderclap that feels like it splits the sky.

The snowmobile rocks hard, metal skidding under us as snow blasts upward in a whiteout wave. The concussion punches through my chest, my ears ringing. It’s a deterrent—sound and kinetic, meant to disorient, maybe crack bone—but not kill. Poachers don’t want corpses. They want product—injured, scared, but intact. My grip tightens on Bryn. No one’s taking her.

Zeke vaults off his rig with a roar, snow kicking up as he slides to Nate’s side. He drops to one knee, scanning for bleeding, while Wren charges in, her med-kit already open. Nate hisses through clenched teeth. “I’m fine,” he grits out, face pale.

Wren pulls his pant leg back with clinical speed, her gloves stained with snowmelt and adrenaline. “Nothing broken, but it’ll bruise a lot,” she confirms.

Nate grunts through the pain. “I’m not dead, not even badly hurt. That’s your win for the morning.”

Snow settles in thick, whispering layers, muffling the aftermath like a shroud. The trees stand silent sentinels, breathless under the weight of tension. Silence blooms—not peaceful, but taut, like lungs holding a final inhale, waiting for what comes next.

Bryn pushes upright. “You saved me from shattering my spine,” she mutters.

“Occupational habit.”

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