Compass North

The rain had stopped just before you reached the edge of the tree line, but the ground was still slick, sucking at your boots with every step. The air smelled like wet earth and pine needles, sharp and clean in a way you weren’t used to. Civilization felt miles behind, though the truth was it had only been a few hours since you left the last paved road. The mountains loomed ahead, green and gray and endless, and you tried not to think about how much smaller you felt standing there.

Marcus Havelock was already waiting, leaning against a weathered truck with his arms crossed, a faint scowl on his face as if the forest itself had been keeping him company and now you were an unwelcome interruption. His sandy blond hair stuck out from under a battered cap, and his steel-blue eyes sized you up in one swift motion. Not cruel, not dismissive—just tired, like someone who had seen too much to be impressed by anything new.

“You’re late,” he said, though you weren’t.

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