A New Beginning

"Hornbeasts are not just animals. They are the true bearers of Raj's spirit."

– Jokim Nork, legendary hornbeast breeder

Reng, Western Hills

Noon found Reng deep within the Hills, leading Sirnak through the impassable terrain along a barely visible animal trail. The sun scorched the rocky slope, reflecting off the white cliffs and burning into his face. He swayed in the saddle, exhausted, barely registering his surroundings, moving forward on instinct alone. Beneath him, Sirnak stumbled, his steps growing heavier, as if his own legs were betraying him. He had long since earned a moment of rest. Yet Reng pushed him onward, knowing full well how cruel it was.

Since dawn, when they had fled Karhen Rouz, they had been riding as if death itself were at their heels. Reng kept glancing over his shoulder, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes, listening intently. His heart pounded wildly. Every rustle in the dry grass, every shadow cast by the rocks conjured images of pursuers closing in. But no one wanted to come to the Hills. The only one in Karhen Rouz who might have the courage and skill to track him was Noel.

When he looked back again, he saw only the barren, dusty landscape. The greenery of the deep Tajemná Valley had long since been swallowed by a dusty haze. No movement, no threat. Perhaps even Noel hadn’t dared to venture into the Hills alone.

Sirnak snorted in relief as Reng finally brought him to a halt. His sides heaved, foam dripped from his nostrils. He stood patiently while Reng gathered the strength to dismount. Carefully swinging his leg over, he slid down. The world spun. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the rocky ground with a heavy thud. A sharp pain tore through his gut, forcing a curse from his lips. Startled by his unusual behavior, Sirnak took a cautious step back, eyeing him warily. But soon, a tuft of dry grass caught his attention, and he lowered his head to graze.

Reng wiped his sweaty forehead, his breath ragged. The thought of taking even one more step seemed impossible. Slowly, he hauled himself onto a large boulder to rest, his trembling hands fumbling to assess the damage he had inflicted on himself.

He carefully peeled off his filthy shirt, and even as he did, he knew it was bad. The bandage wrapped tightly around his abdomen was soaked with blood, a crimson stain spreading across the fabric and seeping into the other layers of clothing. The stench was awful—a mix of sweat, blood, and something worse. That was what frightened him most. He couldn’t stay in one place for too long. The smell would attract attention.

Reng scanned his surroundings. The cliffs cast long shadows, and the loose stones beneath Sirnak’s hooves shifted uneasily. This land did not belong to people—he knew that. The silence, which might have been comforting, now felt ominous. What lurked behind those boulders? How many predators had already picked up his scent?

His gaze returned to Sirnak, who was now absentmindedly flipping over stones and digging into the hard earth to reach the tastier roots. No troubles weighed on him. Reng exhaled heavily, pulled his shirt back on, and shoved the pain into the deepest corner of his mind. First, he had to reach his destination. He had no other choice. The trail ahead might just lead him to a place that could save his life.

He knew where he was going. He had carefully considered his destination after realizing that Ela had robbed him of everything he had saved. In his current situation, he had no choice but to try his luck on the other side of the Hills. There, he would find Kalen Vork, a hornbeast breeder known for harboring those abandoned by the system. Refugees, outcasts, people who had nowhere else to go. Some claimed they were nothing more than a gang of thieves and murderers. But Kalen believed they were the best the western Raj had ever known—his wranglers, his family.

Reng didn’t care. He needed just one thing—a place to lay his head and work where no one asked where he came from or why. For that, he was willing to offer his hands and his skills.

"Come on, we need to get moving," he muttered to Sirnak, who lifted his head from the dry grass at the sound of his voice, his short ears twitching. At that moment, Reng realized how foolish he had been to trust the beast enough to let it graze freely. Sirnak’s mischief had complicated his life more than once, but he had never been in a situation like this.

Trying not to panic, he whistled, just as he always did when he wanted to calm the animal. But as soon as he took his first cautious step forward, Sirnak took a step back.

"Tooth-Taker take you, don’t pull this on me," Reng growled through gritted teeth.

He stretched out a hand, attempting again to catch him, but every step he took only made things worse. In the end, the beast lost patience and, with a frustrated screech, trotted away to put more distance between them.

Reng realized, with a sinking feeling, that he was completely screwed. Not only was he suddenly without a kernal, but he had also lost everything in the saddlebags—his supplies, his bolas, which he had planned to use for hunting dinner, and most importantly, his water.

For a moment, he closed his eyes and fought back a wave of despair. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm, resigned to the fact that his fate now rested in Sirnak’s hooves. The only silver lining was the kernal’s fear of being alone—so at least the beast was following him, albeit at a safe distance.

The path they walked gradually turned into a steep climb. Exhausted, Reng had to stop every few steps to catch his breath. Every loose rock he slipped on, every stumble, made him feel like the next step might be his last. Pain shot through his side with every movement, a reminder that his problems might resolve themselves right here and now. He knew the Hills well enough to understand that it was only a matter of time before a predator picked up his trail.

Then, suddenly, Sirnak snorted, screeched, and tensed. They were no longer alone.

Reng’s heart pounded with fear. He followed the animal’s gaze. Against the deep blue sky, the silhouette of a man on a massive kernal emerged.

Relief washed over him, but he remained cautious. A stranger on horseback was far better than a pack of leerds—provided he didn’t have bad intentions. But Reng knew all too well that plenty of men here could rival the deadliness of the local predators.

"Around here, we got a custom—you’re supposed to ride a kernal!" the rider called out, clearly amused by Reng’s predicament. His voice was strong and confident.

"So do we," Reng shouted back, intrigued by who he was dealing with. "But I guess no one bothered to tell this one. First time I regret not putting him down when I had the chance!"

The man laughed and nudged his kernal forward, riding down toward them without hesitation, despite the steep slope. The beast’s wide hooves sent small rocks tumbling ahead of it with a quiet rustle.

Sirnak snorted, leapt back, and kept his distance, watching the approaching rider with wary suspicion.

The rider calmly unfastened a lasso from his saddle, looped it over his head, and with a swift motion, spun the noose and threw it. The rope tightened around Sirnak’s neck in a sharp snap. The kernal jerked, but the rider had already secured the other end to his own saddle. With ease, he dismounted, unfazed by the steep slope, and within seconds, he had Sirnak’s reins in hand.

A sharp whistle cut through the air as Sirnak lashed out with a furious kick. The rider ducked just in time, narrowly avoiding the hoof that whizzed past his shoulder.

“Come on, you bastard!” he yelled, yanking the reins hard. The kernal stiffened, then reluctantly lowered its head in submission.

Reng watched the entire process in tense silence. He couldn’t help himself—it was fascinating. The stranger handled the kernal as if he had been raised among them. Every movement was precise, confident, as if there was nothing simpler in the world. It was clear that this was someone who spent every waking moment in the saddle. Compared to him, Reng felt like an amateur.

“By the screecher, he’s as ugly as the mess in his head,” the stranger remarked as he reached Reng and shoved the reins into his hands.

“They were right when they told you back then,” he added with a smirk. “A knife would’ve cured him.”

Reng opened his mouth but said nothing.

The man before him had a peculiar accent and looked only a few years older than he was. He had a narrow chin, a sharp nose, and blue eyes half-hidden beneath strands of pale hair. When he smiled, it revealed a gap where a tooth was missing.

“No wonder he’s messing with you, looking at you now,” the rider drawled. “You look even worse than he does.”

“Bad day,” Reng muttered dryly. He reached into his saddlebags for his flask and took a grateful sip, relishing the cool water on his tongue.

“The name’s Borin,” the stranger said, patting his kernal’s neck. “I was sent to find you.”

Reng lowered the flask in surprise. “Sent? By who?”

“The foreman, who else?” Borin smirked, as if it was absurd that Reng didn’t immediately understand. “I’m supposed to make sure you’re in one piece.”

“Nothing more?” Reng frowned. This didn’t feel like an ordinary errand.

“What else do you want, mate?” Borin grinned. “If I were you, I’d haul my ass back in the saddle so we can get you where you came from.”

Reng scowled, and suddenly, it all made sense. It wasn’t hard to guess who had orchestrated this. Noel must have spent a small fortune to pay for a trained hrav capable of delivering a message this quickly, even to a remote place like Kalen’s farm.

"I’m not going back to Karhen Rouz," Reng refused firmly, shoving the flask back into his saddlebag, determined to keep heading west.

"They warned me you wouldn’t want to," Borin shrugged indifferently, unfurling his lasso again—though this time, it was clear he wasn’t aiming for the kernal.

"Hey, wait!" Reng shouted, raising his hands to stop him. "Look at me! I’m not running anywhere. Just… hear me out for a minute."

Surprisingly, Borin actually hesitated. He narrowed his eyes, sizing Reng up as if deciding whether this was worth his time. "Alright, go on then," he said at last.

Reng hesitated for a moment, then spoke.

"Imagine..." he started, but had to pause, inhaling deeply to steady the tremor in his voice. "Imagine spending years trying to get out of that place. You work yourself to the bone from dawn to dusk, doing everything they ask. Everything, just for a sliver of a chance they’ll let you go. And then you find out that the paper that was supposed to set you free got knocked off the table by someone you trusted. Someone who acted like they were your father."

His voice turned rough and broke. "And when everything falls apart, they rob you, stab you, and then tell you that even the last bit of freedom you have is gone."

He fell silent, his gaze locked onto Borin. "Imagine that, Borin. And then tell me… what would you do? Huh? Tell me."

Borin didn’t answer. His eyes flicked to Reng’s shirt, where he finally noticed the bloodstain. He tilted his head curiously.

"Who did that to you?" he asked at last.

"A girl. Jara."

Borin’s eyebrows shot up. "Jara, huh?"

A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Girls don’t usually stab guys for no reason. So why?"

"Maybe I made a really big mistake? Maybe she was jealous?" Reng spread his hands helplessly. "How should I know? She didn’t exactly give me a speech about it."

Borin burst out laughing. "You’re fun, man, really. I thought you were just another runaway subjugate, but you? You’re a much bigger mess than I expected."

"Name?" he asked, still chuckling.

"Reng," he answered shortly.

Borin laughed again and shrugged. "Well, Reng, I’ll be honest with you. I’ve got a job to do, and if I don’t do it, I’ll get chewed out. Probably not a knife in the gut like you, but still, a serious beating. But you seem alright. Maybe I’d actually like it if someone joined the crew who isn’t a complete coward like the rest of them."

He paused for a moment, and Reng shifted impatiently.

"I've got a proposal," Borin finally said, his tone measured. "Promise me half your wages from Kalen—let's say, until the end of the year—and I'll consider it. Oh, and I also want to hear the full story about what got you that hole in your gut. What do you say?"

Reng hated it. Every fiber of his being screamed that it wasn’t fair, but he knew he had no choice. He felt his throat tighten as he finally nodded. A satisfied glint flickered in Borin’s eyes.

"Good. You know what? Show me. I’ve got stitches and something to wrap it with," he said, stepping forward with a saddlebag he had pulled from his kernal. Reng noticed it was unusually well-stocked—almost as if Kalen’s men were prepared for the end of the world.

"What, surprised?" Borin commented, catching Reng’s look. "You think the job you’re so eager to get is fun and games? Trust me, you’re gonna regret it."

Reng pulled off his shirt and let Borin do his work. As he peeled away the blood-soaked bandages, Reng hissed in pain, as if his skin were being torn off with them. Borin laid out his tools—scissors, a needle, and a jar of tojas salve—while still running his mouth.

"Broken bones are the easy stuff. Sometimes, people don’t make it. And Kalen’s hornbeasts? Worth more than us, no question. Real paradise. But for guys like me… or maybe like you? It’s the perfect place to disappear from the world."

He bent down, examining Reng’s wound.

"This needs to go," he muttered before immediately setting to work cleaning the edges. His hands moved with practiced precision, rubbing in the salve with a firm press, as if he had done it a thousand times before. A white haze of pain flashed behind Reng’s eyes.

"What?" Borin asked. "I’ve stitched worse. Hell, once had to patch up a guy who lost half his ass to a horn. Now that was a mess."

"Fantastic," Reng muttered.

The stitching was quick, but it still felt like an eternity. When Borin was done, he straightened and examined his work.

"I think this’ll hold. If it rips, I’ll stitch you back up when we get to the house. How do you feel?"

"I’m sick of all this," Reng admitted, eyeing his saddle. Just the thought of having to haul himself back onto it made his stomach turn.

Borin studied him in silence for a moment, then broke into a wide grin, revealing the gap in his teeth again.

"You know what? We’ll leave tomorrow. That’s a day too. You look like you’d barely make it back in the saddle, let alone in one piece. And they won’t lose their minds over it. The Hills are big—I bet you weren’t exactly easy to find, huh?"

***

Kalen’s farm didn’t seem particularly remarkable at first glance. The main house, belonging to his family, was low, weathered, and barely larger than the home Reng had once shared with Noel’s family in Karhen Rouz. Nearby stood two smaller buildings with peeling plaster, clearly set aside for the wranglers, and at the back, a tall barn loomed, its doors carelessly left ajar. The air smelled of dust, dry grass, and straw, which the wind carried in all directions.

The only real landmark was a towering windmill, its blades lazily turning in the faint breeze. Beneath it stretched long troughs, filled by a pump that pulled water from deep below. Reng noticed the absence of hornbeasts, but Borin quickly explained that the herds were much farther away, grazing in Hourel Valley, where pastures lined the local spring sources.

Their arrival went largely unnoticed, save for an older, broad-shouldered man who stepped out of the main house. Borin dismounted, waved at Reng to follow, and shot him a firm warning:

“Keep your mouth shut, don’t do anything, and leave this to me.”

“Borin, you damn fool, where the hell have you been? And what the fuck were you doing!?” the man bellowed as soon as he got within earshot.

Reng immediately knew this had to be the foreman Borin had mentioned earlier. The man radiated authority—and anger. But what caught Reng off guard was when, out of nowhere, the foreman struck Borin flat across the face. The slap was sharp, leaving a red imprint on his cheek.

“What part of bring him back to Karhen Rouz did you not understand, you idiot?” the foreman continued.

“He wanted to come here. And who am I to tell him otherwise?” Borin jutted out his sharp chin, a clear provocation.

“That boy doesn’t belong here. Noel Haring has a claim on him. You know who that is?”

“Of course I do,” Borin shrugged. “And I also know that if we tell him we didn’t find the kid, he won’t do shit about it. They’ve got way bigger problems over there than some kid who doesn’t want to be with them anymore.”

Reng’s heart pounded. He knew his future depended on how convincing Borin could be. Thoughts raced through his mind: What if they refuse me? What if they send me back? What the hell am I going to do? Every glance the foreman threw his way felt like a warning.

“We all know we need every damn hand we can get,” Borin pressed on before the foreman could speak. “You want to take stock to the markets, and meanwhile, Fiddler’s laid up with busted bones, Korejs is six feet under, and winter’s coming. We’re not moving the eastern herd with the men we’ve got left. And if you don’t believe me, go ask Noel Haring if he’s willing to lend us a hand. Bet you a kernal’s ass he’ll tell you to fuck off. But this kid? He actually wants to help.”

"I promised to return him," the foreman grumbled, irritated.

"And we will. But only after he’s done his share of the work. Until then, we can say we never found him. The Hills swallow people up real easy."

The foreman snorted, but for the first time, he looked unsure. He shot Reng a piercing glare.

"You know how to ride?" he growled.

"Yeah," Reng nodded eagerly. "And I’m a decent hunter. Worked the toughest shifts on farms before."

"And that mess on your shirt? Your calling card?" the foreman sneered.

"It’s nothing," Reng blurted, trying discreetly to hide the bloodstain.

The foreman studied him for a long moment, weighing his options, until finally, a smirk crossed his face.

"Alright. Fine. If it’s nothing, it’s nothing. Tomorrow, you’ll help Borin round up the first part of the herd. And if you don’t get yourself killed in the process, we’ll talk about keeping you around for a while. But no pay. Dead men don’t need money. And as far as anyone’s concerned, you’re dead now. Got it? Noel can’t know you ended up here."

Reng nodded vigorously. If being dead was the price for survival, then so be it.

He wanted to say something, but the look on Borin’s face stopped him. Borin grinned smugly and reminded him, "Half your pay is mine, so from now on, no dinner for you, got it?"

Of course, he agreed. He had promised, after all.