The mountains rose around them like the bones of the world.

  Dorn led the survivors through passes that barely existed, following trails the yearling had shown them before the salt took him. The air grew thinner with every mile, colder, cleaner. The silicon haze was gone here, replaced by the sharp bite of ice and stone.

  The wounded struggled. The squirrels had to be carried now, their small bodies giving out. The raccoon's brand still pulsed, but weaker—the distance from the box, or maybe just exhaustion. Cricket ranged ahead, her fox's body built for this terrain, her missing ear cocked for sounds that didn't belong.

  Flint carried the box. He'd refused to let anyone else touch it since the salt flats. Vex walked beside him, her scarred eyes scanning the heights.

  Three days they climbed. Three days of cold and hunger and the constant fear that the Preacher would appear behind them, his silver eyes gleaming, his magnet swinging.

  On the fourth morning, they found the settlements.

  They weren't what Dorn had expected.

  He'd imagined caves, maybe—holes in the rock where the mountain herds sheltered from the cold. But the Dry Settlements were something else. Structures built into the cliffs themselves, their walls made of stone and salvaged timber, their windows dark eyes staring out at the approach. A narrow path switchbacked up the cliff face, leading to a gate of sharpened stakes.

  And everywhere, watching eyes.

  Dorn stopped at the base of the path. The survivors gathered behind him, their hope palpable, their fear barely hidden.

  "Wait here," he said. "I'll go first."

  Vex grabbed his arm. "Alone?"

  "They don't know us. A crowd will look like a threat." He pulled free. "If I'm not back by nightfall, find another way."

  He started up the path before she could argue.

  The gate opened before he reached it.

  A figure stood in the gap—a mountain goat, old, his horns curved and cracked with age. His fur was thick and white, stained yellow at the edges. His eyes were the color of old ice.

  "You're the one," he said. His voice was a rasp, worn thin by years of wind and silence. "The one with the box."

  Dorn stopped. "How do you know that?"

  "The whole mountain knows." The old goat stepped aside, gestured him through. "Your signal is loud, cat. We've been feeling it for days. Wondering what kind of fool would carry that thing into our territory."

  Dorn passed through the gate. Inside, the settlement was a warren of paths and platforms, each level connected by ladders carved from the rock. More goats watched from every ledge—young ones, old ones, their eyes hard, their expressions unreadable.

  "I need help," Dorn said. "We need shelter. Food. A place to rest."

  "You need to leave." The old goat's voice was flat. "That box you're carrying—it's a beacon. The Preacher will follow it here. When he does, he'll burn everything. We've seen what happens to settlements that catch his attention."

  "He won't find you. The mountains—"

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  "The mountains don't hide signals." The old goat stopped at a platform overlooking the valley below. "We've survived this long by staying quiet. By staying hidden. By not attracting attention. You're the opposite of that."

  Dorn looked at the valley. At the peaks beyond. At the endless, empty country that had almost killed him a dozen times.

  "The seeds," he said. "Inside the box. They're not a weapon. They're food. Wheat, corn, beans. Things that grow. Things that could feed your people for generations."

  The old goat stared at him. For a long moment, he didn't speak.

  "I know what's in the box," he said finally. "I knew before you opened it. The old ones left records. Stories. They said the seeds would come back one day, carried by fools who didn't understand what they held."

  He turned away from the valley.

  "Those seeds won't grow here. The soil is too thin, the water too cold. They need lowlands. Warmth. Things we don't have." He looked at Dorn. "You came to the wrong place."

  Dorn stood alone on the platform, watching the old goat disappear into the warren.

  Below, the survivors waited at the base of the cliff. Their faces were upturned, hopeful, desperate.

  He had nothing to give them.

  He reached into his pack. Pulled out the salt block—Mossback's gift, pressed with the mark of the mountain herds. It was almost all he had left.

  He found the old goat in a cave near the settlement's heart, surrounded by elders whose fur was white with age. They looked up when he entered, their eyes hard, their expressions unwelcoming.

  "Salt," Dorn said, setting the block before them. "Pressed with your mark. Mossback of Broken Rock sends it. She said it would buy passage."

  The old goat picked up the block. Turned it over. Studied the mark.

  "Mossback," he murmured. "She still lives?"

  "Last I saw."

  The elders exchanged glances. Something passed between them—a conversation Dorn couldn't hear.

  The old goat set the block down. "This buys you three days. Shelter in the lower caves. Food enough to keep you alive. After that, you leave."

  "The seeds—"

  "Are not our problem." The old goat's voice hardened. "We've survived this long by knowing what to take and what to leave. Those seeds are death. The Preacher will follow them to the end of the world. We won't be there when he arrives."

  Dorn met his gaze. Saw no give. No mercy. Just the hard pragmatism of creatures who'd learned that survival meant saying no.

  "Three days," he said. "We'll take it."

  The old goat nodded. "The lower caves. Don't wander. Don't make noise. Don't give us a reason to regret this."

  Dorn turned and walked out.

  He found the survivors at the base of the cliff, huddled together against the cold.

  Vex saw his face and knew. "They won't help."

  "They'll give us three days. Shelter. Food." He looked at the group. At their exhaustion, their hope, their fear. "After that, we're on our own."

  Flint stared at the box. "Three days isn't enough."

  "It's what we have."

  Cricket stood. Her small frame trembled with cold and exhaustion, but her voice was steady. "Then we use them. Rest. Heal. Plan." She looked at Dorn. "Three days is better than none."

  Dorn nodded. Turned to lead them up the path.

  Behind him, the raccoon spoke for the first time in hours.

  "The brands," he said. "They're quiet here. The signal... it's weaker."

  Dorn stopped. Looked at him.

  "The mountains," the raccoon continued. "The iron in the rock. It's blocking the pulse." He touched his branded shoulder. "For the first time since the bunker, it doesn't hurt."

  Dorn looked at the cliffs. At the iron-dark stone. At the box, whose hum had faded to almost nothing.

  The mountains weren't just shelter. They were insulation. A shield.

  Maybe that was enough. For now.

  "Come on," he said. "Let's rest while we can."

  They climbed.

  The lower caves were cold and dark, but they were dry. The survivors spread out across the stone floor, too exhausted to speak, too tired to do anything but collapse.

  Dorn sat at the entrance, watching the stars come out.

  Vex joined him. She didn't speak, just sat beside him, her shoulder touching his.

  "The old goat," she said finally. "He knew about the seeds."

  "They all know. They just don't want to be part of it."

  "Can you blame them?"

  Dorn thought about it. About the Preacher. About the burned settlements, the murdered prisoners, the etched horns on the trail.

  "No," he said. "I can't."

  Vex was quiet for a moment. Then: "What do we do when the three days are up?"

  Dorn looked at the stars. At the peaks. At the dark shape of the box, silent for the first time in days.

  "I don't know," he admitted. "Find somewhere else. Somewhere the Preacher can't follow. Somewhere the seeds can grow."

  "And if there's no such place?"

  Dorn met her eyes. In the starlight, her scarred face looked ancient, worn, beautiful.

  "Then we make one."

  She almost smiled. "That's a terrible plan."

  "Best I've got."

  They sat together in the dark, watching the stars, waiting for whatever came next.

  Behind them, the survivors slept. The box was silent. And for the first time in weeks, no one was running.