The boat ride was a slog through black, oily water, but we eventually hit the muddy banks of Byulhareum. It was a shithole village hidden in a valley of grey fog and rotting timber.
The locals were already waiting. They were demi-humans—rabbit people. Long, scarred ears and twitchy noses, but their eyes were full of a deep, jagged hate. In the Empire, these people were treated like trash. The Queen's Guard used them as live bait to lure Stormbeasts out of the rifts. They'd tie a kid to a post and wait for a Drake to swoop down just to get a clear shot.
The second my boot hit the mud, a rock caught me in the temple.
"Get out, human scum!" a male rabbit yelled. His fur was patchy, missing in clumps where acid rain had burned him.
Another rock flew, hitting Mo in the shoulder. A group of them surged forward, holding rusted pitchforks and jagged stones. They wanted our heads. They saw the Gears on our belts and saw the Empire. To them, we were just more monsters.
"Back off, you fleabags!" Mo roared, leveling his rifle.
"Stop it! All of you!"
The crowd parted. An old rabbit with a withered ear and a cane made of bone limped forward. That was the Chief. Behind him was his daughter. She was tall, with snow-white fur and eyes like polished rubies. She was beautiful, the kind of beautiful that felt out of place in a village that looked like a graveyard.
"Lower your stones," the Chief barked. His voice was like grinding gravel. "These men aren't the Guard. Look at them. They're covered in the same filth we are."
The villagers didn't like that. They stayed in a circle, their glares heavy enough to crush bone. One of them spat a glob of blood onto my boot. The tension was thick; I could feel the death stares burning into the back of my neck.
"My name is Agnes," the girl said, stepping toward us. She didn't flinch at the blood on my vest or the Gear Six in my hand. "My father is the Chief. Ignore the others. They've seen too many of our kin used as feed for the Queen's pets."
She led us toward a large, slanted shack at the center of the village. As we walked, I saw a pile of trash near a hut. It wasn't trash. It was a heap of dead kits, their small bodies mangled and half-eaten. The Stormbeasts had been here recently. The Queen's dogs had probably watched from the ridge while it happened.
"We don't have much," the Chief muttered as we stepped inside the hut. "But we have a roof. Why are you here, James? No one comes to Byulhareum unless they're running or dying."
"Both," I said, sliding the Gear Six onto the table.
Agnes watched the weapon with a look of pure disgust. "That machine is made of the same things that killed my mother. You bring the Storm with you."
"The Storm is already here, Agnes," I said. "Mabeth is coming. And she doesn't care about your village. She'll burn this whole valley just to find us."
The crowd outside the shack didn't disperse. They were screaming now, their voices high-pitched and jagged with terror.
"Hand him over!" a one-eyed rabbit yelled, pointing a trembling finger at me. "The Queen's Guard will burn us all if they find him here! Give them the human and maybe they'll leave us enough grain to survive the winter!"
"Shut your damn mouth!" the Chief roared, slamming his bone cane into the dirt floor.
I looked at their pathetic faces. They were terrified, and they should be. I was a magnet for a bullet to the brain, and Mabeth wasn't the type to knock. I needed a place to lie low, somewhere the Empire wouldn't look for a year or two until the heat died down. This shithole village was perfect, but only if they didn't kick me out into the mud.
"I can train you," I said, my voice flat and loud enough to carry through the thin walls. "Look at you. You're waiting to die. I can show you how to handle a Gear. I can show you how to gut a Stormbeast before it rips your kits in half."
Mo looked at me like I'd grown a second head. He knew it was bullshit. I didn't care about these people, and I sure as hell didn't want to spend my days teaching rabbits how to aim. I just needed a bed and a roof.
"Liar!" the one-eyed rabbit spat. "Humans don't help us! You just want a shield!"
"He's right," Agnes whispered, her ruby eyes locking onto mine. She saw right through the act. "You don't care if we live or die, James."
"It doesn't matter if I care," I snapped. "The Queen made those beasts to keep you weak. I'm offering to make you dangerous. Decide now, or I'll start shooting my way out of here."
The Chief looked at me, his old face full of a desperate, misplaced hope. He actually believed me. He thought I was some hero sent to save his dying race. It was sickening.
"He stays," the Chief declared. "If he can teach even ten of our youth to fight, we have a chance. Agnes, show them to the back hut."
The villagers grumbled, backing away like whipped dogs. They were still giving me death stares, but the threat of the Gear Six kept their hands off their stones.
Agnes led us to a squat, damp hut near the edge of the village. Inside, the floor was covered in moldy straw. In the corner, a pile of rusted iron traps sat covered in dried, black ichor from a previous hunt.
"Don't get comfortable," Agnes said, her voice cold. "If my father is wrong about you, I'll slit your throat while you sleep. I don't care how many Gears you have."
"Get in line, sweetheart," I said, tossing my pack onto the straw.
As she walked out, Mo leaned against the doorframe. "Train them? Really, James? Half of them can barely hold a pitchfork without shaking."
"I just need them to stay quiet for a few months," I said, checking the mag in my gun. "If they die during 'training,' that's just less noise in the village."