The crackling of the campfire made all the fugitives gathered around it feel safe, if only for a moment. The air was filled with the aroma of roasted wild boar meat—meat that one of them had managed to hunt earlier. In addition, the scents of the surrounding coniferous trees—pines, firs, and larches—permeated the night. When they focused on these pleasant smells, they nearly forgot the gravity of their situation. The bounty on their heads loomed over them like a vulture, waiting for the slightest misstep to expose them as vulnerable and weak.
"—We must flee to Mane. I see no other option."
An old woman said this, her skin marked with deep black stains of grime that testified to many years spent working in the mines.
"—To Mane?! Have you lost your mind, woman? Do you want us all to die on the road? There's no guarantee we'll find shelter there, but one thing's for sure—at least half of us will perish like dying dogs on the roadside!"
In the silence of the night, anxious whispers spread. Despite their agitation, they dared not raise their voices. They weren't sure whether, on the road three kilometers away, a wanderer—or worse, a patrol of the Yaramski Guardians—might be passing by.
The distance they maintained from the road wasn't accidental. It was far enough to remain unnoticed by people, yet close enough that the chance of encountering the Apparition was minimal. Although both threats remained very real—especially now that hunger had forced them to light a fire.
"—Don't raise your voice, you ass!" the woman whispered, though her tone was so sharp that everyone around the fire fell silent immediately.
A man flushed slightly, but quickly composed himself and continued in a calm whisper:
"—This is too dangerous—especially with children among us. Our group is too large and decidedly too unprepared to survive such a journey. Only four of our twenty know how to fight. These mountains are lethal, especially if you're unfamiliar with them and lack the proper equipment."
These words brought despair to the fugitives' faces. They were all too aware that everything spoken was true. Moreover, not all of them were Otherworlders. Some were mere misfortunates, burdened with debts too massive to repay and forced by their creditors into "voluntary" labor in the mines, with no possibility of quitting. Others were thugs who had ended up there to "reflect on their choices." None of this helped their current plight. The Otherworlders possessed exceptional skills which—although left unrefined by the endless labor, constant sleep and food deprivation, and the physical and mental abuse by the guards—were undoubtedly a significant asset.
"—I know that. However, no other land will welcome us warmly. Look at us—we're clearly ex-miners, and it's common knowledge that the Cratenians won't allow anyone to work there who isn't socially regarded as a slave. It's also known that they don't let anyone go once they've been marked. Adrenia will first examine us—some will be killed in the process, some might be given the chance at a slightly more dignified life (although still seen as slaves and unable to leave), and the rest will be sent back to where they came from to continue wielding pickaxes, sleep poorly, starve, and above all, contribute to Crate's treasury. Ubara won't be able to help us—they have enough of their own problems. Krakstad kills anyone who enters their Land without their tattoos, unless you can prove you're on their level. They don't care whether their victim is a pregnant woman, a child, an old man, or a man in his prime. In Mane, it's different. They value freedom, culture, and skills—and there we might find our chance."
After this lengthy speech, no one spoke for a long while. Each one of them felt hopeless. The meat they had been eating—so delicious moments before—had turned bitter. Everyone was pondering an alternative to this suicidal journey.
Among them sat a 19-year-old boy. His hazel eyes burned with lively intelligence, as if analyzing every possibility available to them. Or rather, the possibilities he would have without them. As he thought this, he unconsciously snapped his fingers, producing dull sounds. Mira—the old woman who had just delivered the speech—could not stop glancing at him. She couldn't understand what so captivated her gaze upon the boy, though she suspected it might be related to her own ability. This puzzled her even more. Her gift was based on intuition. She always knew which solution was best. On Earth, that intuition had allowed her to amass a great fortune.
Now, her eyes continually drifted back to the boy. She knew that the solution she had proposed to her fellow fugitives was not ideal. She sensed that many of them would die. Yet, she also had a premonition that most of them would survive. However, this magnetic attraction toward the boy suggested that there might be a better option—a possibility that was now forming in the mind of that inconspicuous teenager.