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A man sits by a crackling campfire in a dark mountain valley, gazing at a swirling cloud formation in the night sky. A hut is in the background.

A man sits by a crackling campfire in a dark mountain valley, gazing at a swirling cloud formation in the night sky. A hut is in the background.

I grabbed the iron poker from beside the doorway and crouched by the fire, turning the logs over. The way the heat moved around in the coals, chasing each other around endlessly. Hot spots flashed and dimmed. I heard Cavalo before I saw him. The creak of old joints. Grass crunching underfoot. He settled by the fire without ceremony. Looked up at The Veil and didn't look away. We sat like that for a good while. Just looking. He added a log to the fire and said — "Out here under The Veil there aren't many you can trust. Everyone always wants something. Or they're trying to get one over on you." He kicked off his boots and put his feet by the fire. "They'll take everything if they can. Doesn't matter to them. It's a prison." I thought of the cylinder. "But there are some." He nodded toward the hut. The pots had gone quiet. "Who you can trust. This valley takes something from you and replaces it with something desperate and vicious. It takes a special person to end up anything other than a rabid animal here." He went quiet for a moment and resettled his feet by the fire. "That boy in there. When he came here he was barely chest high on me. Camp to camp, trying to find a place to call home. By the time he walked the whole valley he'd made quite a name for himself." He went back to gazing up at The Veil. The fire crackled and snapped. A log fell. Sparks raced up into the sky. "He made a home here. Not many can say that." “You can.” I had said it without thinking, but it was true. Mehr sehen