*Patrick—a hunter with a little cabin over the pass. Sure. A mage, too…* Harlan thought bitterly as he slowed down. *Weak story. Still better than telling them where I’m really headed.*

  With that thought, he crossed the stream and kept moving east. Something rustled behind him. He looked back—nothing.

  *Did I imagine it?*

  Adrenaline hit hard. Harlan picked up his pace. But after an hour of forced marching he was spent and took a short break. He stopped by a large boulder, pulled out his water, and took a sip.

  Something flickered behind a bush in the direction he’d come from. Gray. Fast.

  Harlan flinched, then slipped behind the boulder, feigning casualness. He pressed against the stone and listened.

  *Someone’s there. No doubt.*

  He reached for his revolver and aimed, leaning out just enough to cover the bush.

  “One more step and you’re dead!”

  He couldn’t see the target. He bluffed anyway.

  Then he fired—blind. And waited.

  Nothing.

  He fired again, a little farther left. That did it. The shadow peeled away from the bush and bolted. Harlan squeezed off a few more shots, no magic this time, just noise and lead. When he was sure the person had vanished, he grabbed the sled and ran.

  *I could've killed him…* The thought made his stomach tighten as he glanced at the revolver on his belt. *Yeah. Probably could've handled all of them. They have a wounded man to deal with, and I can fight from a distance. Five people. So why?*

  He kept running.

  It was almost dark when he stopped again and hid the sled behind a massive rock face.

  He waited. Half an hour. An hour.

  No one came.

  *Gave up?*

  He pushed farther east, then started angling right, aiming to reach the stream again a bit south—making a loose loop to rejoin the route he’d planned in the first place.

  “Damn compass,” he muttered, rubbing his numb fingers. “Just don’t get lost again. If I hadn’t lost you back then, this would’ve been a lot easier…”

  ?

  Harlan walked through the night, stopping often. He only breathed out when he saw the familiar banks of the stream again.

  He was exhausted. His body demanded rest. He didn’t risk anything. He spent the night on the right, eastern bank. To do that, he moved a hundred—two hundred meters east and set up camp. He ate in a hurry, set his improvised alarm, and fell asleep immediately.

  He slept hard—no dreams, no incidents.

  After he rested, and after midday crossed the stream’s icy crust, he felt the tension begin to loosen.

  *Snow covered everything. My tail fell behind days ago.* Harlan glanced back into the white silence. *Two more days and I’m home. Just make sure we’re not heading the same way.*

  He returned to his usual pace—fast, durable, economical. He walked for two days, allowing himself short breaks and proper sleep, until the familiar rocks finally appeared in the distance. They curved up and were coated in rime like giant white fangs.

  He was back.

  *Home… Did that strange estate really become home?*

  He looked at the kharirr, which had stubbornly survived almost ten days in its pot, and gave it a sour grin.

  “And you,” he muttered, “I’m burying you. Don’t doubt it.”

  Now there was only one direction—forward, toward Re’s quiet house.

  ?

  Re’s tea had gone cold in his mug. He stood by the window, unaware, staring into the gray clouds over the pass.

  “He should’ve been back by now,” he said, then took a slow sip from the hot drink anyway, as if it still warmed him. “With his skills, he shouldn’t die out there.”

  A clumsy smile tugged at the old man’s wrinkled face.

  “Right, Pinky?”

  The crocodile lifted its head lazily and dropped it again.

  And then, on the horizon, a figure rounded the bend. A moment later, a sled followed—slow, heavy.

  “Aha. He finally crawled back,” Re snorted.

  He finished his tea at his own pace and went to the door.

  ?

  Harlan opened it—and froze.

  The old man stood right there, staring straight at him.

  “You’re late,” Re grumbled as Harlan stepped inside. “Did you bring the kharirr?”

  “Nice try, Gramps,” Harlan said with a thin smile. “You don’t get rid of me that easy.” He pulled the plant’s container off the sled. “Here. Take the bastard. Or do you want me to bury it myself? I promised it I would.”

  Re bent over the plant, inspecting it closely.

  “Alive. Not even damaged.” He clicked his tongue. “Impressive. Seems even useless prospectors can be good for something. But what is that stench?”

  “No idea,” Harlan said without blinking. “By the way, I changed my mind, plant it yourself. I’m done dealing with it. And let me in.”

  The scientist stepped aside. Harlan began hauling gear inside. When he finished, only the empty sled remained outside.

  “What do you mean, late?” Harlan asked. “I’m right on time. Day fourteen.”

  “Yes,” Re said, narrowing his eyes, “but you left at dawn and showed up after lunch.”

  “Five minutes doesn't count," Harlan replied, forcing a careless tone. “It was fun. Even found an adventure on the way.”

  “Hmm,” Re murmured. “All right. Tell me. But we do it by the fire—you’ll warm up.”

  ?

  In the living room, Harlan told him everything—from the cat and the lost compass to the fight with the wolves and the strange group of people. He hid nothing except how he found the kharirr, and the fact it had bitten him.

  Re listened in silence. Then he exhaled, slow and heavy.

  “Oh, boy… You should’ve walked past them.”

  “They were in trouble,” Harlan shrugged. “I couldn’t just leave them there. How was I supposed to know they’d be that aggressive?”

  “I understand.” Re’s voice stayed even. “But you need to know this: those people aren’t the kind who thank you for help. From what you described, they were smugglers. They’ll spill blood and think nothing of it. You got lucky because you caught them off guard. In another situation, you wouldn’t have time to blink.”

  “Smugglers…” Harlan frowned. “So that’s what ‘Property of the Federation’ means.”

  “And where do you think we get plasma tech powered by crystals—the kind I showed you?” Re shot back. “Why do you think it’s rare, and we still use powder weapons?”

  Re stood and paced the room.

  “That's exactly how it comes in. Federation ships are enormous—crossing light-years isn’t a joke. When they arrive, they load up as much as they can. Which means there’s always room for ‘extra cargo.’ A portion of their tech gets traded under the table for crystals. That’s how contraband appears.”

  He looked at Harlan seriously, without his usual edge.

  “You’re on their list now. Even if they don’t know who you are, they’ll look. And trust me—this meeting will have consequences.”

  Harlan nodded without a word. A chill crawled up his spine, even though the room was warm.

  “Listen, Harlan. You’ve got a talent for stepping into trouble,” Re went on. “Prospectors are probably already keeping you and Garret in their sights because of that vein. Now you’ve got smugglers. You need a new name.”

  “What for?”

  “To cut the trail.” Re waved it off like it was obvious. “Let’s call you… give me a second… Roen. Yes. That’s it.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Is that even a name?” Harlan frowned. “Sounds like a dog’s nickname.”

  “It’s a perfectly fine name,” Re said, suddenly energized. “And since you’re Harlan Furst, it’s settled. You’ll be Roen Second. ‘Harlan’ stays for your own people.”

  A new person was born.

  Harlan pulled a sour face.

  ?

  Even though Harlan fought it, Re started a strange war of attrition.

  “Roen, bring me that crystallography reference,” Re shouted from his study chair without looking up from his notes.

  Harlan was scrubbing floors somewhere down the hall. He didn’t answer.

  “Hey. Who am I talking to? Roen!”

  “There’s no Roen here,” Harlan said calmly, continuing to work. “There’s Harlan. If you need him—I’m here.”

  “What stubbornness,” the old man grumbled. “Roen sounds more solid. More academic. Harlan…” He made a face. “Harlan sounds like a tool for cracking nuts. Watch. You put the nut on the ‘Har,’ crack it on the ‘Lan.’ Har—lan. Har—lan.”

  “Re, that’s enough.” Harlan’s voice tightened. “My mother gave me that name. It’s about the only thing I have left from her.”

  “And I’m giving you a future,” Re snapped back. “Roen is the name of a research assistant. Harlan is the name of a prospector buried in Snownorth. Choose who you are.”

  Harlan only snorted.

  *Yeah. A research assistant who mops floors,* he thought, but didn’t say it.

  Another time, during training in the hall, Harlan was trying to hold ten metal balls in the air at once when Re suddenly barked:

  “Roen! Your left side is sagging!”

  Harlan twitched on instinct, correcting the outer ball’s trajectory—only realizing afterward that he’d responded.

  “Aha!” Re crowed. “Good, Roen. Good!”

  “Reflex to the command,” Harlan muttered, nearly dropping the whole set. “Not the name.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Re waved it away. “Get used to it, Roen. It suits you. It has… spine.”

  And a couple weeks later, Harlan gave in. First he stopped correcting the old man. Then he started thinking it didn’t matter.

  *Roen is Roen. I’m not stopping being Harlan.*

  “Roen, you done with the greenhouse?” Re asked one morning.

  “Almost. Going to feed Pinky now,” he answered automatically.

  Re’s beard twitched with a satisfied grin.

  ?

  A couple days after that, Harlan stood at the stove, stirring a thick stew. Another blizzard howled outside, but the kitchen was warm, heavy with spice and meat.

  The door creaked. Re appeared in the doorway.

  Harlan turned, surprised. At this hour the old man was usually buried in his underground lab until dinner—sometimes until midnight, forgetting to eat at all.

  “Why aren’t you in the lab?” Harlan asked, lowering the heat. “Something happen?”

  Re sank into a chair and rubbed his face with both hands. He looked tired—skin gray, wrinkles deeper than usual.

  “Tired,” he said simply. “Eyes hurt. Back, too. I needed air. Figured I’d check whether you’re poisoning us today.”

  “Smells great. It’s ready,” Harlan said, serving him a bowl. “How’s the research?”

  “Not bad.” Re’s eyes flashed with a familiar spark. “Actually, very good. I’ve found a pattern in type-three mutations. If my numbers hold, in six months I’ll be able to pull out some global regularities.”

  He ate greedily, like he hadn’t eaten in days. Harlan sat across with his own bowl. For a while, only spoons tapping against ceramic filled the room.

  “Listen, boy…” Re set his spoon down and studied him. “Your contract ends in a couple months. Have you thought about what you’ll do next? What you want out of life?”

  The question caught Harlan off guard.

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Before, I just wanted enough money to never go back to the mine. Now… if Garret doesn’t screw us and we get those crystals…”

  His gaze drifted over the kitchen, the stone walls, the map on the wall.

  “You know, I like it here. Quiet. No one digging into you. No city noise. If there were a few more people… I’d probably stay.”

  “People,” Re snorted. “People are nothing but trouble.”

  “Well, if they’re old grumps like you, maybe.” Harlan hesitated, then asked what had been circling in his head for a long time. “Re… can I do science?”

  Re went still. He raised his eyes slowly, as if reassessing Harlan from scratch.

  “Science? You?”

  “Why not?” Harlan shrugged, trying to look indifferent while his pulse picked up. “I like what we do. Studying the Field. Understanding how the world is built. It’s better than swinging a pick. And I seem to be getting it.”

  Re leaned back and laced his fingers together. He stared at the ceiling for a long time.

  “Hm,” he finally said. “It makes a kind of sense. You’re not much use yet, of course. Not exactly student age anymore… but the foundation isn’t bad. And as a mage, you've got a long life ahead.”

  He looked at Harlan.

  “Listen. I could recommend you to the Academy. The central one.” He paused. “I still have… connections there. With my recommendation, they’ll take you even without exams.”

  Harlan nearly choked on stew.

  “The Academy? Me?”

  “Who else?” Re said dryly. “Pinky? Though he’s probably smarter than some of those professors…” He smirked, then turned serious. “But there’s a condition.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll study. You’ll grind through theory. You’ll pass exams.” Re’s tone hardened. “But your field practice—your expeditions—you’ll do here. With me.”

  “Here?”

  “You thought I’d just let you wander off?” Re tapped a finger on the table. “You’re more useful here than marching around with student crews. I need an assistant who knows the specifics. Who knows how to feed beasts, how to tune instruments. And someone I…” He paused, the word catching. “…trust.”

  He forced it out.

  Harlan looked at him and saw more than a cranky mentor. He saw a man afraid of running out of time. Afraid that his work—his life’s work—would vanish with him. Eighty years of solitude was a lot. But leaving nothing behind was worse.

  “You want me to carry on your research,” Harlan said quietly.

  “I want you not to be an idiot,” Re dodged. “Science isn’t magic. It’s discipline. If you’re ready to learn for real—I’ll give you a road. But you’ll come back. You’ll work.”

  Harlan smiled. The idea fit. Become an Academy student, and still return to this strange house that had become his own. It sounded like the perfect plan.

  “I’m in,” he said. “But on one condition.”

  “You’re setting conditions now?” Re raised an eyebrow.

  “You stop calling me a ‘useless prospector.’”

  Re snorted as he stood.

  “Fine. I’ll call you a ‘promising prospector.’ As long as you don’t oversalt the stew next time.”

  He headed for the door, then stopped and threw it over his shoulder without turning:

  “Roen will look better in the recommendation. Get used to it—for real.”

  When the door closed, Harlan—no, *Roen*—looked out the window at the snow-lashed rocks.

  A future that was a fog only weeks ago suddenly took shape.

  And he liked what he saw.