“The Edge, there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”
— Hunter S. Thompson

The Hearthland steppe unfurled beneath her, a cracked sprawl of dust and thorn where the wind keened sharp as a flayed man’s cry. Antigua perched atop Argentum, her steel steed’s hooves pounding the parched earth, kicking up gritty clouds that stung her throat with the tang of ash and bone. The Firewall loomed north, a molten wall of red-gold fury, its roar a distant pulse that thrummed through her suit’s sensors, a beast caged yet ever-wakeful. Seven days since the Gateway spat her here, seven days of Southland wilds, a world raw and teeming where the Northland’s sterile husk felt a lifetime away. Her visor hummed, HUD flickering with data, air thick with heat haze, spiked with the sour rot of carrion and the faint musk of predators prowling the scrub.

She’d left a Northland of rats and crows, cockroaches skittering through crumbling spires, cities gasping under a jaundiced sky, their steel ribs choked with dust and the reek of rusting circuits. There, life was a scavenger’s game, gnawing at scraps of a dead age; here, it roared, a cacophony of fang and claw beneath a god-wall of fire. Antigua snorted, mystics and their tales, spinning divinity from a relic her people dissected with cold precision. Yet its glow gnawed at her, a riddle wrapped in fire, whispering secrets she couldn’t shake.

Argentum’s servos whirred, a rhythmic growl under her thighs, his sleek frame gleamed alien against the steppe’s rust-red sprawl, circuits etched like veins beneath his silver hide.

“Such bright and fresh air out here, Mistress,” he quipped, voice a dry baritone crackling her comms. “A veritable garden breeze; I’m positively envious of your organic filters handling this delightful bouquet.”

“Keep your sass to yourself, Argee,” she shot back, practical edge honed sharp. “You’re not the one breathing this swill.”

The scrub bristled, gnarled thorns jutted like bone spurs, their tips glistening with sap that reeked of rot and venom. She’d seen a weasel-thing, spine ridged with ivory protrusions, impale a bird mid-flight yesterday, its squawk cut to a gurgle as blood sprayed the dust. The Southland didn’t coddle; it devoured.

Her father’s voice flickered through, Barbuda, overseer of the Gateway, his gruff timbre a shadow in her skull: “You’re chasing ghosts out there, girl, stick to the data.” She’d smirked then, visor hiding the glint in her hazel eyes, data was her leash, but the wild called her blood. A scout’s life was her rebellion, out from under his iron thumb, mapping a world the Northland had forgotten, its pulse a thrill no citadel could match. Eight days ago, she’d stood at the Gateway’s maw, operational for a scant week, its hum a gamble against the Firewall’s wrath, watching engineers sweat over flickering glyphs, their suits patched with rust and desperation. She’d crossed with Argentum in a transport pod, her lifeline, driven by a hunger to see what lay beyond the ash-choked North.

The steppe stretched, a sea of cracked earth, dust swirling in eddies that caught the Firewall’s glow, painting the air in hues of blood and gold. Predators lurked, hulking shapes with bone-plated hides, their roars a low rumble that shook her ribs even through the suit’s dampeners. She’d flicked on the ultrasonic repellent yesterday, a faint whine only Argentum’s sensors caught, watching a pack of spine-weasels scatter, hissing as they retreated into the thorn-thickets.

“Soft lot,” he’d muttered. “I’d have stomped ‘em flat.”

“Keep dreaming, tin-can,” she’d grinned, patting his flank, his sass was her anchor, a shield against the wild’s teeth. Now, the repellent hummed low, a silent ward as they cut south, the canyon’s shadowed gash looming ahead, a wound in the earth where the air grew thick with the stench of death.

She reined Argentum at the canyon’s lip, visor sweeping the sprawl below, bones gleamed white amid scrub, vultures circling tight, their cries threading through the wind’s howl like a butcher’s chorus. The Firewall pulsed, its light a hellish sheen over the dust, warping the horizon into mirages of flame and shadow.

A memory jabbed, Barbuda’s growl over a flickering console: “You’ll find nothing but dust and ghosts, waste of a good suit.” She’d laughed then, sharp and quick, “Ghosts don’t bleed, old man.”

Now, the canyon’s rot proved her right, something had bled here, and plenty.

“Picking up carrion vibes, Mistress,” Argentum said, sensors pinging her HUD. “Fresh kill, two days, maybe three. Smells like a brawl gone sour.”

“Eyes sharp, then,” she replied, guiding him down the slope, hooves crunching bone shards underfoot. The canyon walls towered, jagged stone pocked with claw-marks, shadows pooling where thorn-scrub clawed upward, its barbs glistening wet with sap. The air thickened, humid, sharp with the musk of beasts and the iron tang of blood, a predator’s breath that clung to her suit like damp rot. She’d seen the Northland’s crows pick at refuse, here, immense vultures gorged, their beaks tearing sinew from a wild corpse, its hide split wide, entrails steaming in the heat.

A flicker caught her eye, a glint in the dust, half-buried. She swung down, boots sinking into the parched earth, dust puffing rust-red around her knees.

Argentum snorted, “Mind the muck, don’t fancy scraping you clean.”

She ignored him, crouching, her gauntlet brushed aside grit, revealing a notched blade, its leather hilt stained black with sweat and gore.

“Southland iron-work,” she muttered, scientific curiosity sparking, crude, non-industrial, forged by hand in a blacksmith fire’s gut. No circuits, no alloys, just raw iron, a tool of survival in a world that chewed and spat.

“Primitive buggers,” Argentum quipped. “Bet they’d trade their teeth for a servo.”

“Bet they’d gut you for scrap,” she fired back, pocketing the blade, data for Barbuda, proof the South wasn’t just ghosts. Her visor pinged, bio-signs faint, fading. “Something’s alive down here.”

“Or half-dead,” he grumbled, sensors whirring as he scanned. “Left flank, fifty yards. Smells like blood and bad luck.”

She remounted, guiding him through the canyon’s gut, thorn-scrub snagged her suit, barbs scraping like claws, the air a stew of rot and heat that fogged her visor’s edge. A shadow loomed, a caver corpse, a mountain of sinewed grey meat, its hide gashed, ichor pooling black and rancid, jaws slack with jagged fangs. Two corpses sprawled nearby, axes limp, hide armour torn, one’s chest caved in, ribs jutting like broken spears. “Fresh,” she said, voice low. “Looks like humans have managed to survive here.”

“Predators’ll be thick soon,” Argentum warned, tone sharp. “Let’s not be dinner.”

Her HUD flared, bio-sign, weak, pulsing. She swung left, Argentum’s stride kicking dust, there, sprawled against a rock roughly fifty yards away, a warrior lay, tall, sinewy, sun-darkened, his hide armour soaked red at the left leg, a shredded ruin of flesh and bone, blood pooling dark beneath. His thick mane matted with dust, a scarred face twisted in a faint, sardonic grin, teeth bared, moaning in delirium.