Chapter 18
Prairie Fire
Eren reached for the side pocket of his pack.
His fingers found the clay pot; he had already run the sequence in his head.
He tore the oil-paper wrap, poured sulfur powder and dry grass ash into the pot, stuffed a cloth strip at the mouth for a fuse, and scraped his fire striker along the end. The cloth smoldered, acrid smoke curling up. The second scrape caught; the fuse tip flared.
Sulfur stung his nose.
He murmured to Nova, "Stay flat. Don't move."
Nova looked up at him and nodded once.
He knew shouting alone would not carry in this. Bowstrings, footsteps, wind, and the yard's own cursing—all of it mashed into one roar. An outsider could shred his throat and still not be heard.
He had to break the shooting first. Only then could he make anyone listen.
Eren waited two seconds—until the shooters drew fresh arrows.
Then he leaned out and threw the pot.
It traced a low arc and landed in the open strip between the job-runners and the armed column—the dead ground nobody owned. Thin clay bounced once on the gravel and shattered.
Yellow-white smoke shot up.
Sulfur fumes and ash, pressed by the slope wind, rolled both ways. Vision went dirty—first on the yard side, coughs stacking on coughs, someone cursing, someone gagging. Then the wind pushed the cloud toward the slope; the front spearmen blurred, sight lines cut clean.
For a few seconds nobody could see the other side.
The shooting stopped.
Eren did not hesitate. While nobody had a clean aim, he called out from behind the wall, "We're villagers from nearby—took a job, looking to earn a little coin! Hold your fire—let's talk!"
Someone in the smoke pulled a bowstring in panic.
Eren moved on reflex.
He burst from cover, grabbed the man by the collar, shoulder-checked him down, face in the dirt, knee on the small of his back. The man bucked once; Eren smashed the heel of his palm into the back of the hand holding the bow—no mercy in it.
"Everybody stop! No more arrows!" The shout tore out of his throat—anger in it, and a hairline of control slipping.
The man under him flinched at the noise in his ear.
That lunge put Eren full in the smoke, back open to the shadow along the low building.
A bowstring sang from the dark. An arrow leaped from the wall base toward his spine—the whisper of it nearly lost under the coughing.
Then a sharp ping.
A short knife slanted across the shaft mid-flight. The arrow snapped; the head skidded past Eren's boot and bit into the gravel, fletching still shivering. In the same breath a second blade hissed past his coat hem and pinned a corner of the fabric to the hard ground like a nail holding him in place.
On the slope the white-haired veteran's hand was still in the throw—eyes past Eren, angled a fraction toward where the shot had come from. A shadow in the dark jerked back behind the wall and did not show again.
The veteran's voice came low. "Don't move."
Eren froze. He did not reach for the knife pinning his coat. He raised his empty left hand, palm out.
As the smoke thinned, he held in the open space both sides could see and called toward the slope again, "We're villagers from nearby. We don't want to die here."
The yard did not see it that way.
"Don't trust them!" "It's their trap!" "Which bastard shot at us?" Heads poked from behind the mine cart, voices ragged and tangled.
Eren barked at the yard. "Shut up—let me finish. If this starts again, nobody walks out upright!"
The cursing died off for half a breath. Someone still yelled, "How do we know you're not with them?"
Heavy breathing and coughs remained. The cries to kill faded.
Only sulfur bite and dust stuck in the throat.
The wind took the last of the smoke.
Figures on the slope sharpened again. The white-haired veteran stood where he had stood—had not moved.
He lifted his hand. The front shooters lowered bow and crossbow. Then he gestured—the hooded woman and one man beside him peeled to either side, opening distance.
Then he spoke. "You. Come over alone."
Eren looked back at the wall. Half of Nova's face showed above the stones, eyes locked on him.
He gestured—stay down, don't move.
He turned and walked a few steps along the sulfur-stained strip down the middle of the yard, face clear to the other side.
The white-haired veteran stood three paces off.
Up close the face was all angles—cheek and jaw cut sharp; temples and gray beard running together, a few darker strands still caught in the white. High cheekbones, deep sockets, eyes sharper than a younger man's. Lean muscle filled out black kit in clean lines.
"Who are you?" the veteran asked.
"Took a job," Eren said. "Saw the sheet on the notice board—revolutionaries looking for help to rescue a comrade—and came. Got here and found not a soul inside."
The veteran did not answer at once. His eyes swept the factory—three half-collapsed low buildings, weeds choking the yard, overturned mine cart, rusted pipe.
"That posting wasn't from us."
The yard understood: he had just admitted they were revolutionaries.
Some of the tension drained—not much, but enough for hands on weapons to loosen a fraction.
The job-runners began edging out from cover. Low complaints, but with no fresh arrows flying, nobody pushed further.
"We got word there might be a lead on a missing person here." The veteran paused.
Then he and the hooded woman withdrew toward their own line and talked in low voices.
Eren did not follow. He waited where he stood.
The talk ended quickly. The hooded woman turned back. The hood still sat low; he still could not make out her eyes in the shadow. She laid it out for Eren: "We know what happened. Someone stirred this up on purpose—fake job to pull civilians in, fake tip for us. Tie us down, muddy the field."
Eren had read it right. The fake posting was not aimed at people like them.
A man in the yard had heard. He stood from the base of the low wall, voice angry and scared. "So what was coming out here in the middle of the night—getting played for fools?"
The hooded woman did not look at him. "Leave as soon as you can. Go back the way you came. We'll handle what comes next."
The white-haired veteran was already murmuring orders to his men—short commands: tighten formation, count heads…
They were leaving.
Not back the way they had come.
Eren did not ask where. He could see the hurry in them—calculated, not panic.
The job-runners began drifting out in twos and threes. Nobody looked hurt.
"Scared me half to death… Next time something like this comes up, you couldn't pay me to touch it." Someone muttered between breaths.
The man Eren had pinned did not press his luck either—rubbing his face, he slipped into the tail of the crowd and shuffled out without looking back.
As for the shadows that had stayed still from the start, they had melted away while Eren talked with the revolutionary column—gone like they'd never been there.