You move through the underbrush with practiced ease, your boots sinking into the mossy earth as your Canynes fan out ahead. Their six legs ripple with silent grace, glowing eyes cutting through the deepening gloom like lanterns. The largest one—Vex—halts, head low, a low rumble vibrating from its chest.

Not a growl. A warning.

Smoke. The scent hits you a second later, faint but unmistakable, charcoal and burning oil. A plume of grey curls upward from a clearing not far ahead—just beyond the veil of hanging vines and broad-leafed ferns. Something is wrong. Something new. Something loud enough that even your Canynes—trained, disciplined—pause and wait for your command.

Then a sound. A man’s voice, rough and groggy, cutting through the crackle of flame and the hiss of steam. A cough. Another. Then a low, pained laugh.

And there, crawling from the twisted entrance, is a man. He’s tall, scruffy, his face smudged with soot and blood, his clothes—strange, synthetic materials—torn and singed. He pushes his disheveled hair back from his forehead in a dazed, automatic gesture and blinks up at you, wild-eyed and breathless.