Fenris heard the rumble from two miles out and knew what it meant before the dust cloud rose above the ridge. The same mine. The same mountain that had taught him what the ranger guild stood for. He pushed his horse harder down the switchback trail, scanning the valley below for the guild's colors. No banners. No riders. The crossroads near the mine entrance stood empty except for the black scorch mark where lightning struck every two minutes, the star-shaped pattern still sharp against the dirt. Fenris dismounted and ran toward the collapsed shaft, where timber jutted from fresh rubble like broken bones. Voices came from inside, muffled and desperate. He grabbed a beam and pulled, muscle burning as stone shifted. The wood splintered in his grip but the opening widened. Someone coughed in the darkness beyond. Fenris wedged himself into the gap and kept digging. The guild would come eventually, he knew that. But eventually didn't matter to the people trapped below. He'd prove what he was worth the same way they did—by showing up when it counted. A stack of explosives sat ten yards from the entrance, bundled tight and lashed to a metal frame the miners had been using as a counterweight for their pulley system. The setup looked makeshift but sturdy, the kind of thing men built when they couldn't afford proper equipment. Fenris studied it for half a second, then turned back to the rubble. Blasting would bring down more rock and kill anyone still breathing inside. He dropped to his knees and started pulling stones by hand, tossing them behind him one after another. His fingers bled. The voices grew louder. The first miner crawled out twenty minutes later, blinking against daylight, followed by two more. They sat gasping in the dirt while Fenris went back in for the fourth man, who had a broken leg and couldn't walk. When Fenris finally hauled him into the open, the miner gripped his arm and said thank you. Fenris nodded once and stood, wiping dust from his hands. The ranger guild hadn't shown. He had. That was the first thread in the tapestry he needed to weave—proof that when lives hung in the balance, Fenris Whiteclaw didn't wait for someone else to act.