Robert's heart pounded like a jackhammer, threatening to burst from his chest. Massive wolf-hounds charged through the mist, their snarls slicing the air. He stood frozen, legs locked, eyes wide, fear gripping him as they closed in, fast and ravenous. The charm crystal burned in his fist, sending a silent pulse outward, a shimmer he sensed rather than saw. The hounds skidded to a halt ten feet away, paws kicking up dirt. They paused, sniffing the air slowly, as if reading it. One stepped forward, eyes sharp but curious, no longer bloodthirsty.
Robert shakily extended his hand, the charm crystal glinting in the moonlight. Its runes glowed faintly, warm against his skin. The hound's nose twitched, sniffing the charm, then met his gaze. It snorted, a low "rrrrf," dismissing him as unimportant. "I'm a friend, good boy," he stammered, voice cracking. "I don't wanna die, please." The hound stared, almost bored, then turned with its pack and bolted into the misty trees, vanishing like ghosts. Robert sank against the tent, gasping, the crystal's heat lingering in his palm. His mind raced: What just happened?
Morning light crept over the Highlands, mist clinging to the hills. Robert sat on his cot, staring at the charm crystal from the old man. Its rough edges and crude etchings felt heavy, like they carried an unspoken weight. The hermit's words echoed: The land don't forgive theft. There's always a cost. The warning stuck, thick as the fog outside. After those hounds, Robert questioned wanting this kind of thrill.
Hamish leaned against the tent's doorway, arms crossed. "Ye're wound tighter than a spring, Robert. Why not head to Kilrain? Grab a proper meal, maybe a drink. Clear that head."
Robert glanced up, the crystal heavy in his hand. "You think a burger's gonna fix this shit?" He gestured to himself and the misty dig site beyond.
Hamish shrugged. "It'll fix ye, mate. Ye're no use obsessing like this. Go on. The work's here when ye get back."
Robert nodded, reluctant. A change might quiet his churning thoughts. "Fine. But if anything big happens while I'm gone, ye owe me a pint."
Hamish grinned. "It's a deal."
Kilrain nestled at the hill's base, stone cottages and winding streets radiating quiet charm. Peat smoke and fresh bread filled the air, a warm contrast to the dread gnawing at Robert from the dig site.
He wandered into the main square as Kilrain stirred. A young woman, barely eighteen, lugged a laundry basket across a yard, bare feet brushing damp grass. Auburn hair caught the light, but she moved like she wanted no notice. Her eyes flicked to Robert, wary, then darted away. She hummed a soft tune, fading when others passed. Her quiet pull lingered, like she hid more than laundry.
The council building stood tall in the village center, its weathered stone and neat hedges exuding Kilrain pride. An iron plaque, Kilrain Council Hall, gleamed from years of polish. Robert pictured locals inside debating sheep counts or festival plans, voices loud and stubborn. The place held a weight, like it anchored time itself.
The market buzzed nearby, vendors shouting, kids weaving through stalls. A scarf seller waved Robert over, while a butcher tossed meat samples with a grin. A constable strolled past, chatting with a baker, his uniform signaling calm order. Coins clinked, laughter spiked, and the hum of life felt almost normal.
Fried pastries drew Robert to a vendor's stall. The old man behind it flashed a kind smile, handing over a steaming meat pie wrapped in paper. "Something to wash it down?" he asked, pointing to colorful bottles.
"Sure, why not?" Robert said, eyeing the bright orange bottle the man grabbed. "Irn-Bru, huh? Been a minute."
The vendor chuckled, popping the cap with a hiss. "Nothing better to perk ye up, lad. Made in Scotland, from girders, they say." He winked, passing it over.
Robert took a swig, the fizzy citrus hitting his tongue with a sweet, sharp kick. The orange liquid bubbled, a bright spot against the gray mist. He smirked at the girders quip. Only in Scotland.
The pie was pure comfort: crispy crust, savory filling, warm as hell. The Irn-Bru's sweetness cut through it, a perfect match. Robert leaned against a post, Kilrain's rhythm sinking in. For a moment, calm settled over him.
It didn't last. The streets quieted, unease creeping back. Robert headed down a cobbled path, the charm crystal safe in his pocket, its warmth faint. The air thickened, carrying a darker edge.
A figure stepped from the shadows, blocking his way. The man was tall, dark coat and scarf hiding most of his face. His eyes glinted with a predator's edge, pinning Robert in place. His sharp American accent marked him as no local.
"Robert MacCallum," he said, voice cutting. "You're trespassing."
Robert's pulse spiked, but he stayed steady. "Got a problem, mate?"
The man didn't blink. "You're messing with things you don't get, things hidden for a reason. Drop it."
The words hit hard. Robert nearly dismissed him as a nutcase, but the accent and stance screamed trouble. "I'm an archaeologist," he said, jaw tight. "Digging's what I do."
The man closed in, voice low. "Some things stay buried. Walk away, MacCallum, or you'll regret it."
Before Robert could retort, the man's hand clamped his shoulder, slamming him into the wall. Air burst from his lungs, boots scraping cobbles as he shoved back, rage flaring. He grabbed a loose cobble and swung, grazing the man's chest. The man grunted, staggering, but lunged, hands clawing for Robert's throat.
Robert ducked aside, lungs burning, and kicked a crate into the man's path. It toppled, tripping him. Robert tackled him, both crashing to the ground. Fists pounded the man's side, an elbow smashed Robert's cheek. Blood filled his mouth, sharp and metallic, as he rolled away, scrambling up.
"You're in over your head," the man growled, standing, moving like a machine.
"Fuck you," Robert spat, grabbing a broken bottle from the alley's edge. He swung, slashing air, but the man sidestepped, quick as a snake. A fist cracked Robert's jaw, pain bursting, and a push dropped him to the cobbles, palms scraping raw.
Robert staggered up, vision swimming, and charged, slamming his shoulder into the man's gut. The man wheezed, but locked Robert's arm, twisting until he yelped. A kick to the shin broke the hold, and Robert swung, clipping the man's ear. Blood trickled down his neck, but he didn't flinch.
"Enough," the man snarled, pulling a taser from his coat, etched with glowing green runes, its exposed wires sparking dangerously. He jammed it into Robert's side, a jolt tearing through him, like lightning in his bones. Robert collapsed, twitching, muscles locked, gasping. Pain seared every nerve.
The man loomed, taser sparking, its eerie glow lighting his grim face. "You don't belong here, MacCallum. Last warning. Stay out."
"Who the hell are you?" Robert croaked, blood and spit on his lips. "Why do you give a shit what I dig up?"
The man's face stayed grim. "Your life's not meant for this path. Turn back."
He vanished into the mist, like he'd never been there. Robert lay heaving, thoughts a mess of rage and pain. The man's threat lingered, unnatural. Robert gripped the charm crystal, its warmth grounding him.
His jaw clenched as he limped to the square. "You want me to stop?" he muttered. "Fuck that. I'll show you what trying to scare me actually gets