Close to the cave, Vince ran. He put on a sprint, skidded past the narrow cave entrance, and snapped up one of the sharpened sticks he kept tucked against the rock. He’d known the time would come when he had to defend himself, but still it shocked him.

He spun on his heels and crouched down, spear held before him. The pombero—he’d refused to tell Vince his name, whether human or Kin—had come to a standstill on the other side of the cave entrance. He looked angry, his forehead wrinkled into a scowl, his jaw hanging open. His teeth seemed larger than before, sharper, or perhaps it was just that they were on show.

He glanced at the spear, then at the cave.

“Stay away from what’s mine,” Vince said. He tried to sound confident and threatening, but the edge of fear in his voice was obvious.

“Nothing here is yours.” That voice, those words, sent a chill through Vince, and he gripped the spear harder. He’d taken hours sharpening this and several other weapons, rubbing them against a chunk of rough stone to wear down the tips, hardening them in his fire, smoothing a couple of hand grips along the lengths. He’d hoped he would never have to use them. He remembered the feel of a blade in his hand parting skin and flesh, grating against bone, and he was desperate not to experience the same sensation ever again.

The pombero came at him. Vince drew in a sharp breath and held it, bracing his feet and jabbing forward with the spear.

At the last second the man dodged sideways and ran into the cave.

“It’s not in there!” Vince shouted, but he heard the man scrabbling around in the shadows, and he knew that he’d find it. I should have hidden it better. I should have buried the relics, destroyed them.

As he took his first step towards the cave, the pombero emerged carrying the rucksack. It was Gregor the Kin-killer’s, and it had travelled the world growing heavier with parts of the Kin he had murdered and cut apart.

Now this man-Kin had it, and Vince knew who had sent him here, and he wasn’t sure there was anything he could do about it.

“That’s mine!” Vince said, gesturing with the spear.

The man moved faster than he’d ever thought possible. He took a couple of steps and leapt, landing inside the spear’s arc, lashing out with his left fist and connecting with Vince’s cheek.

—if I fall I’ll be a sitting duck, spear through my stomach, pinned to the floor just as surely as Mallian and bleeding into the dust of this fucking place—

—and then fell. He went to roll aside to avoid the inevitable strike from the spear, but then he saw the pombero standing still, staring down at him.

“They’re no use to him,” Vince said.