The Yukon actively did not want us there.
That was the first thing that hit me when we crossed the invisible line into the deep wilderness. Not a border on a map. A shift in the air. The trees suddenly looked ancient, the silence got heavy, and the oxygen tasted like it had been locked in ice since the planet cooled.
Eight days of travel. The front half was easy enough—a convoy of heavily winterized black SUVs Selene had packed with a month's worth of rations. But the asphalt died somewhere north of Whitehorse. After that, it was just boots, snowdrifts, and a massive, terrifying amount of nothing.
We brought muscle. Six Blackwood volunteers. Three Carpathian guards Anca had dispatched with a handwritten note currently burning a hole in my jacket pocket: Find them. Bring them home. And t
