The scent of sizzling garlic butter, seared venison, and wild mountain rosemary quickly filled the warm hollow beneath Titus’s shell.
Arthur Vance sat cross-legged on a folded heat mat, his razor-sharp sleeves rolled to his elbows. Before him stood his field kitchen. A compact, battery-powered power-coil burner with a folding silver-steel skillet, unpacked from his survival rucksack. While the military tamers of the corporate cartels relied on bland nutrient paste and man-made stimulant injectors, Arthur understood that authentic living recovery needed real food, rich in complex fats, trace minerals, and natural heat.
In the skillet, two thick cuts of cured red deer steak sizzled in browned butter. Arthur used a pair of stainless steel razor-sharp metal tongs to flip the meat, admiring the crisp, caramelized crust formed by the searing heat.
Around him, five pairs of eager eyes watched his every movement with rapt, hungry attention.
Grimm was sitting squarely on his haunches, his massive head looming over Arthur’s left shoulder.
A thick strand of clear drool was dangling from the corner of the hound’s black lips. It splashed onto the iron-hard metal floor with a quiet, comical plop. Grimm’s tail was wagging with such restrained, desperate excitement that it thumped against the rock floor like a heavy-duty pile driver. It shook the skillet on the power-coil burner.
