Morning crept over the Na'al camp in a thin, washed-out smear of gray, as if the sunlight had to crawl through miles of dust just to reach them. The fires had died to embers in the night, though a few stubborn flames still licked upward like tongues searching for warmth.
Lucas woke before the rest.
He always did now.
Ever since the battle in the pines, sleep came in fractured pieces—thin slices of rest broken by the memory of shouting, gunfire, the snap of branches, the Soulless watching from the dark like hunger given shape. Even now he could almost hear that whisper drifting through the trees.
"…you…freedom…"
He shook the thought away and rolled from his bedroll, dust clinging to the long coat he'd scavenged from the outlaw camp. His black horse snorted softly nearby, ears twitching at some invisible irritation. Aelira's horse lifted its head briefly, then settled again.
Lucas stretched his back and stepped out into the cool dawn, boots pressing soft patterns into the thawing dirt. Smoke from last night's fires hung low, drifting in gentle spirals that caught the rising light.
Aelira was already awake, stringing a fresh bowline while chewing a strip of dried meat.
"You sleep?" she asked without looking up.
"A little."
"That means no."
Lucas smirked. "You keeping track?"
She shrugged with one shoulder. "Someone has to."
Her tone wasn't mocking. And that scared him more than bullets.
Kairo approached next, carrying a wrapped bundle of herbs and a wooden cup.
"Tavar said you'll need this," he said, dropping the items beside Lucas.
"For what?"
"Your head," Kairo muttered. "You look like someone hit you with the back of an axe."
Lucas snorted. "Kind of feels like it."
Kairo walked away before he could answer again—his version of being polite.
Lucas drank the bitter herbal brew, grimacing, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The camp was beginning to stir around them. Women rekindled the fires. Children rushed water from the river. Hunters strapped on boots, bows, knives. The world of the Na'al resumed its ancient rhythm.
But Lucas felt… out of step.
His thoughts were restless.
His hands kept seeking the weight of the Remington at his hip.
His mind wandered too easily to the firelit battle of the night before.
He needed movement.
"Walk with me," he muttered to himself.
He began toward the pine perimeter.
The forest around the Na'al settlement was always quiet this time of day—still settling into itself, as if the land took its time waking up. The tall pines stood like old sentinels, branches heavy with dew, needles shining faintly in the early light.
Lucas walked slow, breathing in the cool air, letting his mind find whatever peace it could in the smell of sap and river mud. His boots softened on the pine needles, leaving faint impressions.
He scanned the treeline for anything out of place—just habit now.
Nothing.
No movement.
No shapes drifting between trunks.
No Soulless silhouettes.
Just trees breathing with the world.
But the quiet felt… heavier than usual.
He approached a tall pine with a crooked trunk, leaning slightly like a drunk who hadn't decided whether to fall or stand. Something about it felt familiar—he'd passed this tree a dozen times during training.
He stepped close.
And then it hit him.
A sudden, sharp coldness—a breath of winter slicing across his cheek.
Lucas froze.
It wasn't wind. Nothing moved.
The branches were still. The air was still.
The birds didn't react.
Only he felt it.
The cold slid across his skin, quick as a knife, and vanished.
"What the hell…?" he whispered.
He took a step back.
Warm. Normal.
He stepped forward again.
The cold returned—sharp enough to sting his eyes.
Gone again in an instant.
He lifted his hand, expecting to see frost.
There was nothing.
Just the faintest trembling in his fingertips.
Aelira's voice drifted behind him.
"Thought you'd be here."
Lucas turned as she walked toward him, bow slung over her shoulder, expression unreadable.
"You alright?" she asked.
Lucas pointed at the tree.
"Did you feel that?"
"Feel what?"
"The cold."
Aelira frowned. "Lucas, it's not cold."
Lucas exhaled slowly, breath fogging faintly in front of him—subtle, but real.
Aelira's breath did not.
He frowned deeper.
"Must be tired," he muttered, turning away.
Aelira didn't believe him.
She didn't say anything either.
They walked back toward the camp in silence.
Later that morning, Kairo approached Lucas with two wooden staves slung over his back.
"Training," Kairo said simply.
Lucas groaned. "You sure you're feeling up to it? After last night?"
"Are you?"
Kairo tossed a staff at Lucas.
It nearly hit him in the face.
Lucas caught it clumsily and rolled his eyes. "Fine."
The training circle was a clearing of dirt and stone, with a ring of feathers marking its border. The tribe gathered loosely around as Kairo and Lucas stepped in.
Kairo took his stance—balanced, low, tuned perfectly to the earth.
Lucas imitated him—less perfectly, but with determination.
Kairo lunged first.
Wood cracked against wood as Lucas deflected the blow, stumbling slightly.
They circled.
Struck.
Parried.
Kairo was faster, but Lucas saw angles, timing—a gunslinger's instinct. He blocked a strike, pivoted, and tapped Kairo's side.
The crowd murmured.
Kairo raised an eyebrow. "Lucky hit."
"Sure," Lucas said.
The next exchange was faster—blows clashing like fast footsteps. Lucas's reflexes kept him alive long enough to strike Kairo again, though it barely counted.
Kairo smirked, then disarmed him in two movements.
Lucas landed on his back with a grunt.
Aelira clapped once, unimpressed.
"You almost lasted," she teased.
Lucas lay in the dirt, staring at the sky.
"Shut up."
Kairo offered a hand.
Lucas took it.
For a moment, their eyes locked—no hostility, no rivalry.
Just respect born in fire and blood.
"You're not awful," Kairo muttered.
Lucas laughed. "High praise."
Later that afternoon, Lucas was sharpening arrows beside the river when Tavar approached, robes rustling like soft wings.
"Your spirit is loud today," Tavar said.
"Didn't know spirits made noise."
"Yours does."
Lucas blew out a breath.
"Must be the lack of sleep."
Tavar's gaze sharpened.
"That is not what I asked."
Lucas hesitated.
He almost mentioned the cold draft by the pine.
Almost.
But something in him didn't want to add to the worry already sweeping the camp.
"Nothing strange," Lucas lied. "Just thinking too much."
Tavar's face tightened, just briefly.
"The forest does not chill without reason," he murmured.
Lucas blinked. "What?"
Tavar looked him long in the eyes, then walked away without another word.
Lucas stared after him, unsettled.
The day unfolded quietly.
Almost too quietly.
Lucas spent part of the afternoon helping gather water, though the river felt colder than usual, like its depths hid something heavy. He helped Kairo and a few hunters repair a fence, hauled firewood, sharpened blades, reorganized the leather tents that had begun to sag from morning dew.
Life at the Na'al camp carried a rhythm he found comforting.
Simple. Consistent.
A world where meaning grew slowly and didn't burn out as fast as the barrel of a gun.
Yet the cold sensation from the forest clung to him, gnawing at the edges of his mind.
He tried ignoring it.
Tried losing himself in work.
But the memory lingered like the echo of something he wasn't meant to hear.
When night settled, Lucas sat alone beside a small fire on the outskirts of camp.
The flames crackled softly, sending sparks drifting into the dark like tiny lost souls.
He removed the Remington Outlaw from his holster and began cleaning it with slow, practiced motions.
He cleaned his old revolver next—couldn't bring himself to abandon it.
Two lives, two guns.
One becoming the other.
He checked his Winchester next, running his thumb along the smooth wooden stock, feeling a quiet emptiness inside him that matched the night.
He looked toward the pine where he'd felt the cold draft earlier.
Nothing moved.
The wind was still.
But the hairs on his arms prickled.
Not fear.
Not danger.
Just… awareness.
Something watching.
Something waiting.
A raven perched on the nearest post tilted its head at him, eyes reflecting the firelight like tiny mirrors.
Lucas met its gaze.
"You see something I don't?" he whispered.
The raven blinked once.
Then flew away without a sound.
Lucas sat back, coat rustling softly, hat brim shadowing his eyes.
He touched the mark beneath his shirt, feeling its faint warmth.
Not burning.
Not glowing.
Just… present.
The cold draft hadn't returned.
But its memory lingered like a ghost brushing against the edges of his thoughts.
He shivered once despite the fire.
"Something's coming," he murmured.
The flames crackled softly, as if agreeing.