Cole reached the edge of Bleakwater as the wind shifted.Dusty stopped beside him, head low.
The wind came wrong.
Not east. Not clean desert flow.It slid sideways, dragging heat and the smell of old metal with it. Stagnant water. Rust. Something burned long ago and never finished burning.
Dusty didn't growl.
That was worse.
His ears angled forward. His body stiffened, like a wire pulled tight. Not fear. Calculation. The dog was reading the air the way Cole read men.
Cole slowed the mule to a halt.
Bleakwater crouched ahead, sun-baked and half-collapsed. A line of scavenged fencing. Sheet-metal roofs with their guts exposed. A water tower leaning west, rust streaks bleeding down its legs.
The tower watched everything.
Cole dismounted. Boots hit dust soft. The mule snorted once and settled. He looped the reins around a post and let the animal be. He needed quiet.
Dusty stepped forward, then stopped again. One paw lifted. Set down. Lifted again.
Something was wrong with the ground.
Cole crouched and ran his fingers through it. Fine dust. Powder. But underneath—hardpan disturbed recently. Too many scuffs. Boots circling. Waiting.
Someone had prepared this place.
Cole stood and rolled his shoulders once. He checked the revolver. Six again. Always six.
He didn't hurry.
The town behind him felt far away now. Windows watched. Doors stayed shut. No voices. No sound except the wind dragging grit across broken pavement.
He took the ridge path leading toward the water tower. Broken glass underfoot cracked softly. The wind whistled through the tower legs, making a low, hollow sound. Not loud. Persistent. Like breathing.
Halfway up, the air thickened.
Not heat.Pressure.
Cole felt it settle across his shoulders like an invisible coat. His steps slowed without him meaning them to. His focus narrowed. The world trimmed down to what mattered.
Tower.Ground.Dog.Hands.
Text flickered faintly at the edge of vision.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // STAKE ZONE ENTERED
He didn't look at it. Didn't acknowledge it. You didn't give the House the satisfaction.
Dusty shook himself hard, like trying to throw off something that wasn't fur. The dog sneezed once. Sharp.
Probability field.
They'd walked through one before, back when Cole rode with caravans. A bad stretch of road where dice went cold and guns jammed for no reason men could explain. People called it luck. The House called it accounting.
Cole adjusted his grip on the revolver.
The water tower loomed overhead now. Rust streaks down its legs like old wounds. Someone had painted crude card symbols along the metal—clubs, diamonds, faded and peeling. Markers of past wagers. Past deaths.
Under the tower, a table waited.
Real wood. Scarred. Burned along one edge. Heavy enough it hadn't blown over in years.
Two chairs.
One occupied.
The man sat easy, boots hooked on the table rung. Hat tilted back enough to show his eyes. Younger than Cole expected. Clean face. Calm mouth. Long coat with red stitching along the seams. Decorative, but deliberate.
Dealer colors.
Not a robed one. No chants or rituals. Just someone who liked carrying symbols close.
A single card lay face-up between them.
The Queen of Hearts.
The man didn't stand.
"Evenin', Ranger," he said.
Cole stopped ten paces out.He didn't like the name.
"I didn't agree to it," Cole said.
The man smiled faintly. "House don't care."
Dusty took a half-step forward. The man's eyes flicked toward the dog. Lingered. Not fear. Interest.
"You're early," the man said.
"I'm on time."
The man nodded. "Luck like yours, I wouldn't rush."
Cole didn't answer.
Wind moved through the tower legs. Metal clinked softly. Something shifted far inside the structure, slow and irregular.
The interface slid fully into view now, cold and clean.
FRONTIER DRAW CONFIRMEDANTE: LUCK (MINOR)OPPONENT: REGISTERED
The man reached into his coat and set a small stack of ceramic chips on the table. Old casino issue. Bleakwater stamp. Worn edges.
"Buy-in," he said.
Cole didn't move.
"What do you want," Cole asked.
The man chuckled softly. "Straight to it. Respect that." He tapped the Queen of Hearts. "You're hunting Spades. Means you'll bleed. Means you'll make noise. Means men like me get paid to see how you hold up."
"Paid by who."
He shrugged. "Depends how the hand falls."
Cole stepped closer. Placed his own chips on the table. Fewer than before. The man noticed.
"Looks like you already paid something," he said.
Cole met his gaze."Deal."
The smile vanished. The man reached beneath the table and lifted a deck.
Not standard.
Dark-backed. Thick. Edges faintly luminous, like they'd absorbed too much light.
The House approved.
CARDS ISSUED
He shuffled with practiced ease. Clean. No flourishes. He cut the deck and slid it forward.
Cole cut it back.
Dusty lay down. Head on paws. Watching.
The man dealt.
Five to Cole. Five to himself.
The cards felt heavier than paper. Warm.
Cole didn't look. Not yet.
He waited.
The man glanced at his own hand and sighed. "Ah."
Cole flipped his.
Two pair. Low. Not special.
PAIR RECORDEDTWO PAIR: POTENTIAL
The man spread his hand.
Three of a kind.
LOSS NOTEDADJUSTMENT APPLIED
The world tilted. Not much. Just a hair. A thinning behind Cole's ribs. Like the House had reached in and taken something small but important.
The man stacked the discarded cards neatly.
"I'm sorry," he said. And meant it.
Cole stood slowly.
The basin inside his head steadied.
The man leaned forward. "Your clue, Ranger. For trying."
Cole waited.
"She's moving east," the man said. "Queen of Hearts. Rustline direction."
Cole filed it away.
"Why tell me," he asked.
"Because if you catch her, my job gets easier later."
He rose and walked away, boots quiet on dust.
Dusty stood.
Cole didn't watch him leave.
He watched the road stretching east.
The House spoke one more time.
NEXT WAGER AVAILABLE: LOCKEDESCALATION PENDING
Cole picked up the Queen of Hearts.Cold.Sharp-edged.
He turned, walked toward the ridge, and didn't look back.
Bleakwater had been a bad town.
But it hadn't deserved this.
Far ahead, something powerful had just placed a bet.
And Cole Marrow was already walking into the pot.