The wind howled like a wounded beast, tearing through the dark plains as the storm raged above. Sheets of cold rain lashed at the riders, stinging their faces and soaking their clothes despite the thick jackets they wore. Thunder cracked like rifle fire in the distance, and flashes of lightning painted the landscape in white for the briefest moments—revealing only mud, shadows, and the twisted silhouettes of bare, wind-bent trees.
Two riders cut through the storm on horseback.
One of them, tall with a strong but agile frame, rode with natural ease. His thick light-blonde hair was plastered to his forehead under the fury of the rain, but his eyes—icy blue and sharp—scanned the horizon with soldier-like focus. His blue jacket clung to his shoulders, heavy with rain, but it didn't seem to slow him. His gloved hands gripped the reins with quiet certainty.
Beside him rode a darker-skinned man with a rugged face and steady posture. His long black hair was braided and tied behind his head, and from the back of his matching jacket flowed a long feather—drenched and swaying with every stride of his mount. He sat straighter in the saddle, his tone more serious, his aura more grounded. His name was Mago.
Michael, the blonde rider, glanced sideways, brushing rain from his eyes. "Yo, Mago… you sure we're gonna find somewhere good to stop? Somewhere dry?"
Mago's face didn't flinch from the wind. His eyes were ahead, unblinking. "We have to try, Michael. In this kind of storm, stopping anywhere could mean death. But riding blind is no better. We keep looking."
Michael grumbled under his breath and adjusted his hood. "I just hope you're right, man… And, uh… are you sure we should still be using horses instead of a truck or something? The hollowers could smell us. Or hear the hooves."
Mago gave a faint smile, barely visible beneath his soaked mustache. "A car? Out here? We'd be stuck in the mud in under five minutes. Horses don't need gas. Don't need an engine. No tires to blow, no wires to short. Just food, water, and trust. That's all."
Michael nodded slowly, almost sheepishly. "You're right. Like always, sir."
Mago's voice was low but firm. "It's not about being right. It's about being smart. About using common sense. You gotta survive with your head, not just your hands."
There was a long pause as the rain intensified. The horses trudged forward, hooves sloshing through mud.
Then Mago added, his voice quieter, "If I die out here…"
Michael cut in sharply, "You won't."
"I might. You know I might. If I do… I need you to hold on to what I've taught you. Not just for you. For the others. For the knowledge. You understand me?"
Michael's jaw clenched, his eyes fixed ahead. "I'll try, Mago. I swear I'll try."
Mago gave a slow nod, rain running down the deep lines of his face. "Trying ain't enough anymore, Michael. You've got to become. Be the kind of man others trust with their lives. Not because you talk big. But because you carry something real. You feel me?"
Michael looked over at him, the fire of something new in his eyes. "I feel you."
Just then, lightning lit the sky—and far ahead, on the edge of a ridge, the faint outline of a worn-down chapel came into view.
Mago pointed. "There. That might be it."
Michael grinned. "Hope it's not haunted."
Mago smirked. "Out here? Everything's haunted. Just depends on what you're running from."
Rain trickled down the hillside like the world itself was weeping. Mago and Michael guided their horses down the slick slope, hooves sliding over the muddy trail as wind rustled the trees around them like whispering ghosts. At the bottom, in the dim halo of a shattered streetlight, stood a man crouched near the door of the decrepit chapel.
He was tall—lanky but wiry, like a stretched coil of muscle barely held in check. A dark bolero hat shielded his eyes from the storm, but the rain had soaked through his studded jacket. His dark curly hair clung to his face in wet strands. A pistol rested firm in his hand, gleaming beneath the occasional lightning strike. His lips curled in a half-smile when he saw the riders.
"Well, look who showed up," the man said in a low, casual drawl. "Was just about to head in. You boys took your sweet time."
Michael narrowed his eyes and slowed his horse. "Don't look like it, Mr. Heart. You look like you've been hiding out here long enough to grow roots."
Heart stood up slowly, his expression tightening. "I was the one who found this place, Michael. Don't act like you did anything but ride in after the hard part was done."
"Enough." Mago's voice cut through the tension like a whip. His tone was calm—but iron-hard.
Both men went quiet as the riders dismounted. Rain splashed around their boots as they tied their horses to a splintered wooden post nearby, a crooked stick barely strong enough to hold the beasts steady.
"How many, Heart?" Mago asked as he adjusted the bow slung over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving the chapel's crumbling facade.
Heart gave a casual shrug, his pistol still loose in his grip. "Saw a few silhouettes moving around inside. Four, maybe five. Hard to tell. One of them's on the second floor, I think. Quiet types."
Michael stepped up beside Mago, voice hushed. "You think it's him?"
Mago's jaw tightened, eyes narrowed. "Randal? Could be. The timing fits. But that's not our concern yet. First, we go in. Kill every last one—except one. One stays breathing. We'll ask our questions then."
Heart's smile returned, sharp and cold. "And after we get our answers?"
Mago nodded slowly. "Then we finish it."
Michael grinned darkly. "Now that's a plan I can get behind."
But Mago's attention suddenly dropped to Heart's side. "Hold up… Heart, why the hell do you have a pistol?"
Heart blinked, then looked down at the weapon in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh. Yeah. I, uh… lost my bow. One of them ambushed me earlier. Nearly caught one in the gut, but I managed to drop him before he made noise."
Mago's glare sharpened. "That pistol's going to get us killed. You know that, right? One shot echoes through this whole valley. Then we're not sneaking in—we're inviting them."
Heart raised a defensive hand. "Yeah, yeah, I get it, sir. Just trying to stay alive out here."
Michael exhaled sharply and muttered, "Ain't no point trying to lead a dead donkey if it's already dead, Mago."
Heart's head snapped around. "And I wouldn't be talking, Mr. I-Accidentally-Got-Mago-Nearly-Killed-Last-Mission."
Mago stepped between them, his voice louder this time. "Enough. Both of you."
The air froze for a moment, tense with rivalry and rain.
Then Mago turned to Michael. "Pull your bow."
Michael gave a crisp nod and reached behind him, unfastening the curved longbow wrapped in dark cloth from his back. He tested the string, nocked an arrow, and stood ready.
Mago looked at both men, his face unreadable. "From this point on—no words. We move like shadows. We strike like knives. Clean and fast."
Lightning flashed again, casting all three into ghostly silhouettes as they began to move.
Mago's voice was the last thing that cut through the rain before they disappeared into the dark:
"Now we sneak in."