The Crow's Nest sat at the edge of Hollow Creek like a dying beast — its roof sagging, its windows patched with whiskey labels, its sign groaning in the wind. The kind of place where the whiskey burned like confession and every man inside had a story that could get him killed.
Lucas Marrow pushed through the batwing doors, and the room went still. Snow clung to his boots, melting into the warped floorboards. The cold came in with him, cutting through the heat and smoke.
He was tall and spare beneath a weathered duster, a revolver riding his hip, a whip coiled at his belt. His hat brim shadowed his face, and a single black feather rested in the band.
The bartender — gray-bearded, eyes like old glass — gave him a wary look. "What'll it be, stranger?"
"Whiskey," Lucas said, his voice dry as dust.
The man poured a shot, and Lucas slid a coin across the counter. The first sip burned clean. The second burned deeper. By the third, the chill left his bones.
Around him, the saloon's life crept back. The piano stumbled through a ragged tune. Dice clattered. Laughter rose again like a bad habit. But from the corner, three men kept staring.
Bounty hunters. You could spot them by the way they carried their guns — ready, heavy, impatient. One had a nose bent like a crooked nail. Another chewed tobacco like it owed him something. The last kept thumbing the hammer of his pistol, pretending not to watch.
Lucas caught their reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He didn't move. He didn't have to.
The one with the crooked nose finally stood. "You Marrow?"
Lucas didn't turn. "Don't know him."
"Don't play dumb. Got a warrant says you're worth a thousand alive, five hundred dead." He spat brown into the sawdust. "I ain't picky."
Lucas finished his drink, set the glass down slow. "Then I suggest you try someone easier."
The first punch came before the last word left his mouth.
A bottle cracked against his skull. Glass rained down. Lucas staggered, turned, and drove his fist into the man's gut. The hunter folded like wet paper.
Another swung a chair. Lucas ducked — the chair exploded against the bar — and he kicked the man's legs out from under him. The third drew steel, but Lucas moved faster. His revolver flashed free, barrel pressed to the man's throat.
"Drop it." His tone never rose.
The man froze, eyes wide. The gun hit the floor.
Lucas holstered his weapon slow, deliberate. He almost relaxed — until crooked nose came again, knife flashing in the lamplight.
The blade caught his shoulder. Pain flared. Lucas gritted his teeth and slammed his forehead into the man's face. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed the counter. Lucas followed with an elbow and a kick that sent the man through a table.
"Gunfight!" someone shouted.
And just like that, the whole saloon ignited.
Lucas didn't start fights for sport. But when they found him, he finished them.
A man lunged from behind — Lucas caught his wrist, twisted, and smashed his face into a post. Another rushed in with a pistol swinging like a club. Lucas snapped his whip loose, the crack splitting the air like thunder. The leather wrapped the man's wrist; a hard jerk sent the weapon spinning away.
He moved like a storm given shape — fast, quiet, unrelenting.
Fists broke against his ribs. Bottles shattered. Someone screamed. Chairs splintered.
He caught one thug by the collar and threw him across the poker table, scattering coins and cards like a rain of luck gone bad. A bullet tore through the wall behind him; another grazed his coat. Lucas spun, fired once. The shooter's gun clattered from nerveless hands.
Smoke curled in the oil-lamp light. Whiskey flooded the floor. The piano man crouched low, arms over his head.
Then silence.
The only sounds were groans, dripping liquor, and the hiss of a dying lantern.
Lucas stood amid the wreckage, chest heaving. A smear of blood ran down his temple, but his eyes stayed calm — gray steel cooling in the aftermath.
"Told you," he muttered, stepping over a broken chair. "I ain't him."
The bartender, pale as milk, raised both hands. "No more trouble, mister. Just—take it outside next time."
Lucas tipped his hat. "Wouldn't dream of stayin'."
He turned for the door.
Outside, the wind bit hard. Snow fell thicker now, slow and heavy, flakes glowing in the orange lantern light. The saloon's muffled noise faded behind him — the murmur of the guilty returning to their games.
Lucas leaned against a hitching post, breathing slow. His shoulder burned where the knife had nicked him, but the pain kept him awake.
A flutter of movement drew his gaze upward.
A raven perched on the saloon sign, feathers blacker than pitch, eyes gleaming red in the glow. It watched him in silence, head tilting once, twice. Then it let out a long, hollow caw and took flight, wings beating snow from the air.
Lucas watched it vanish into the dark. Something in his chest tightened.
He spat blood into the snow. "Bad luck followin' me now, huh?"
The wind didn't answer.
He walked down the muddy street toward the tracks, boots sinking deep, coat tails snapping in the cold. The town behind him blurred into haze — a flicker of orange light swallowed by snow.
He didn't look back.
Half a mile out, his mare waited under a frost-bitten pine — a gray beauty with patient eyes. "Evenin', Mercy," he murmured, patting her neck. She snorted, warm breath rising in the chill.
Lucas swung into the saddle with a wince. The night stretched before him — endless white plains under a bruised sky.
Then he saw it — a shimmer in the puddle by his boot.
He frowned, leaned down. Beneath the frozen surface, a faint reflection pulsed — black lines curling across his chest beneath the open collar of his shirt.
He unbuttoned it, fingers trembling in the cold.
There, between his collarbones, something faint glowed and then faded — a thin mark shaped like the curve of a feather.
For a moment, the world felt still.
He swallowed hard. "What in God's name…"
A whisper rose on the wind. Not words — just the sound of wings beating somewhere far away.
Lucas looked toward the northern mountains, where the raven had flown. Snow clouds rolled like a tide over the peaks.
He'd never believed in omens, or signs, or any of that old tribal talk about the marks. But something deep in his gut told him that bird hadn't come by chance.
He straightened in the saddle, hand brushing the faint scar across his chest. The night felt colder now — or maybe it was just the fear.
"Let's ride," he told Mercy.
She obeyed, hooves thudding soft against the frozen ground.
Behind them, Hollow Creek sank back into darkness. Ahead, the mountains waited — silent, patient, watching.
A raven's cry echoed once through the storm — sharp, distant, and full of promise.
And so began the legend of the man with the Raven Mark.