Hot, wet breath blasted against his face. Heavy. Suffocating.
Kael tasted copper before he even woke. The hair on his neck bristled, and his eyes snapped open.
Teeth. Glistening inches away. A low, vibrating growl rattled in the throat above him.
Fuck.
Kael's forearm smashed into the creature's throat. His other hand flipped up, locking behind the jaw. The beast yelped—a high, startled sound. Claws raked at his chest, leaving three raw gashes behind.
He rolled hard, throwing his weight until his shoulder dropped. He drove his chest down, locking the thing beneath him in place.
Crunch.
Bone crumbled. Wet and muffled. The thrashing stopped instantly.
Kael shoved the limp weight aside and sat up, lungs heaving. The carcass lay in the dust—a coyote. Grey-yellow hide, narrow snout, ribs poking through the fur. Starved thin.
He let his trembling hands fall into his lap. His knuckles were white, but beneath them, his breathing was already evening out. Fresh blood welled in jagged lines across his chest. Muscles corded under dust-stained skin. No ribs sticking out here.
Something was wrong. This wasn't his body.
The strength under his skin felt unfamiliar. Too solid. Too whole.
A dry wind scoured him as he stood, carrying the smell of ancient sand and sagebrush.
Kael reached behind his back. Fingers traced the spine. Down. Smooth. Unbroken. They lingered, searching for the ridges, the scabs, the thick knotted scars he knew had to be there.
Gone.
My back should be a ruin. The thought echoed in the silence. Where are the marks?
He looked up.
Above him stretched a dome of ink-black sky. Stars like spilled salt—sharp, brilliant, indifferent. The chill was dry, hollow, slicing straight through the skin. A shiver ran through his spine, but the ice in his stomach was colder.
Where am I?
He lowered his gaze. The horizon stretched out endlessly, a sharp line separating the black sky from the dead earth.
Was this a god's trial? A test? Or was this what the god's favor truly looked like?
After all, only a god could have taken him somewhere else—and given him a body like this.
Kael flexed his fingers. Then his hands clenched, slow and deliberate. Strength answered without hesitation.
A breath escaped him, sharp, almost a laugh.
He forced his legs to move. His first step sent a jolt through his heel. The ground here wasn't just dust; it was a graveyard of sharp shale and dried thorns.
Pain flared—and he welcomed it.
One step. Then another.
Time lost its meaning in the dark. The wind picked up, carrying fine grit that settled into his pores and stung the fresh wounds on his chest. The only sound was the crunch of his own bare feet crushing the crust of the earth.
Just as black spots danced in his eyes, the shadows ahead hardened.
The shapes were unnatural—angular, deliberate. The Bones. Bleached skeletons of structures, standing stark against the black earth.
Shapes took form.
A water tower rose on narrow stilts. Hitching posts stood in crooked rows. Wind pushed a tumbleweed against the remains of a porch, where it snagged and rattled in place.
Yellow light bled through the cracks of boarded windows from the only building on the street that was still lit.
SALOON.
The word formed in his mind before he read it. He knew the letters. He knew the meaning.
Strange, he thought. I never learned to read.
Rough laughter and the heavy thud of glass on wood spilled out. Kael stepped onto the boardwalk and pushed the doors open.
Heat hit him—a wall of stale alcohol, sweat, and cheap tobacco.
Eight bodies. Two at the bar. Four at a center table playing Faro. Two in the shadows.
Kael scanned the room. His eyes landed on the weapons at their hips. Strange iron tools with wooden handles. He had never seen them before.
And yet, a whisper in his mind named them.
Colt. Revolver. Six shots. Death.
It was a cold, alien knowledge, dripping into his brain like ice water.
The room shifted. The laughter at the card table broke, then returned in a lower register. Heads turned. They took in the bare chest, fresh claw marks crossing it in red lines, the dust-caked legs, the bloody feet.
"Well, I'll be damned."
A gravelly voice broke the quiet. A man leaned against the bar, wine stains mapping his mouth. He spat on the floor, eyes sweeping over Kael's bare legs.
"Lookit what the dust spat out. Stripped clean. Where'd you find such polite road agents? Usually they take the life with the boots."
His eyes narrowed, locking onto the bleeding lines on Kael's chest. "Fresh cuts. Coyote marks."
Laughter rippled through the room, low and mocking.
"Lucky son of a bitch," another voice chimed in from the shadows, thick with grit. "Must've tussled with a lone pup. A pack would've picked his bones clean."
Kael stood still. The stares meant nothing. The laughter, less. He focused on a patch of noise near the corner where voices were still overlapping, drunk and oblivious.
"—talking about the 'Second Fastest Gun'? Don't make me laugh..."
"—Hell, I got that beat. I'm the First Fastest. Just ask the girls at Rosie's..."
Laughter again. Sharp. Cruel.
He walked to the bar. A dirty mirror hung behind it. He glanced at it once, then looked away.
The bartender stood behind the counter, thickset, short sleeves baring heavy arms. His face was wide and worn, a broken nose and a beard gone grey at the edges, eyes dull but watchful.
He stopped wiping a glass and looked Kael over, his gaze settling on the scratches across the chest.
"This ain't a charity ward, son." He jabbed a thumb at the empty counter. "Coin. Or dust."
Golden liquid foamed in a glass nearby. Kael's throat seized.
Zero coins. No pockets. No name.
Black spots swam through Kael's vision. His mouth was dry and raw, his tongue thick as he swallowed.
The bartender sighed. His hand moved beneath the bar.
Something pulled.
Kael's sight lurched sideways, then slipped free of his body altogether.
He was no longer standing at the counter. He was watching.
The room unfolded from another angle, steady and detached, as if seen through someone else's eyes. The bar. The tables. The bodies—alive, unaware. The first motion came without warning. Then blood. Then screaming. Chairs overturned. Glass shattered.
A slaughter, unfolding with calm efficiency.
Kael saw himself move through it. Saw hands that weren't his. Saw the work finished.
The vision tore away.
Twelve heartbeats.
Something pressed in on his thoughts, heavy and unmistakable. It pulled toward blood.
Guidance, Kael thought, a shiver running down his spine.
Was this the will of the God of Slaughter?
The path was clear. Kael paused for a heartbeat, guided by his conscience. He needed to know whether anyone among them was innocent, someone untouched by guilt and undeserving of death.
"Wait!" Kael shouted, his voice carrying across the room.
The bartender paused. His hand rested under the bar, finger near the trigger. The barrel wasn't raised—just enough to make the point clear.
The room went deadly quiet.
Kael turned his head, looking at the men seated around the room. "What sins have you committed?" he asked. "What guilt do you carry?"
Silence.
Then, a bark of laughter broke the tension.
"Sins?" The man with the wine stain split a grin, rotten teeth on display. "Listen to this. Kid thinks he's a preacher."
Laughter burst out around the room. Chairs scraped. Someone slapped the table. They loosened up, seeing nothing but a barefoot nobody talking big.
"You want a confession, boy?" The card player leaned back, rolling his revolver along the felt with his fingertips. "I busted a hired hand outside San Marcos once. Wouldn't work for free. So I broke his leg and rode on."
A chuckle drifted out of the dark.
"I chased a family off their land last winter," another voice said. "Burned their fence. Shot their mule. Told 'em next time I'd burn the house with 'em in it."
Someone at the back lifted his glass.
"I took a woman on the road last spring," he said, grinning. "She screamed. I didn't stop. Still think about it. Worth the trouble."
The laughter came back harder. Meaner.
They started talking over each other—fists used for settling things, threats made because they worked, small thefts that never reached a sheriff's desk. Ugly things, said plain. Done because no one stood in the way.
They grinned.
They drank.
They enjoyed remembering.
And they waited to see what the barefoot boy would do next.