The wind swept the street clean, hard enough to sting bare skin and steal warmth on contact.
The street was empty. Dust rolled along the ruts. Doors were shut. Windows were dark. The buildings stood bare and hollow, frames of wood and stone under the night sky.
Kael stood on the boardwalk, the new boots stiff against his ankles.
Aether
The text burned into the air.
[Aether: 0.8]
Kael stared. He blinked once, as if dust had drifted into his eyes.
0.8? Eight lives. And the reward was less than a single point?
"A joke?" His voice was flat.
He thought of the Knight. One man. Five points. He thought of the men inside. Eight bodies on the floor. Less than one.
Quality, Kael realized. The God does not care for chaff. Or maybe... he looked at the heavy revolver at his hip. Too easy, the thought struck him. Distance. Gunpowder. No effort. No struggle.
It was efficient, yes. But was it worship? Perhaps Voros demanded more than just death. Perhaps He demanded a cruel slaughter—or the blood that spilled forth.
Kael ground his teeth. If what he had just realized was true, then those eight people had died for nothing. He had wasted them.
It felt like crushing a gnat with a hammer. Too much effort. Too little blood
"I'll have to try again," he muttered. "With a better one."
Inside the saloon, the bartender was trying to wrap his crushed wrist with a dirty rag, teeth gritted against the pain. The door hinges creaked.
He froze, he looked up, terror draining the blood from his face. The Wolf was back.
Kael walked in. He didn't look at the bodies. He walked straight to the bar, his boots crunching on the broken glass he had created.
The bartender shrank back, pressing himself against the shelves. "You... you said..."
"I forgot something," Kael said. He placed his hands on the counter. "A horse. I need one."
The bartender nodded frantically. "The livery... out back. Take the grey. She's fast."
"Good." Kael didn't move. He stared at the man. "One more thing. A map."
The bartender fumbled with his good hand, pulling a rolled parchment from under the counter. He pushed it across, trembling.
Kael unrolled it. Lines. Towns. Mountains. It meant nothing to him yet. He looked up.
"I need to find people," Kael went on, "the kind who live by blood."
His eyes went cold.
"I want the worst you have. Where do such wretches hide?"
The bartender swallowed dryly. He pointed a shaking finger at a jagged ridge drawn in the west.
"Red Rock Canyon," he whispered. "The Jackal Gang. They... they skin people alive. They hang them from the cliffs."
Kael looked at the ridge on the map.
Skin them alive. That sounded like 5 points. Maybe more.
Perfect
Kael stepped out the back door and followed the route the bartender had given him, toward the livery.
The livery stable stood in the shadows, a rough wooden structure leaning against the wind. The smell hit him instantly—ammonia, wet straw, and warm animal sweat.
For anyone else, it was a stench. For Kael, it was a familiar smell, worn in by nine years.
He walked into the dark aisle. The horses stirred, ears flicking, hooves shifting in the straw. The bartender had said to take the grey. Kael found it in the second stall. He looked it over.
Long legs. Sleek coat. Pretty.
Kael snorted. He ran a hand down the grey's foreleg. The muscle twitched. Too skittish. And the hooves were cracked at the heel. A runner, not a fighter. It would throw a rider at the first gunshot and go lame after a day on the rocks.
He moved on. He walked down the line, reading muscle and temper at a glance, with a stable hand's eye.
He knew horses. He knew them from the bottom up. He knew that a shiny coat could hide worms. He knew that a high head often meant a weak back.
For nine years, he had shoveled their waste, groomed their flanks, and watched Knights ride them out while he stood in the mud.
Head down, lad. Clean the stall, lad.
He stopped at the last stall.
A dark bay gelding stood in the shadows. It wasn't pretty. It had a thick neck, a coarse mane, and a scar running down its left flank. It looked at Kael with a dull, mean eye.
Kael opened the gate. The horse tried to bite him.
Kael slapped the muzzle—hard. The horse reeled, confused by the blow.
Kael ran his hand over the chest. Deep. Massive lungs. He checked the legs. Thick bone, tendons like iron cables. He lifted a hoof. The frog was healthy, the wall thick and hard as stone.
This beast could run for three days on thin feed and stubborn will.
"You'll do," Kael breathed.
He tore a saddle from the rail. Heavy, worn leather, rank with old sweat. He slammed it onto the horse's back.
Nine years. Three thousand days of waking before the sun to clean up after these animals. Three thousand days spent caring for them, never once stepping into the saddle.
He knew every horse in the Keep by habit and by hand. Which ones kicked. Which ones bit. Which ones tired early. That was his work.
Saddles were not for him. Touching one meant the lash. Sitting one meant the rope.
He had learned that early, learned it well.
Kael tightened the cinch. The horse grunted, expanding its chest. Kael kneed it in the gut, forcing the breath out, and pulled the strap tighter.
Old trick. Horses puff up to keep the girth loose. He broke the breath and cinched it tight.
He led the bay out into the cold night, mounted straight from the ground, one hand on the pommel, the other buried in the mane.
This was the crossing. Kael knew the animal. The motion answered to the body. As his foot found the stirrup, muscle and balance aligned. El Lobo surfaced.
He swung up—clean, practiced, and settled into the seat.
From the saddle, the fence dropped to waist height. The trough slid past his knee. The ground rolled out ahead of him.
So this was the view.
Kael closed his hands around the reins. The leather pulled taut. The horse answered.
He wanted this in his hands. And he meant to keep it there.
He turned the horse west, toward the jagged ridge marked on the map. Toward Red Rock Canyon.
He drove his heels in.
"Hyah."
The bay lunged forward, hooves hammering the hard earth. The wind tore past him, bending around his shape.
It answered him.
Earth, beast, distance—each fell into order beneath the ride.
Kael bared his teeth to the dark wind.
EL LOBO.