The sound of the village bell still rang in Zeke's ears, each clang echoing through the narrow dirt streets. The crowd that had gathered in the square hadn't dispersed—in fact, it had doubled. More faces, more frightened eyes. The air was thick with tension.
The ring of spears around him stayed tight.
Zeke kept his hands up where they could see them, Colt holstered at his side. Dusty pawed the ground, restless, her flanks quivering. He could feel the weight of a dozen stares on him, but no one dared step closer except the men in leather-and-iron armor.
One of them barked something—short, harsh. Zeke caught nothing of it except the tone: authority.
"Listen," Zeke started, trying for a calm voice, "I'm not here to cause trouble. I just… need some directions."
That earned him blank stares.
He tried again, slower. "I. Am. Not. A. Threat."
Nothing. The guards exchanged glances. One tilted his head, murmured something to another. Zeke caught a single familiar sound—not a word he knew, but the repetition was obvious. It sounded like devrin.
The tallest of them—a man with a jagged scar running from his temple down his cheek—took a step forward and jabbed his spear toward Zeke's chest. The message was clear: move.
Zeke hesitated. Dusty snorted, tossing her head. "Easy, girl," he said softly, but the tension in his gut told him they'd separate him from her if he resisted.
He raised his hands higher. "Alright. We'll do it your way."
They formed a tight formation around him, six in front, four behind, two flanking his horse. As they moved through the village, shutters banged closed. Children were pulled indoors. Zeke caught glimpses of faces pressed to cracks in wooden doors—faces pale, wary, and more than a little afraid.
The streets wound upward toward the largest building in sight: a timber-framed hall with a steep, shingled roof and a carved emblem over the doorway—two suns crossed by a sword.
The guards shoved him through the entrance. Inside, the air smelled faintly of smoke and old wood. Long benches lined the walls, and at the far end, a raised platform held a heavy table.
Three figures sat behind it.
The man in the center wore a chain of silver around his neck, marking him as someone of rank. His beard was streaked with gray, his expression stern but not unkind. To his left, a broad-shouldered woman in boiled leather armor leaned back with her arms crossed. To his right, a thin man in a green tunic leafed through a stack of parchment.
The scarred guard spoke rapidly in their language, gesturing to Zeke, then to the Colt at his side. Zeke caught the word devrin again, along with others he couldn't parse.
The bearded man studied Zeke in silence for a long moment. Then he spoke—slow, deliberate. "Name?"
Finally, a word Zeke understood.
"Zeke," he said. "Ezekiel Graves. Folks call me Zeke."
The man repeated the name under his breath, mangling the pronunciation, then looked to his companions. More discussion in that foreign tongue.
Zeke took a step forward. "Look, I don't know where the hell I am, and I sure as hell didn't come here to—"
A spear haft thumped into his ribs, hard enough to make him grunt.
The armored woman said something sharply to the guard, but didn't move to stop him.
"Fine," Zeke muttered, "guess we're not doin' the talkin' thing."
The bearded man held up a hand. The room quieted. He nodded toward Zeke's holster, and one of the guards stepped forward, yanking the Colt free.
"Careful," Zeke warned. "That ain't a toy."
The guard ignored him, carrying the revolver up to the platform. The bearded man took it in both hands, turning it over, frowning at the weight. He pointed it toward the floor and pulled the trigger. The empty click echoed in the hall.
Zeke sighed. "Yeah, no bullets. Lucky you."
They murmured among themselves again. Then the bearded man said something to one of the door guards. The man nodded and slipped outside.
Minutes passed. The silence pressed in heavy. Zeke's shoulders ached from tension. He glanced toward the window—still two suns in the sky, one gold, one deep red, sliding toward the horizon.
The door creaked open.
An old man stepped inside, hunched but steady on his feet. His robe was the color of storm clouds, patched in places, but the staff in his hand was polished smooth from years of use. His hair was long and white, his eyes sharp and alert.
He didn't look at Zeke right away. Instead, he went straight to the bearded man and whispered something low.
Then his gaze snapped toward Zeke.
He crossed the room slowly, the staff tapping on the floor. The guards shifted uneasily as he approached.
When he reached the Colt on the table, he didn't touch it. He just stared at it for a long moment, lips moving as if reciting something.
Finally, he reached out, his gnarled fingers brushing the metal. His eyes widened—not with fear, but with recognition.
He turned to Zeke. For the first time since this whole mess started, someone spoke to him in words he could understand.
"It's the Fang of Thunder," the old man said, his voice steady, almost reverent. "The weapon of prophecy."