Darkness swallowed him.
One heartbeat he was in the burning village, the shaman's curse still ringing in his ears. The next heartbeat, Zeke was lying flat on his back in the desert sand. The old desert he knew—the endless stretch of Texas, where the wind carried dust and the sun bleached bones white. But something was wrong.
The sky was cracked.
Above him, fissures split the heavens like shattered glass, glowing with sickly green light. Through the cracks, something vast moved—scales gleaming obsidian, wings unfurling to span miles. The Black Dragon. Its body coiled across the broken sky like a serpent through water.
Zeke pushed himself up, revolver already in his hand, but it felt small, useless, like a child's toy against that immensity. His boots sank in the sand. Every breath he drew burned hot in his chest.
The dragon's head lowered, crimson eyes locking onto him. Its mouth opened, and instead of flame, Zeke heard words—deep, resonant, not spoken but carved into his bones.
"Between worlds you walk… and between worlds you will fall."
Zeke tried to shout back, to raise his weapon, to move at all—but his limbs felt heavy, chained by invisible weight. The desert quaked. The cracks widened. From the fissures poured shadowy figures, shapes of men and beasts twisted beyond reason. They crawled across the sand, whispering in tongues that scraped against his skull.
He stumbled backward, revolver shaking in his grip. "Stay back!"
The shadows didn't stop. They closed around him, clawed hands reaching. One brushed his chest, and a searing pain ripped through him. He screamed, dropping to his knees. He looked down—and saw the outline of a mark burning into his skin, just above his heart. The shape was unmistakable: the Black Dragon, coiled and waiting.
The dragon above loomed closer, maw wide enough to swallow the desert whole. Fireless but endless, a void of hunger.
"Chosen," it whispered.
Zeke screamed—
—and woke choking on smoke.
He bolted upright, coughing hard, sweat pouring down his face. His whole body ached, every muscle raw from battle. The stench of blood and charred wood filled his lungs. For a moment, he thought he was still in the dream. But no—the dream had followed him.
The village was quiet now. Too quiet. The fires had been doused, though smoke still curled into the night sky. The groans of the wounded carried across the square. Bodies—goblin and human alike—littered the dirt. The battle was over, at least for tonight.
Zeke touched his chest. He froze.
There, burned into his flesh, just over his heart, was a mark. Not a wound from a blade, not claws or teeth. It was a brand, seared in with unnatural heat. Faint, but clear enough in the moonlight: the same coiled dragon symbol he'd seen in the ritual, in the sky, in his dream.
His stomach dropped. "No… no, this ain't real."
He ripped open his shirt further, fingers tracing the mark. The skin was raw, edges glowing faintly, like embers refusing to die. He could still feel the burn, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"Zeke."
He spun, hand on his revolver. Seraphine stood a few paces away, her armor dented, hair loose from its braid, face streaked with ash. But her eyes—her eyes were locked on his chest.
She didn't look surprised. She looked… resigned.
"You saw it too, didn't you?" Zeke rasped. His throat was raw, his voice unsteady. "The sky crackin', the damn dragon watchin' me."
Seraphine stepped closer, slow, deliberate, as though approaching a wounded beast. "It wasn't only a dream. Sometimes… visions are carried through blood, through battle. The dragon marked you."
Zeke barked a bitter laugh, though it cracked halfway. "Marked me? Lady, it tried to eat me alive."
Her gaze hardened. "No. It chose you."
The words struck harder than any blade.
Zeke shook his head violently. "Hell no. I didn't sign up for this. I don't want no part of your prophecies, your dragons, your curses. I just want to go home."
Seraphine's expression softened for the briefest moment, but only briefly. "Home isn't waiting for you. Not anymore. That mark on your chest means you've been tied to this war, whether you will it or not."
"I ain't some hero," Zeke snapped. His hands trembled as he shoved his revolver back into its holster. "I'm a bounty hunter. I catch outlaws, I drink whiskey, I mind my own damn business. That's it. That's all I am."
"No," she said, firm. She reached out, gloved hand brushing just shy of the mark on his chest. "Now you are more. Whether you wish it or not."
He stepped back, away from her touch, away from the firelight. But he couldn't step away from the burning under his skin. Couldn't unsee the dragon's eyes. Couldn't unhear its voice.
The villagers murmured from the shadows. Some glanced at Zeke with awe, others with fear. The word spread quickly, rippling through the battered survivors: the outsider bore the mark.
Zeke felt their stares. Felt the weight of their hope and terror settling on his shoulders. He wanted to scream, to run, to deny it. But the brand pulsed again, searing against his ribs, undeniable.
Seraphine's voice cut through the murmurs. Steady. Unyielding.
"You are chosen, Zeke Graves. Whether by fate or curse, the Black Dragon has set its eyes upon you. And that means the war to come will follow you, wherever you go."
The firelight caught her blade as she raised it, the steel gleaming red in reflection of the mark burning on his skin.