The smoke had barely lifted from the ashes when the village square rang with the sound of hammers. Men repaired broken gates. Women scrubbed blood from stone. Children carried buckets of water with eyes still wide from nightmares.
Zeke Graves stood among them, sleeves rolled, revolver holstered, an ax in his hands. The weight felt wrong—he wasn't used to chopping wood for barricades instead of pointing iron at a man's chest. But every swing landed clean, the rhythm echoing in his shoulders. For the first time since the desert storm swallowed him, he felt… not at home, but closer to belonging.
Not everyone agreed.
As he split another log, a mutter drifted past his ear. Two villagers walked by with baskets of stones. One spat near Zeke's boots.
"Demon's mark," the man hissed in the local tongue. He didn't think Zeke understood, but Seraphine had taught him enough words. Demon. Cursed. Outsider.
Zeke didn't flinch. He just raised the ax, brought it down, let the wood crack clean through. But inside, the anger smoldered.
He wasn't here to be their savior. Hell, he barely knew how to hold a sword without looking like a fool. Yet the mark on his chest made him a symbol—some feared it, some clung to it. And symbols had a way of burying men alive.
"Ignore them."
Seraphine's voice broke the silence. She approached, armor polished despite the dents. At her side walked three young men, barely older than boys, wearing mismatched armor plates and clutching spears with nervous pride.
"They're recruits," Seraphine said. "You'll train with them today."
Zeke lifted a brow. "Train? With sticks?"
"With brothers," she corrected sharply.
The tallest boy stepped forward, freckles across his nose, trying to mask his nerves. "Sir… Graves, is it? My father said you shot the ogre through the eye. Is it true?"
Zeke leaned on the ax handle, squinting at him. "More or less. Got lucky. Don't go makin' legends of me yet, kid."
The boy grinned anyway, pride swelling his chest.
The second recruit, darker-haired and scowling, wasn't so impressed. "Legends or not, you brought the dragon's curse with you. We bleed because you came."
Tension thickened. Seraphine's hand brushed her sword hilt, but Zeke raised his palm. "Easy, Sheriff. I've heard worse in my time." He looked at the recruit straight. "You think I asked for this mark? You think I want to be here? If I had my way, I'd be sittin' in a saloon in Texas, drinkin' whiskey and winnin' poker hands off drunk ranchers. But fate's a mean bastard. So here I am. Now the question is—are you gonna fight beside me, or die cursin' me while goblins cut your throat?"
The boy's jaw tightened. He didn't answer, but he didn't spit again either.
Seraphine smirked faintly. "Lesson one, then. Brotherhood is forged not by choice, but by fire."
---
Training began in the meadow just beyond the palisade.
Zeke stood opposite the recruits, sweat soaking his shirt, wooden sword heavy in his hands. The weapon felt clumsy compared to the revolver that had been his right hand for years. Still, he forced his body to move the way Seraphine taught: feet planted, weight balanced, blade raised to guard.
The recruits lunged. Zeke parried awkwardly, blade jarring against his palms. Another swung wide; Zeke ducked, rammed his shoulder into the boy's chest, sent him sprawling into the dirt.
The others laughed, tension easing. Even the scowling recruit cracked the ghost of a grin.
"Don't laugh too hard," Zeke said, panting. "Your friend still managed to knock the wind outta me."
By noon, the meadow rang with shouts, clashing wood, and the occasional curse when someone got hit too hard. Seraphine barked instructions, correcting stances with the sharpness of a drill sergeant. She cut Zeke down in sparring every time, but he lasted longer with each round.
His hands blistered. His arms shook. But something unfamiliar stirred in his chest—something he hadn't felt since his first days as a bounty hunter, green and reckless on the frontier. Purpose.
As the sun dipped low, the recruits collapsed in the grass, laughing despite bruises. Zeke fell back with them, staring at the sky. Two suns burned overhead, twin reminders that this world wasn't his. But for the first time, the sight didn't fill him with dread.
"Not bad, cowboy," Seraphine said, standing above him, arms crossed. "You fight like a wild dog. Ugly, but effective."
"I'll take ugly over dead any day," Zeke muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
The recruits chuckled. Even the scowling one.
---
That evening, the village gathered in the square. Lanterns lit the air with golden glow. A priest in white robes tended the wounded, murmuring prayers that smelled of incense. Children peeked from doorways to glimpse the stranger with the cursed mark who now fought beside their fathers.
For once, the stares carried less fear. Some even nodded in respect. A little girl with tangled hair slipped forward, holding out a flower crown. Zeke blinked, awkward.
"It's for you, mister," she whispered.
He hesitated. Gunslingers didn't wear flowers. But the eyes of the crowd were on him, and the child's smile was bright against the ruin of war. Slowly, he took the crown and set it on his dusty hat. Laughter and cheers rippled through the crowd.
For a brief moment, Zeke Graves felt something dangerously close to acceptance.
---
The night shattered it.
A scream ripped across the square. Guards dragged a man forward, kicking and spitting. His cloak was torn, face bloodied. The villagers muttered as he was thrown to his knees before Seraphine.
Zeke pushed through the crowd, revolver at his hip, hand itching. "What's all this?"
The guard captain spat. "We caught him trying to flee. Carrying messages."
He yanked a scroll from the man's tunic, unfurled it. The parchment bore a symbol Zeke had seen before—burned into altars, scrawled in blood, whispered in dreams. The Black Dragon, coiled and crowned.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Seraphine's jaw tightened. "A spy."
The prisoner laughed, teeth red with blood. "Not a spy. A servant. The dragon's will flows through me." He spat on the ground, grinning through broken lips. "And it flows through your cowboy too. Look at the mark on his chest. He belongs to us."
The crowd recoiled, voices rising. Fear threatened to unravel the fragile thread of trust.
Zeke's revolver was in his hand before he realized it. The barrel pressed against the spy's skull, steady despite the storm in his veins.
"Careful what you say about me, friend," Zeke growled low. "Or this'll be the last sermon you preach."
The spy didn't flinch. He just smiled wider. "You can't shoot away prophecy."
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. The crowd waited. Seraphine's eyes burned into Zeke's. The recruits from earlier stood at the edge, watching their supposed brother.
Zeke lowered the gun—just slightly. Enough to keep the man alive. For now.
Seraphine's voice was cold steel. "Bind him. He will answer for every word before dawn."
The guards dragged the spy away, kicking and laughing like a man already victorious.
Zeke holstered the revolver, jaw tight. He felt the villagers' eyes again—not hopeful, not trusting, but doubtful. Afraid. The flower crown slipped from his hat, falling into the dirt.
Brotherhood, it seemed, was harder to hold than a sword.
And somewhere in the darkness, the Black Dragon's cult had one less secret.