The cellar beneath the village hall stank of mildew and torch smoke. The stone walls sweated with dampness, chains rattled when the prisoner shifted. The air was heavy—thick enough to choke a man who stayed too long.
Zeke Graves leaned against the rough wall, revolver in hand but lowered, thumb rubbing the worn handle. He hated basements. Too many memories of bounty hunts gone wrong—cattle thieves dragged out from cellars, murderers confessing just before the noose. Men always lied down here, or begged, or broke.
But this man didn't look broken.
The spy sat on the ground, wrists bound in iron, blood dried in streaks across his chin. His grin hadn't faltered since the night before. Even now, with his face swollen from a guard's fist, he chuckled to himself like a man who'd already won.
Seraphine stood across from him, arms folded, her blade resting against the wall. "Speak," she commanded. Her tone left no room for patience.
The prisoner lifted his eyes, shadowed and sunken, and smiled. "You don't command me, knight. The Dragon does. And His whisper is louder than your threats."
Zeke's revolver came up before he realized it, barrel inches from the man's forehead. "I've got a louder whisper," Zeke muttered. "Six bullets sing real sweet when I pull the trigger."
The prisoner didn't blink. He leaned forward until the cold iron pressed against his skin. "Kill me, cowboy. My brothers will rise in my place. You can't shoot destiny."
The torches hissed. Silence hung.
Seraphine finally spoke, voice edged with disgust. "You were caught with orders. Scrolls marked with the Black Dragon. Tell us their purpose."
The man chuckled again. "Purpose? Purpose is written in fire and shadow. The Key is near, and the hollow mountains stir. Even now, the cult gathers. Soon the sky will crack, and He will walk through."
Zeke frowned. "The Key?"
The prisoner's grin widened. "Ah… you don't know. How fitting. The stranger marked by the Dragon, ignorant of the very tool that bound him here."
Zeke's grip on the revolver tightened. "Start makin' sense before I stop carin' about keepin' you alive."
The prisoner's eyes flicked to the gunslinger, hungry, fever-bright. "The Dimensional Key. Forged before this world was young. It opens paths between realms—between your world and ours. Between this land and the endless dark where the Dragon dreams. You, cowboy… you're not lost. You were called."
The words sank like lead. Zeke's jaw tightened, the air thickening in his chest. Called. Not lost, not random, not fate's cruel accident. Called.
He shoved the barrel harder against the man's head. "Why me? Why the hell would some overgrown lizard pull me out of Texas?"
The prisoner laughed, high and broken. "Because you carry the mark. Because the Dragon chooses his vessels. The Key draws its chosen, and you are one. The mark burns, doesn't it? It whispers in your sleep. That's not madness, cowboy. That's Him."
Zeke's hand went to his chest unconsciously, to the faint scar burned into his skin. He remembered the dream—the sky over Texas cracking, the black wings tearing through. The heat, the voice that wasn't a voice.
Seraphine stepped forward sharply, her boot ringing on stone. "Where is the Key?" she demanded. "Where do your cult masters seek it?"
The spy's grin faltered just slightly. He licked blood from his lip. "The Hollow Peaks. Where shadows never die and stone remembers. The Key lies buried there, and when it wakes, the Dragon will walk again."
The cellar chilled, torches guttering as if the words themselves carried weight.
Zeke holstered his revolver, though his hand shook. "So you're sayin'… if this Key opens doors between worlds, it might open one back home."
The prisoner barked laughter. "Back home? Fool. Once the Key turns, there will be no home. Not for you, not for anyone. Worlds will bleed together, consumed in His fire. The Dragon walks not to open doors… but to devour them."
Zeke's gut twisted. His revolver had solved many problems before. But no bullet could punch through prophecy.
Seraphine's eyes narrowed. "We move at once. The cult marches to Hollow Peaks, we march faster. If they reach the Key—"
"Too late," the prisoner whispered, leaning back against the wall. "They're already there. The chants have begun. The mountains will quake. You'll hear His wings before the dawn."
Zeke stepped forward, boot slamming into the man's chest, pinning him against the stone. "One last question. Why me? Why not one of your own fanatics?"
The spy's eyes gleamed. "Because you straddle both worlds. You are the bridge, cowboy. The Dragon needs a door, and doors must be walked through. That is your fate."
Zeke froze, breath ragged, fury and dread coiling in his veins.
Seraphine pulled him back, sharp. "Enough. Bind his mouth. He speaks poison."
The guards gagged the spy, dragging him into silence. But the damage was done. His words still rang in the cellar, louder than any scream.
Zeke leaned against the wall, revolver heavy in his palm. The Key. Hollow Peaks. The Dragon.
None of it sounded like salvation.
And as they climbed out of the cellar into the cold night, the bells rang. Not warning of goblins this time, but of a rider racing from the east, cloak torn, face pale with terror.
He collapsed from his horse, gasping words that froze the blood of every soul within earshot.
"The cult—" he coughed, blood splattering the dirt. "They've reached the Hollow Peaks. The Black Dragon… is stirring."
The villagers gasped, some screaming prayers, some clutching their children. The words rolled through the square like thunder.
Zeke felt the mark on his chest burn. Seraphine's hand gripped her sword. The night itself seemed to hold its breath.
And high above, though the stars were clear, Zeke could swear he saw the faintest shimmer of black wings against the sky.