The wind howled across the empty plains, carrying dust and regret in equal measure.
An old bounty poster slapped against a splintered saloon wall, its corners frayed by time.
"ROWAN ERICSON — 1,000 GOLD PIECES."
Wanted for treason and the destruction of Greyfall Town.
The sketch showed a white-haired young man with a scar on his cheek and eyes too tired for his age.
A merchant passing by spat at it. "Should've hung that bastard with his old man."
Just a few yards away, the bastard himself sat under a broken windmill, biting into a crust of bread.
"Hey, Cass," Rowan muttered, mouth half-full. "They ever get my face right on these things?"
Cass—sunburned, blond, and grinning like a man allergic to peace—peeked over his shoulder.
"Hmm… nah. You look uglier in real life."
Rowan flicked a breadcrumb at him. "Bold talk for someone who can't hit a bottle from ten paces."
"Excuse you, I let that bottle live," Cass said, spinning his revolver. "Mercy's important."
A low growl cut through the banter.
Lynx, their horse-sized fox, yawned behind them, nine tails curling lazily as silver light shimmered across her fur.
Cass side-eyed her. "She's still mad I called her a dog, isn't she?"
"She's mad you tried to saddle her," Rowan said flatly.
Before Cass could answer, the ground began to shake—faint at first, then heavier. Hooves. Lots of them.
Cass sighed. "You've gotta be kidding me…"
Rowan stood, eyes narrowing as red banners appeared on the horizon. Black armor glinted beneath the sun.
The Sun Apostles.
"Guess lunch is over," he muttered.
Cass loaded his revolver with a grin. "You always say that like we ever had lunch."
Rowan's gloved hand began to glow faint blue—mana pulsing under his skin, unstable, alive.
Lynx crouched low, her tails flaring like silver fire.
The first bullet screamed through the dust.
Rowan smirked. "Alright, let's not die today."
Cass grinned back. "You always say that before we almost do."
And with that, the plains exploded into chaos.