Footsteps reached him through the dark.
Kael reached to where the revolver lay beside him, took hold of it, and raised it only enough to bring the barrel around toward the sound.
The steps hesitated, then slowed.
A woman's voice followed, low and careful, as if she were afraid to speak too loudly.
"Hey… are you alright?" Another pause. "Do you need help?"
Kael remained silent.
Two women stood at the edge of the firelight. One stayed half a step behind the other, smaller, holding tight to the woman in front. The one ahead held a revolver, its barrel lowered but not gone.
"We're not with them," the woman said quickly. "They took us. Dragged us here."
She swallowed, then added, slower this time, "We're not part of it."
Her eyes dropped, not to the gun, but to the dark stain spreading across Kael's side.
"You're hurt."
"Doesn't matter."
They didn't retreat.
"You're bleeding bad," she said. "If we leave you like this, you'll die."
She paused, then added, quieter, "You saved us."
The revolver shifted in her hand. Her fingers loosened first, easing their grip, the barrel dipping a fraction lower. She bent slightly at the waist and set the gun down on the dirt.
Her hand left the grip. She straightened, empty-handed now.
Then she took a step toward him. Not a long one. Just enough to close the distance.
Another step. Careful. Measured.
She stopped within reach, eyes already on the wound, waiting to see if he would stop her.
"Stop." The barrel tracked them as he spoke.
The woman in front froze, then raised both hands slowly, palms open, holding them where he could see them.
The one behind her had been pressed close, half-hidden by her body. At the command, she hesitated, then edged out from behind the woman in front. She lifted her hands as well, mirroring the motion, fingers stiff and spread.
They stayed where they were after that. No one moved.
"Any other weapons?"
Neither of them answered right away.
The woman in front moved first. She patted herself down—waist, sides, the line under her arms. The sound was dull and soft. Cloth against skin. Nothing else.
The one behind her followed, slower, copying the same motions. Hands over her jacket, along her ribs, down her thighs. Again, only fabric and flesh. No metal. No rattle.
They finished and held their hands away from their bodies, waiting.
"We just want to help."
Kael tried to thumb the hammer. His thumb slipped on the sweat and blood. It didn't matter. He knew the cylinder was empty.
He lowered the gun. He no longer had the strength to resist anyone—not even a woman, not even someone unarmed. If they chose to do anything to him, he was incapable of fighting back.
The woman closed the distance until she could see the blood soaking through his clothes. Her eyes dropped to the wound immediately, not to his face.
"This needs to be cleaned," she said. "We have supplies."
The other woman finally moved, still staying close behind her sister.
"We can bring them," she said. "From the main tent."
Kael's arm shook. His fingers loosened.
The pistol slipped from his hand and sank into the dust.
"Don't—" he started, then stopped. The warning died unfinished.
The woman nodded once and turned back toward the camp. She returned quickly, carrying a bundle of cloth, bottles, and bandages.
The sharp smell of alcohol cut through the smoke and blood. They knelt beside him.
One of them pressed cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding. The other cleaned it with practiced movements, jaw tight, hands steady. Kael clenched his teeth, making no sound.
"This is going to hurt," she said. It was a statement of fact, delivered without apology.
They worked in silence for a moment, wrapping, tightening, securing. The bleeding slowed.
Kael exhaled, long and shallow, staring up at the dark sky.
No one was pointing a gun anymore.
"You two doctors?" Kael asked.
"No," the older woman said. "Our pa is."
Kael gave a short nod. That explained the clean work, the speed of it, the way their hands never hesitated.
"Got somewhere you're headed?" he asked. "Or I can take you both back home."
They stopped short. Both of them. Like the words had landed somewhere they hadn't expected.
"Our home's Dusthaven," the older woman said after a moment. "You come through there, didn't you?" She hesitated, then asked, "What's it like now? Anyone still there?"
Kael answered plainly. "There's no one left," he said. "Not even the vultures."
Silence settled between them.
Kael shifted, the pause stretching too long. "What're your names?" he asked.
The older woman drew a breath. "Name's—"
Her head snapped apart mid-word.
Something warm and wet struck Kael's face. His vision flashed red and pale, the smell hitting before the sound fully registered.
Kael turned at once, toward the direction of the shot—then lurched forward, trying to reach the other one, to drag her down.
He was too slow.
Pain locked his body. Wounds screamed. His legs refused him.
The second shot came before his hand could close. The younger one dropped, her body folding without a sound.
Bootsteps came slow and deliberate.
A man stepped into view. Leather coat, dust-darkened. A hat pulled low, its brim cutting his face into shadow.
Kael couldn't make out his features—only the cigarette caught at the corner of his mouth, the ember dim, breathing with him. He turned his head, spotted the revolver on the ground.
His body moved before his mind caught up. He reached for it.
The man lifted his hand. The shot was already gone.
Kael's good right hand burst apart as the revolver flew from his grasp, skidding across the dirt before the sound fully caught up.
Another shot followed, clean and measured. It tore through his good knee. Kael went down hard, face-first, the ground knocking the breath from him.
He tried to move. Nothing answered.
Using his shoulder, he rolled himself onto his back. Pain washed through him in waves, but he kept his eyes open, fixed on the man.
The man came closer, one step at a time.
Kael stared up at the shadowed face beneath the hat, waiting for it to come fully into view.
The brim lifted just enough. He caught the eyes—dark green, deep-set, the kind that didn't flicker or rush, steady as old glass.
The man slipped a hand inside his coat and drew out a folded sheet of paper. He held it up, glanced down at Kael's face, then back to the paper. Slow, methodical.
"You sure made me work for you," he said. "Been a long time."
Kael swallowed, jaw locked tight, anger and refusal burning in his chest. He stared up at the man.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "Who the hell are you?"
The cigarette stayed at the corner of his mouth as his eyes remained on the paper. With the same unhurried motion, he lifted the rifle, barrel settling toward Kael's head.
"Morgan."