Cole reached Rustline Hold at dusk.
The sun sat low and flat behind him, smeared red against the dust like it had been dragged there. The road didn't end so much as give up. Asphalt bled into gravel. Gravel into packed earth scored by wheels and boots and things that didn't walk straight.
Dusty stopped first.
Not a full halt. Just enough to say here.
Cole eased the mule down. Let the animal breathe. Let himself feel the place before stepping into it.
Rustline Hold sprawled wide instead of tall. No walls. No real perimeter. Just a loose ring of buildings leaning inward like men sharing a secret. Old warehouses. Casino husks gutted down to frames. A rail depot collapsed into ribs. Light burned in more windows than a town this size deserved.
Too many lights meant witnesses.
The gates stood open.
That was the problem.
Two steel frames marked the main road in, welded together from scavenged bridge parts. Once, there had been doors. They were gone now. Cut clean. Hauled away. Nothing blocking entry.
Nothing blocking exit either.
Cole didn't like places that pretended to be choices.
Dusty took two steps forward, then stopped again. His head dipped. Nose low. Tail straight.
Not fear.
Counting.
The air carried heat and oil and the faint sweetness of burned cards. Old wagers. Settled and unsettled both. Cole felt the familiar pressure just behind his eyes—not heavy, not sharp.
Attentive.
The House was awake here.
He slid off the mule and tied it off to a bent signpost that still read RUSTLINE HOLD — TRADE FAIR TUESDAYS. Someone had scratched the word fair out. Left trade.
Dusty paced the edge of the road, circling wide, testing invisible lines. He stopped short of the gates themselves.
Wouldn't cross.
Cole noticed.
He rested a hand on the revolver. Not drawing. Just acknowledging that it existed. Then he stepped forward alone.
The ground inside the gates felt different under his boots. Firmer. As if too many feet had packed it down in the same patterns over and over until the land learned them.
Eyes were on him immediately.
Not hostile. Not curious.
Assessing.
Men leaned in doorways. Women paused mid-task. A pair of kids stopped rolling a tire and let it fall over with a hollow clang that echoed longer than it should have.
Someone murmured his name.
Not shouted. Not announced.
Passed.
Cole didn't look at who said it. Names traveled faster than bullets in towns like this, and both could kill you if you chased them wrong.
He walked in steady.
At the center of Rustline Hold, the square opened wide and bare, like a scar that refused to close. The ground there was darker, worn smooth. Lines etched into it caught the dying light—circles, arcs, straight cuts that didn't match any building footprint.
A table sat dead center.
Bigger than most. Thick legs. Old wood reinforced with steel bands. Scored so deep in places the grain had split and healed around the wounds.
Four chairs.
All empty.
The square was full of people.
No one sat.
Dusty whined once behind Cole.
Cole stopped at the edge of the square.
The pressure behind his eyes tightened. Not enough to hurt. Enough to focus.
Text ghosted at the periphery of his vision. Faint. Incomplete.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // OBSERVATION DENSITY: HIGH
He didn't blink.
A man peeled off from the shade of a nearby awning and approached. Middle-aged. Narrow shoulders. Dealer coat without the red—just gray thread along the seams, frayed from wear.
Minor Dealer.
The kind that handled low-stakes disputes and caravan draws. The kind that survived by knowing when not to speak.
He stopped a careful distance away. Didn't offer a hand.
"Ranger," he said.
Cole didn't answer.
The Dealer nodded like he'd expected that.
"You're early," he said.
Cole finally looked at him. "I'm on the road."
The Dealer's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost not.
"Road ends here," he said. "For a bit."
"Looks open to me."
"That's the trick," the Dealer said quietly.
A bell rang.
Once.
Not loud. Not ceremonial. Just a clean iron note that cut the air and vanished.
Every conversation in the square stopped.
Cole felt it then—accounting shifting from background hum to foreground pressure. Like a ledger being opened to a fresh page.
The Dealer swallowed.
"That's new," he said.
"What is," Cole asked.
The Dealer didn't answer. He was staring at the table.
Cole followed his gaze.
One of the chairs scraped backward.
No hand touched it.
Just the sound of wood on packed dirt.
The chair slid out, slow and deliberate, as if inviting someone who wasn't there yet.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Not panic. Not surprise.
Recognition.
Dusty growled from behind Cole, low and steady. He still hadn't crossed into the square.
Cole took a step forward.
The pressure increased. Not resistance. Alignment. Like gears finally meshing.
Text snapped sharper at the edge of his sight.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // CENTRAL TABLESTATUS: DORMANTREQUIREMENTS: UNMET
The Dealer exhaled shakily. "That table's been here since before Rustline had a name," he said. "No one sits it."
"Why."
"Because it isn't ours," the Dealer said. "House didn't put it down."
Cole's eyes traced the carvings along the table's edge. Old symbols. Not clean enough to be House-make. Too… personal.
Royal work.
"Who did," Cole asked.
The Dealer shook his head. "Doesn't matter. What matters is—" He stopped himself. Looked around. Lowered his voice. "—it only wakes up when three interests line up. House. Royal. And… something else."
Cole felt the Ace of Spades press cold against his ribs.
"And now," Cole said.
The Dealer nodded once. "Now it's close."
Another scrape.
A second chair shifted.
The crowd took a collective step back without realizing it.
Cole stepped forward instead.
He crossed into the square.
The ground there felt warmer. Not from sun. From use. From history pressing up through the dirt like a bruise.
Dusty stayed at the edge.
"Stay," Cole said quietly.
The dog didn't argue. He just watched, eyes tracking the empty chairs like they might bite.
Cole approached the table.
Up close, the scars told stories he didn't want to hear. Burn marks shaped like card suits. Knife gouges in pairs and trios. One long straight cut down the center, as if someone had dragged a blade across it to prove a point.
A chip sat near one corner.
Ceramic. Old casino stamp worn nearly smooth.
Not placed neatly.
Discarded.
Cole picked it up.
Cold.
The House stirred.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // FOREIGN TOKEN DETECTED
The Dealer took a step back. "You shouldn't touch that."
Cole didn't look at him. "Too late."
The bell rang again.
Twice, this time.
The fourth chair appeared.
It didn't slide.
It arrived.
One moment the space was empty. The next, the chair existed there, wood dark and unmarked, edges too clean for its surroundings.
The crowd broke.
People backed away fast now. Doors closed. Shutters slammed. A few ran. Most didn't.
They just removed themselves from the square like they'd practiced it.
The Dealer lingered a heartbeat longer.
"Ranger," he said, voice tight. "If you sit—"
Cole set the chip back down.
"I know," he said.
The Dealer nodded. Turned. Left.
Cole stood alone with the table.
The air thickened further. The pressure behind his eyes sharpened to a blade-edge focus.
Text formed fully this time.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // ALIGNMENT CHECKHOUSE: PRESENTROYAL: PRESENTVARIABLE: COLE MARROWSTATUS: INCONCLUSIVE
Cole's jaw tightened.
"Make up your mind," he muttered.
The House did not respond.
The chair across from him creaked.
Weight settled into it.
Not visible.
But real.
The air compressed, as if a large body had leaned forward.
Cole felt Dusty's growl vibrate through the ground behind him.
A card appeared on the table.
Face-down.
Not dealt. Not placed.
Manifested.
The edges glowed faintly, like fresh ink refusing to dry.
Cole didn't touch it.
"Not yet," he said.
The presence across from him shifted.
Impatient.
Another card appeared.
Then another.
Three, face-down, aligned perfectly.
Cole felt the town holding its breath.
He rested his hands on the table.
The wood was warm now.
Alive with old hands and older losses.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's see who blinks."
The bell rang a third time.
Somewhere deep under Rustline, something heavy turned a page.
And the table finally woke up.