The air hung thick with the promise of rain, a gray shroud pressing down on the jagged foothills that rose from the plains like broken teeth. Kade Shen crouched behind a scrub oak, its gnarled branches clawing at the sky, his breath shallow as he watched the rider below. The man was Red Talon—had to be. The red bandanna tied around his arm, the way he rode low and wary, scanning the ravine with a predator’s focus—it matched the whispers Lila had pried from a drunk trader two nights back. Five days since they’d joined up, five days of hard walking and harder silence, and now here they were: a step closer to Darius Vane.

Lila crouched beside him, her duster blending with the dirt, those sharp eyes narrowed under the brim of a scavenged hat. She’d been relentless—pushing him through dawn marches, drilling him with her sticks when they camped, barking at him to stop stomping like a damn ox. “You want Vane?” she’d said last night, jabbing him in the ribs. “Learn to move like you mean it.” He’d gritted his teeth and taken it, knowing she was right. The riders on the drifter’s road had nearly ended him. He wouldn’t let that happen again—not with Red Talon in his sights.

The scout dismounted, a wiry figure in patched leather, his horse tethered to a stunted pine at the ravine’s edge. A rifle hung slung across his back, a hatchet at his hip, and a waterskin dangled from his saddle. Kade’s mouth went dry at the sight of it—his own canteen had run empty that morning, and the creek they’d passed was a muddy trickle. But it was the bandanna that held his gaze, a slash of crimson against the drab foothills. It was the color of his family’s blood, smeared across his memory.

“That’s one of Vane’s,” he whispered, hand tightening on the broken saber’s hilt. The steel felt alive against his palm, itching for a purpose.

Lila’s eyes flicked to him, then back to the scout. “Likely a perimeter rider. Means we’re close—too close—to one of their camps.” She shifted, pulling a stick from her belt. “You sure about this, Shen? He’s armed to the teeth, and you’ve got half a sword and a hot head.”

“I’m sure,” he growled, voice low. “He’s my way in. I take him, I get answers.”

She snorted, barely audible. “Or you get a bullet. Your funeral.” She paused, then added, “I’ll watch. You screw up, I’m not jumping in unless it’s worth it.”

Kade shot her a glare, but her face was stone—unreadable, unyielding. He didn’t need her coddling. This was his fight, his blood debt. He eased forward, keeping low, the scrub oak’s thorns snagging his sleeve. The scout was thirty yards off, kneeling by a small fire he’d started, feeding it twigs with a lazy flick of his wrist. Close enough to rush, far enough to miss a shout. Kade’s heart pounded, a drumbeat drowning out the wind.

He crept down the slope, boots silent on the dirt—Lila’s drills paying off—and circled wide, aiming for the scout’s blind side. The man hummed a tuneless song, oblivious, his hatchet glinting as he shifted to grab the waterskin. Kade’s fingers flexed around the saber, its jagged edge a dull gleam in the overcast light. Ten yards. Five. He could smell the smoke now, sharp and acrid, curling up from the fire.

The scout turned, just a hair, and Kade lunged. He swung the broken blade high, aiming for the neck—a killing strike, fueled by days of pent-up rage. But the scout was fast, years of frontier living honed into instinct. He twisted, the saber slicing air instead of flesh, and rolled back, hatchet flashing up to meet Kade’s second swing. Steel clanged against steel, the jolt rattling Kade’s arm, and the scout grinned—a gap-toothed sneer that stoked the fire in Kade’s gut.

“Well, ain’t you a surprise,” the man rasped, voice like gravel over glass. He shoved forward, hatchet hooking the saber’s edge, trying to wrench it free. Kade held firm, planting his boots, and drove his shoulder into the scout’s chest. They stumbled, crashing into the fire, sparks exploding as embers scattered. The scout cursed, swinging wild, and Kade ducked, the hatchet grazing his ear with a hot sting.

He roared, fury blinding him, and slashed again. The broken saber caught the scout’s arm, tearing through leather and drawing a red line. The man hissed, dropping back, but he was grinning still, like this was a game. “You’re dead, kid,” he spat, lunging with the hatchet. Kade sidestepped—barely—and kicked out, catching the scout’s knee. A crunch, a yelp, and the man staggered, giving Kade an opening.

He swung hard, no finesse, just raw hate. The saber’s jagged tip sank into the scout’s shoulder, deep enough to grind bone. The man screamed, hatchet falling, and Kade yanked the blade free, blood spraying across his hands. The scout crumpled, clutching the wound, his grin gone, eyes wide with shock. Kade stood over him, chest heaving, the saber dripping red in the dim light.

“Where’s Vane?” he snarled, pressing the blade to the man’s throat. “Tell me, or I finish it.”

The scout coughed, blood flecking his lips. “You’re a fool… chasin’ him. He’ll gut you… like he did your—” He cut off, choking, and Kade’s vision went white. He pressed harder, steel biting skin, but a hand clamped his wrist, pulling him back.

“Enough,” Lila said, stepping from the shadows. Her voice was calm, but her grip was iron. “He’s done. You want answers, not a corpse.”

Kade jerked free, glaring at her. “He knows something. He said—”

“He’s baiting you,” she cut in, crouching by the scout. She tapped his cheek with her stick, sharp and quick. “Hey, ugly. Where’s your camp? Talk fast.”

The scout groaned, eyes fluttering. “Mile north… by the split rock. But you’re dead… both of you. Vane’s got—” He slumped, breath rattling out, gone before he finished.

Kade stared, the saber trembling in his hand. His first kill—his first taste of Red Talon blood—and it felt wrong. Not triumphant, not clean. Just heavy, like a stone sinking in his chest. The man’s words clawed at him—like he did your—and he saw it again: his father’s gash, Mara’s arrow, the ranch in flames.

Lila stood, wiping her stick on her duster. “Sloppy,” she said, nodding at the body. “You’re lucky he didn’t gut you first. All that swinging—you fight like a bull, not a blade.”

“He’s dead, ain’t he?” Kade snapped, wiping the saber on the scout’s coat. The blood smeared, tacky and dark, staining his fingers.

“Dead don’t mean good,” she shot back. “You’re loud, slow, and mad as hell. That’ll get you killed against Vane’s real dogs.” She kicked dirt over the fire, smothering it. “Balance, Shen. Precision. Rage is fuel, not a weapon.”

He clenched his jaw, sheathing the saber. “I don’t need your damn lessons.”

“Yeah, you do.” She stepped closer, voice dropping. “You want Vane? You learn, or you die. That’s it.” She held up her sticks, twirling one between her fingers. “This ain’t about pride. It’s about winning.”

Kade glared, but the sting in his ear, the ache in his arm, the dead man at his feet—they all whispered she was right. He’d won, barely, and it wasn’t enough. Not against Vane. He exhaled, slow and ragged. “Fine. Show me.”

Lila smirked, tossing him the waterskin from the scout’s saddle. “Good. Drink first—you’re no use dehydrated. Then we move. Camp’s a mile north. We scout it, not storm it. Got it?”

He caught the skin, gulping water that tasted of leather and dust, and nodded. “Got it.”

She turned, starting up the ravine, and Kade followed, the saber’s weight a steady pulse at his hip. The scout’s blood still clung to his hands, a mark he couldn’t shake. It was one down—one of dozens, maybe hundreds—but it was a start. Vane was closer now, his shadow looming in the split rock ahead. Kade would get there, broken blade or not, and when he did, he’d carve that shadow apart.

The rain began as they walked, a cold drizzle that washed the blood away but not the fire in his veins.