The wind howled across the plains as if carrying whispers from an older world, voices tangled in dust and silence. Cole sat astride Ranger long after the stranger vanished into smoke and grit. His pulse still hammered, his chest tight, the pendant against his skin searing like it was branded there.
He wanted to believe it had been a trick of his mind. A long night, too much dust in his lungs, maybe Jasper's talk poisoning his thoughts. But the horse still snorted and pawed the dirt, foam on his lips, ears flattened in terror. Ranger wasn't spooked easily. He'd faced coyotes, rattlers, even thunder close enough to rattle bones. But whatever that man had been, the horse had nearly thrown Cole into the dirt to get away from him.
Cole turned Ranger toward the ranch, urging him forward. The world felt different somehow, charged, the air buzzing faintly as though a storm lingered just beyond the horizon. Shadows stretched long and twisted. Every rustle of grass seemed to watch him, every star overhead seemed sharper, brighter, fixed upon him.
By the time he reached the ranch, the eastern sky was beginning to pale. He slipped Ranger into the barn and moved toward the house, though his legs wanted to give. His mother was in the kitchen, already up, the smell of biscuits and strong coffee filling the air. She glanced up when he entered, her face lined with worry.
"Cole," she said. "You look like you haven't slept in days."
"Didn't sleep much," he admitted. He poured himself coffee, his hand shaking enough to slosh it over the rim.
Her eyes lingered on him as if she wanted to say more, but she turned back to the stove instead. "Eat," she said. "Then we'll talk."
But Cole barely tasted the food. He kept seeing that man's pale eyes, the pendant glowing at his chest. Another pendant. A second serpent.
When breakfast was done, he slipped out of the house before his mother could press questions. He needed answers, and there was only one place left to search: his grandfather's belongings.
The old man's room had been shut since the funeral, the door closed like a tomb. Cole had never been able to bring himself to enter, but now the need outweighed the dread. He pushed it open, the hinges groaning, the smell of dust and cedarwood wrapping around him.
The room was small, simple—bed neatly made, dresser against the wall, shelves lined with books and old tools. But Cole's eyes went to the trunk at the foot of the bed. Heavy, iron-bound, scarred with age. He knelt, dragged it open, and was hit by the scent of leather and smoke.
Inside were relics of a man's life—boots worn thin, a wide-brimmed hat, a rusted revolver that hadn't been fired in years. Beneath them lay books, journals bound in cracked leather. Cole lifted one, flipping it open.
The handwriting was his grandfather's, uneven but strong. At first the pages held simple notes: cattle counts, weather records, daily life on the ranch. But then the words grew stranger.
"…the star appeared again tonight. Brighter, closer. I feel it watching."
"…dreams filled with the serpent. Always the serpent. Coiled around the sky, whispering in a tongue I cannot bear to hear."
"…blood must guard blood. If I fail, it will fall to him. God forgive me."
Cole's throat tightened. He flipped faster, pages crinkling under his hands. Sketches filled the margins—serpents, stars, a pendant identical to the one burning against Cole's skin. And scattered between them, warnings written in a trembling hand.
"Do not trust the Pale Man."
"Keep it buried."
"The Lone Star devours."
Cole slammed the book shut, breath ragged. His grandfather had known. Known about the pendant, about the serpent, about the stranger. And he had tried to warn him—even from the grave.
But it was too late now.
A creak echoed behind him. Cole spun, heart leaping. His mother stood in the doorway, her face pale.
"You shouldn't be reading that," she said softly.
Cole swallowed hard. "You knew."
She closed her eyes for a moment, then stepped into the room. "I knew some. Not all. Your grandfather… he was a hard man to understand. But he feared that mine, Cole. He feared it more than anything."
"Why?" Cole demanded. "What was he hiding down there?"
Her hands trembled as she reached for the journal, then let them fall. "Something older than this land. Something he swore to keep sealed. He thought if he passed the warning down, it would be enough. But I think…" Her voice faltered. "I think he knew it would find you."
Cole's stomach knotted. He wanted to shout, to demand why no one had told him sooner, why they'd left him blind. But before he could speak, the ground shuddered beneath their feet.
A tremor, faint but steady, rattled the trunk, shook dust from the ceiling. Cole staggered to the window. Out across the plains, the horizon seemed to ripple, a wave of heat and dust rolling toward them though the air was cool.
His mother's face went white. "It's waking," she whispered.
Cole clutched the pendant. It burned hot against his skin, alive. He remembered the serpent's voice, the stranger's pale eyes, the warnings scrawled in his grandfather's hand.
Whatever was stirring beneath the land, it was coming closer.
And he knew—this was only the beginning.
---
The ground was no longer solid beneath him. Cole Harper felt as if the mine itself had dissolved into nothing, leaving him to tumble through an endless white void. His arms flailed, grasping for a hold that wasn't there, and his breath came fast and sharp as if he were drowning without water. The pendant, still clenched in his hand, burned against his palm, its heat burrowing into his flesh as though it wanted to merge with his very bones.
Then the fall stopped.
He didn't land so much as he drifted into place, his boots pressing against something unseen, something firm and yet endless. Around him spread a horizon without sky, without ground. Instead, it was a boundless expanse of stars, each one hanging close enough to touch, their light casting no shadows. The air—or whatever passed for air—was heavy with a presence that made his chest tighten. It wasn't just emptiness; it was a hall, a temple of the cosmos itself.
Cole swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Where in God's name am I…?"
The serpent's voice answered from everywhere and nowhere. "Not God's. Not man's. This place exists beyond your world, beyond the rivers and plains you know. This is the Celestial Vein, mortal. The current that feeds the stars."
Cole spun around, eyes searching. He found it—massive coils undulating in and out of the starry expanse. The serpent was larger here than he could comprehend, its scales glimmering like fragments of the night sky, horns curved in arcs that seemed to frame entire constellations. Those slit-pupiled eyes locked onto him, brighter than the moon he had ridden under only hours ago.
"You pulled me from slumber when you touched the seal," the serpent rumbled. "Now you stand here, chosen or cursed. Which it will be depends on what you do next."
Cole forced a laugh, though it shook with nerves. "You've got the wrong man. I'm just a rancher. I fix fences, mend saddles. I ain't chosen for anything."
The serpent lowered its massive head until Cole could see the intricate pattern of scales near its maw—each one etched with tiny starbursts. Its breath washed over him like a desert wind.
"You bear the blood of those who bound me generations ago. Your grandfather carried the duty, but turned away from it. Now the burden has fallen to you. The Lone Star is not a trinket, human. It is a covenant."
Cole's chest tightened. He remembered the mine, the collapse, the name of his grandfather whispered by townsfolk with unease. He had never known the full truth, only fragments—old stories told at family tables that no one wanted to explain.
"I didn't ask for this," he muttered. "I didn't want—"
Pain ripped through him like lightning. His knees buckled as he clutched his chest. The pendant seared brighter, branding its serpent pattern into his skin through his shirt. He screamed, the sound tearing out raw, echoing across the starfield.
"This power does not wait for consent," the serpent said, its tone neither cruel nor kind, but immutable as law. "It chooses, and once chosen, you must endure."
Cole gasped, forcing himself to stand though his body trembled. Sweat poured down his brow. "What… what do you want from me?"
The serpent coiled higher, vast body blotting out stars. "A test. To wield the Lone Star, you must endure the trial. Fail, and your soul will scatter among these lights."
The stars around them pulsed. Suddenly, the void reshaped. The plains of Texas rolled beneath Cole's boots—the same mesquite, the same dusty trails—but twisted. The sky above was bruised purple, clouds swirling like ink in water. Shapes emerged from the haze, shadows of men with faces blurred, hands carrying rusted tools, pickaxes, and guns.
Cole's heart stuttered. He knew the names before the serpent spoke them.
"Those who died in the mine. The ones buried with your grandfather's secret. They linger here, bound by resentment."
The shadows advanced, dragging their weapons through the dirt. The sound was unbearable, like metal on bone. Cole backed away, instinctively reaching for the revolver at his hip. His fingers shook as he drew it, the iron familiar, the weight grounding him even in this nightmare.
"Damn it," he muttered. "If this is a dream, I'll shoot my way out."
The first shadow lunged. Cole fired. The crack of the gun echoed, bright flame flashing from the barrel. The shadow staggered, but instead of blood, starlight spilled from the wound. It dissolved into motes, vanishing into the ground.
Another came. Then three more. Cole fired again, and again, until the cylinder clicked empty. He was breathing hard, ears ringing. The shadows circled him still, endless. His knees nearly gave.
The serpent's voice vibrated in his skull. "Steel may fend them for a breath. But it is not enough. Reach deeper."
Cole dropped the revolver, his hand burning where the pendant still pressed into his flesh. He fell to one knee, gasping. His vision blurred. Then, as if by instinct, he pressed his palm against the glowing jade.
Something ignited inside him. A heat not of fire, but of starlight. It coursed through his veins, tore into his bones, expanded his chest until he thought it would split him apart. His scream became a roar, the sound mingling with the serpent's bellow.
Light burst from his hand, taking form. It solidified into a blade—not steel, but translucent, shimmering with the colors of dusk and dawn. A weapon born of the Lone Star's light.
The shadows paused.
Cole rose slowly, the blade humming in his grip. His fear still gnawed at him, but beneath it flowed something steadier—a river of resolve he didn't know he had.
"Alright," he muttered, voice low. "If this is the trial… then come on."
The shadows surged. Cole swung. The blade cut not flesh but the bindings of their resentment. Each strike released a burst of light, the shadows shattering into fragments that returned to the twisted sky. He moved with desperation, not skill, every motion driven by the raw need to survive.
But as the battle raged, something shifted. His swings grew surer, his stance firmer. It was as if the blade guided him, or perhaps the serpent's essence flowed through his limbs. Sweat stung his eyes, muscles screamed, but he did not fall.
At last, silence. The last shadow broke apart, its fragments scattering into the horizon. Cole stood trembling, the blade flickering before dissolving back into starlight. His chest heaved, his shirt soaked with sweat.
The serpent regarded him, eyes glowing with unreadable depth. "You endure."
Cole staggered, half-laughing, half-sobbing. "Endure? I nearly died."
"You nearly lived," the serpent corrected.
Cole shook his head, dropping to sit on the starry ground. His hands trembled, though the pain in his chest had dulled. He thought of Sage Creek, of the ranch, of his mother waiting with supper she had cooked. He thought of the normal life he might never see again.
"Why me?" His voice cracked. "Why not someone else?"
The serpent's body coiled into a spiral, enclosing him in a cage of starlight. Its voice lowered, almost intimate. "Because fate chose your bloodline. Because the storm is coming, and only the Lone Star can meet it. You cannot run, Cole Harper. Not from what sleeps beneath your land, nor from what hunts beyond the horizon."
Cole raised his eyes, meeting the serpent's. And though fear still lived in him, a spark flickered beneath it—stubborn, unyielding.
"Then I'll need answers," he said hoarsely. "Everything my grandfather buried, everything you know. If I'm bound to this… I won't stumble in the dark."
The serpent's mouth curled, not quite a smile, but something close. "Then rise, Lone Star. Your trial is not yet done. But tonight, you have taken the first step."
The stars pulsed once, and the vision shattered.
Cole's body slammed back into reality. He gasped, choking on dust. He was on the mine floor, lantern shattered beside him, the pendant still glowing faintly against his chest. Ranger's distant whinny echoed from outside the shaft, a tether to the world he knew.
Cole lay there, trembling, staring at the wooden beams above. The serpent's voice lingered in his ears like an echo of thunder.
The storm is coming.
And for the first time, Cole believed it.
---
Cole lay on the mine floor for a long time, chest rising and falling in ragged heaves. The echo of the serpent's voice had faded, but it left behind a pressure in his ribs that refused to ease. He touched his chest, half-expecting to feel burned flesh where the pendant had branded him. His shirt was damp with sweat, but beneath it his skin pulsed faintly with warmth—as if a second heartbeat had taken root there.
The shattered lantern at his side had gone cold. Oil spread across the stone floor, dark and sticky, but no flames had caught. It was a mercy. Cole pushed himself upright, groaning as his back screamed protest. He looked around. The mine was the same as when he had entered—timbers creaking, dust swirling in the lantern's weak remains, the faint smell of iron in the air. And yet it wasn't the same. He wasn't the same.
Ranger's whinny reached him faintly from outside the shaft, grounding him. He clutched the pendant, its jade glow dulled now but still alive, a faint ember in the dark.
"Alright," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Alright. Time to go."
His legs wobbled as he stood. Each step felt uncertain, like walking after too much whiskey, but he forced himself forward. He stumbled through the shaft, his hands dragging along rough walls, until a breeze met his face—clean night air. He emerged from the mine mouth into the Texas night.
The stars stretched above him, endless and bright, more vivid than he had ever noticed before. He stopped, staring up at them. They felt closer now, almost familiar, as though they were watching. A shiver ran through him. He tugged his hat lower and whistled softly.
Ranger trotted over, ears flicking nervously, nostrils flaring. The horse's eyes rolled white as he caught the faint glow of the pendant against Cole's chest. Cole stroked the gelding's muzzle, murmuring, "Easy, boy. It's just me. Same as always."
But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true.
He swung into the saddle and nudged Ranger forward. The ride back to the ranch was slow. Every shadow seemed to twitch, every sound pricked his ears—an owl's call, a coyote's bark. His heart refused to steady.
When at last the outline of the Harper ranch rose against the horizon, relief nearly buckled him. The farmhouse sat in silence, its windows dark, but smoke curled faint from the chimney. His mother had left the stove on again, he realized. She always did when she worried.
Cole dismounted, boots crunching gravel. He tied Ranger to the post, patting his neck, then crossed the porch. The boards groaned, as familiar as the lines of his own palm. He paused, one hand on the door. Part of him wanted to turn and ride away, vanish into the hills, never speak of what he'd seen. Pretend it hadn't happened.
But the pendant throbbed once against his chest, steady, unyielding. He pushed the door open.
Warmth met him—the smell of woodsmoke and stew. A lamp flickered on the kitchen table. His mother sat there, shoulders slumped, her shawl pulled tight against her thin frame. She raised her head as he entered, and her eyes—tired, sharp, endlessly caring—fixed on him.
"Cole." Relief broke in her voice, though it carried an edge. "Where've you been? You had me near sick with worry."
Cole closed the door behind him. He pulled off his hat, running a hand through his damp hair. "I… went to the mine."
Her face paled. For a heartbeat she said nothing, then rose so fast her chair scraped the floor. "The mine? Lord above, Cole, what possessed you—?" She stopped, words faltering. Her gaze dropped to his chest, to the faint glow leaking through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Her hand trembled as she reached for him. "No…"
Cole swallowed. "Ma. You know what this is, don't you?"
She drew back, shaking her head as if denial might change the truth. "Your grandfather—he swore he'd keep it buried. He swore you'd never be touched by it."
Cole's throat tightened. He thought of his grandfather on the porch, smoke curling from his pipe, stories told in the hush of dusk. He thought of his deathbed words: Protect the bloodline… the Lone Star watches…
"He tried," Cole said softly. "But it found me anyway."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the tick of the clock on the wall. His mother's eyes shone with unshed tears. "Then it begins again."
Cole stepped closer, desperation creeping into his tone. "Ma, tell me the truth. All of it. What did Granddad do? What's this thing want with me?"
Her lips parted, but no words came. She looked toward the hearth, as though the flames might offer guidance. At last she whispered, "Your grandfather made a pact. Long ago, before you were born. It was meant to protect us, to protect this land. But every pact has its cost. He carried it alone, until it burned him hollow. And now…" Her eyes returned to Cole's. "Now it's yours."
Cole's stomach knotted. He sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. "I didn't ask for this."
"No one does," she murmured, coming to rest a hand on his shoulder. "But the blood chooses. Always the blood."
The pendant pulsed once more, as if agreeing. Cole wanted to rip it off, throw it into the fire, watch it melt. But deep down he knew—nothing so simple would undo what had been bound tonight.
He sat in silence until the stew went cold, until his mother's hand slipped away. At last he dragged himself upstairs, boots heavy on the steps. He collapsed into bed without undressing, staring at the ceiling as the faint glow beneath his shirt lit the dark. Sleep came fitful, haunted by whispers.
When dawn crept over the plains, Cole woke with a start. His body ached, but there was more than pain. Energy hummed in his veins, restless, unnatural. He clenched his fists, watching faint light trace his veins before fading.
He stumbled to the washbasin, splashing his face. The reflection that looked back from the cracked mirror startled him—not because it was unfamiliar, but because of what glimmered in his eyes. For a fleeting second, starlight flickered in his irises. He gripped the basin hard.
"God help me," he muttered.
But God was silent.
That day, chores dragged like chains. Fences to mend, water troughs to fill, cattle restless on the range. Cole moved through them in a haze. The pendant hung heavy beneath his shirt, every movement reminding him of its presence. Neighbors rode past on the trail—Mr. Daniels tipping his hat, Sheriff Avery calling a greeting—but Cole kept his replies short, his gaze down. He couldn't risk anyone seeing the change in him.
By evening, clouds gathered on the horizon. Thunder rumbled low, though no storm had been forecast. Cole stood on the porch, staring at the rolling dark. The pendant throbbed in time with the thunder.
His mother joined him, her shawl wrapped tight. "It's starting," she whispered.
Cole turned sharply. "What is?"
"The storm your grandfather feared. The one that comes when the Lone Star awakens. He thought he could delay it. But it always comes."
Lightning flickered across the plains, jagged and white. For an instant, Cole thought he saw shapes riding within the storm—figures cloaked in shadow, eyes gleaming with hunger. He blinked, and they were gone.
His stomach turned cold. He remembered the serpent's words. The storm is coming.
That night, sleep evaded him. He lay awake, listening to the wind batter the windows. At some point he rose, drawn outside. The air was electric, sharp in his lungs. He walked into the pasture, past restless cattle, until he stood alone beneath the sky.
The stars burned brighter than he had ever known. They seemed alive, pulsing in rhythm with the beat in his chest. He lifted a hand, and light traced along his veins, spilling into his palm. A sphere of faint starlight formed, hovering above his skin.
Cole stared, breathless. Power hummed, dangerous and intoxicating. He closed his fist, snuffing it out. His knees nearly gave from the effort.
"This ain't me," he whispered into the night. "This ain't who I am."
But the stars did not agree. They blazed on, indifferent, eternal.
Somewhere far across the plains, a howl split the night. It wasn't coyote. It wasn't wolf. It was deeper, older. Cole's blood turned cold.
The storm was closer than he had thought.
---
The morning after the storm, Sage Creek wore its usual face. The sun rose over the plains, painting the land gold, cattle stirred in the pastures, and the saloon doors creaked as early drinkers slipped inside. To anyone else, it might have been an ordinary day. But to Cole Harper, nothing felt ordinary anymore.
He had slept barely an hour, haunted by the hum of light in his veins. Even now, as he walked through town with his hat pulled low, he could feel it—an undercurrent of power thrumming beneath his skin, as though his very blood was restless. He kept his fists clenched, willing it to stay hidden.
The people of Sage Creek noticed nothing. Old Mrs. Connolly waved from her porch, muttering about the weather. A pair of ranch hands argued over the price of hay. Sheriff Avery leaned against his office post, chewing a piece of straw and giving Cole a nod.
"Morning, Harper," the sheriff drawled. "Heard you been out late last night. Everything alright at the ranch?"
Cole stiffened. "Cattle were restless. Nothing more."
The sheriff studied him for a long second, eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his hat. Then he spat the straw aside and shrugged. "If you say so."
Cole moved on, grateful to be out of the man's gaze. He ducked into the general store, bought supplies—flour, lamp oil, a coil of rope—and paid quickly. As he turned to leave, he froze.
Three strangers were stepping down from a stagecoach parked outside the saloon. They were out of place in Sage Creek, their coats too fine, their boots too polished. One was tall and lean, with silver hair tied back and eyes sharp as a hawk's. Another carried himself like a preacher, collar buttoned tight, though there was something cold in his stare. The third was younger, but his hand never strayed far from the revolver at his hip.
Cole watched as they crossed the street, people parting instinctively. The tall one spoke briefly with Sheriff Avery, who frowned, spat again, and pointed down the road—toward the Harper ranch.
Cole's stomach clenched. He slipped out the back of the store, hurrying toward Ranger. By the time he mounted, the strangers were already walking in his direction.
He rode fast, dust kicking up behind him. His heart hammered as the ranch came into view. His mother was on the porch, shawl drawn tight against the wind. She looked up as he approached, and worry flickered across her face even before he spoke.
"They're here," he said, sliding off the saddle. "Three men. Not locals. Asking questions."
Her hand gripped the porch railing. "What kind of questions?"
"I didn't hear everything. But the sheriff pointed them this way."
Her face went pale. "Then they know."
Cole shook his head, frustration boiling. "Know what, Ma? You keep talking like there's some story I ain't heard, and I'm drowning out here. If those men come, what am I supposed to tell them?"
Before she could answer, the crunch of wheels and hooves reached them. A black carriage appeared over the rise, rolling toward the ranch. The three men rode behind it now, mounted on sleek horses.
Cole's hand drifted instinctively to his belt, though the revolver hung there felt useless compared to the burning weight of the pendant beneath his shirt.
The carriage drew to a halt. Dust settled. The tall man with silver hair dismounted, tipping his hat with mock politeness.
"Mr. Harper," he said, voice smooth as silk. "Or should I say… heir of Harper?"
Cole's jaw tightened. "Depends who's asking."
The man smiled faintly. "My name is Elias Crow. My companions and I are seekers of… old truths. We've traveled a long way to find them. And our road has led us here, to your land." His gaze flicked to the house, to Cole's mother. "To what your family guards."
Cole's blood ran cold. The pendant pulsed once against his chest. He forced his voice steady. "There's nothing here for you."
Elias studied him, eyes narrowing, as though he could see the lie glowing beneath Cole's skin. The preacher-like man leaned from his saddle, murmuring something in a language Cole didn't recognize. The younger one's hand twitched near his revolver.
Cole's mother stepped forward. "This is private land. You'll have no welcome here."
Elias tilted his head, almost pitying. "I'm afraid, ma'am, that what lies beneath your land belongs to more than just your family. Forces older than blood. Older than Texas itself." He turned back to Cole, smile fading. "Tell me, boy. Did you hear it yet? The whisper of the star?"
Cole's throat went dry. He said nothing.
Elias's smile returned, thinner this time. "Ah. You have."
He swung back into the saddle. "We will return. The star has woken, and no fence or gun will keep us from its heir." With that, he wheeled his horse and rode off, his men following. The carriage turned, rumbling back toward town.
Cole stood frozen, fists clenched, rage and fear churning in equal measure. His mother gripped his arm, her voice low. "This is only the beginning. They'll come again. And next time, they won't just talk."
That night, the wind howled across the plains. Cole lay awake, staring at the ceiling, every creak of the house setting his nerves on edge. When the first scream of the cattle came, he was already out of bed.
He grabbed his revolver and the lantern, rushing into the yard. The herd was in chaos, stampeding against the fence. Shadows darted among them—tall, twisting figures with eyes that glowed faint as embers. They moved like smoke, half-solid, half-air, their hands reaching with clawed fingers.
Cole's breath caught. These weren't men. They weren't animals. They were something else.
One turned its gaze on him. The world seemed to tilt, the stars above spinning. A whisper slid into his head, curling cold against his thoughts: Blood of Harper… vessel of the star…
The pendant seared hot against his chest. Cole cried out, stumbling. The lantern fell, flame snuffed in the dirt. Darkness swallowed the yard.
But not complete darkness. His veins glowed faintly, light tracing beneath his skin. His hands shook as he raised them, and starlight gathered unbidden in his palms.
The shadow-creatures hissed, recoiling.
Cole stared at the light, panic and awe tangled tight. He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know how. But the power surged, unstoppable, rising like a flood. He thrust his hands forward.
A burst of light erupted, white and blinding. The creatures shrieked, dissolving like smoke in a gale. The cattle stilled, snorting and stamping but no longer running. Silence fell, broken only by Cole's ragged breathing.
He sank to his knees, staring at his glowing hands. His mother's voice called from the porch, trembling with fear and something else—recognition.
"Cole…"
But he couldn't answer. He could only stare at the fading light, the weight of what he had unleashed pressing down harder than ever.
This was no longer a secret he could hide. The storm had reached his doorstep.
And he knew the next time Elias Crow returned, it would not be with words.
---
The night outside had deepened into a velvet black, the stars hidden behind drifting clouds. The Harper ranch lay silent, the cattle restless in their pens, horses stamping uneasily as if sensing something beyond human eyes. A coyote howled from the ridge, and the wind carried with it a chill that smelled of dust and iron.
Cole sat on the porch, boots heavy against the wooden boards, staring out across the fields. His hands trembled no matter how tightly he clenched them. Beneath his shirt, the pendant pulsed faintly, like a second heart. It hadn't left him alone since the mine—since that serpent had branded his very soul with its voice.
He poured himself another shot of whiskey from the bottle he'd fetched after returning home. The glass clinked against the wood, his reflection fractured by the amber liquid. He tossed it back, wincing at the burn, but it did nothing to drown the memory of the light, the power, the voice whispering inside his skull.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again. The serpent's coiling form around the stars. The blood-soaked battlefields. The jade towers burning. A history that didn't belong to him now lived inside him, clawing for space in his mind.
His grandfather's words echoed again. Protect the bloodline. The Lone Star watches.
Cole muttered, "Damn you, old man. You knew. You knew and you left me with this."
The screen door creaked. Cole jerked around, hand flying instinctively toward his belt, but it was only Clara—his neighbor, lantern in hand, her brown hair tied back and her eyes sharp with concern.
"You alright, Cole?" she asked, stepping out onto the porch. "I saw your lanterns go out in the mine earlier. Whole ridge lit up like Judgment Day. Folks in town are already talkin'."
Cole swallowed hard. He forced a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. "Just—cave-in," he lied. "Scared the hell outta me, but I got out fine."
Clara studied him, her gaze narrowing. "Cave-ins don't make the sky glow green."
Cole froze. His knuckles whitened on the bottle. "What did you just say?"
"I saw it from my window," she replied softly. "A light. Like lightning, but it came from the ground, not the sky. You wanna tell me what you really found in there, Cole?"
The air seemed to thicken around him. He looked away, back toward the fields, the cattle shifting nervously under the moon. "Nothin' I can explain," he said at last, voice low.
Clara stepped closer, lowering her lantern. "Then you better learn fast. 'Cause whatever it was, it ain't stayin' buried."
As if to prove her right, the pendant burned suddenly against his chest. Cole hissed and clutched at it, teeth gritted as heat surged through his veins. His vision blurred. For a heartbeat, he wasn't on the porch anymore—he was standing on a vast desert plain, stars swirling above, the serpent's massive coils wrapping the horizon. Its eyes bore into him, molten silver and endless.
Blood of Harper… the voice whispered. Vessel of the star… my heir.
Cole tore back into reality with a gasp, sweat running down his face despite the chill night. Clara stared at him, her face pale. "Cole… what the hell was that?"
Before he could answer, a thunderous crack split the night. Both of them spun toward the ridge. A pillar of light shot skyward from the direction of the Harper mine, splitting the clouds apart. The ground trembled beneath their boots.
Cole staggered to his feet, breath ragged. "It ain't over," he muttered. "It's just startin'."
Clara grabbed his arm. "Cole, you can't go back out there—"
But he shook her off, eyes fixed on the column of light. Something in his blood pulled him toward it, relentless, inescapable.
The pendant pulsed harder, the serpent's whisper flooding his mind: The gate opens. The others awaken.
Cole mounted his horse with shaking hands. Clara shouted his name, but he barely heard. He kicked the animal into a gallop, racing toward the mine as the earth groaned like a wounded beast.
The night air cut cold against his face, but inside, his veins still burned with that alien fire. His thoughts tumbled in chaos, but one truth beat louder than the rest:
He wasn't alone anymore.
Not in his body. Not in his destiny.
The serpent had bound itself to him, and whatever door had opened in that mine was calling.
As he crested the ridge, the mine lay before him, glowing like a wound in the earth. Shapes moved within the light, shifting shadows too large to belong to any man. He pulled his horse to a stop, breath catching.
From the mouth of the mine crawled something vast, scales glimmering faintly in the unnatural glow. A second serpent—smaller than the first, but still impossibly huge—uncoiled from the darkness, its eyes burning with silver fire. Behind it, more shapes stirred, wings unfurling, claws scraping stone.
Cole whispered, "Sweet Jesus…"
The pendant seared against his chest. His knees buckled. He knew, in that instant, that this was not just about him.
The gate had opened. And the world would never be the same.
The serpent's voice thundered inside his skull once more, filling him with dread and awe alike:
The Lone Star rises. Prepare, heir… for war.
And as the light engulfed the ridge, Cole Harper realized he had stepped into a story far older and far deadlier than Texas itself.
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