The night bled into chaos.
Cole Harper sat astride his horse at the ridge, frozen as the Harper Mine vomited light into the sky. It wasn't just brightness—it was alive, pulsing in waves that beat like a monstrous heart. His chest felt in rhythm with it, the pendant beneath his shirt hammering heat through his ribs until every breath scalded his lungs.
The ground trembled again, a slow roll like thunder traveling underground. Dust cascaded from the ridge, pebbles tumbling into the brush. Cole's horse reared, eyes wide and rolling, and he had to clutch the reins tight to stop it from bolting.
Then he saw it.
The first serpent. Smaller than the one in the vision but still the size of a barn, scales dark as ink, eyes glowing silver. It slid from the mine mouth, its body scraping rock as if the world was too narrow to hold it. The sight hollowed Cole's stomach. The air smelled of ozone and scorched metal, not of earth. Behind the serpent, shapes stirred—wings, claws, glimmers of silver in the dark.
The serpent hissed, and the sound wasn't just sound—it was vibration in his bones. Cole pressed a hand to his chest, gasping as the pendant's pulse matched the hiss perfectly. He wanted to run, but his body wouldn't obey. He was tied, bound, tethered.
A scream broke the trance. Clara.
She had followed. He turned, eyes widening to see her scrambling up the ridge, lantern swinging wildly in her grip. "Cole!" she cried, her voice raw. "Get away from there!"
The serpent turned its massive head toward her.
Cole's blood iced. Without thinking, he spurred his horse and cut across the ridge, intercepting its gaze. The pendant flared so hot it burned through his shirt, branding his skin. He roared in pain, but the serpent froze mid-motion, its eyes locked on him instead of Clara.
Something unspoken passed between them—a recognition, a claim.
Then the serpent lunged.
Cole had seconds. He threw himself from the saddle, hitting the dirt hard. The horse shrieked and bolted into the night. Dust choked him as the serpent's massive head slammed into the ground where he'd been. Rocks shattered, shards whistling past his ears.
Clara screamed again. Cole forced himself to his feet, stumbling, adrenaline drowning his fear. "Run!" he shouted. "Back to town, Clara! Now!"
But she didn't move. She stood rooted, pale, her lantern shaking. "Cole, you can't fight that—"
"I said go!" His voice cracked like a whip.
The serpent reared back, silver fire building in its throat. Cole felt it before he saw it—the charge of energy, the hum of power not of this earth. His heart thundered. He knew if that fire touched them, they'd be ash.
The pendant blazed.
Without conscious thought, Cole raised his hand. Light burst from his palm, raw and wild. A shield of starfire flared to life, and the serpent's blast crashed against it with a deafening roar. The shield buckled, sparks raining, but it held. The force hurled Cole backward, his body slamming against stone. Pain lanced through him, but he was alive. Clara was alive.
He staggered up, chest heaving. The serpent hissed again, smoke curling from its jaws. Cole's hand still glowed, threads of light weaving up his arm. His veins burned, but there was strength in the fire, unnatural strength.
He didn't understand it. He didn't have time to.
The serpent lunged again. Cole dove aside, rolling across gravel. His hand struck the dirt, and the ground cracked beneath him—light lacing through the fissures like molten veins. Energy spilled outward, knocking the serpent off balance. Its massive body slammed against the ridge, boulders collapsing around it.
Clara ran to him, grabbing his arm. "Cole, we have to get out—"
"I can't leave it here," he rasped. His eyes flicked to the serpent, already rising again, its body coiling with relentless strength. "If it gets past us—if it heads toward town—"
Her grip tightened. "Then you'll die in this damn mine. Please."
The plea cracked something inside him. Fear, anger, duty—they all tangled in his chest. He looked at Clara, saw the terror in her eyes, the stubborn fire. She wouldn't leave without him. And if he stayed, neither of them would live.
The serpent hissed, shaking off rubble. More shapes stirred behind it—things with wings, things with claws.
Cole's decision made itself.
He wrenched Clara's hand and pulled her toward the horse trail. "Run, then. We warn the town."
They sprinted down the ridge together, the night filled with tremors and distant, inhuman cries. Cole's lungs burned, his legs pumping harder than ever before. The pendant's pulse guided his steps, pushing him faster than he thought possible. Clara struggled to keep up, but he dragged her along, refusing to let go.
Behind them, the mine roared.
The ground shook harder, rocks tumbling. A blast of silver light shot into the sky, splitting clouds like a blade. The stars flickered and dimmed.
They stumbled into the valley, hearts pounding, sweat slick on their faces. The ranch lay ahead, dark against the horizon. Beyond it, the faint glow of Sage Creek's lanterns. Safety—if such a thing existed anymore.
Clara gasped, "What… what was that, Cole?"
He shook his head, still running. His voice was hoarse. "Hell, Clara. That was hell itself."
But deep down, he knew it wasn't hell. It was something older. Something worse.
And it was awake.
---
The prairie stretched endlessly, painted in shades of amber and rust beneath the dying light of the sun. The land was beautiful in its barrenness, but to Cole Harper, it felt more like a burden than a blessing. His blood carried the weight of this place now—the land, the stars, the whispers of something far older than men. Since that night in the mine, sleep had become a fragile thing, broken by dreams too vivid to ignore.
He would wake drenched in sweat, the echoes of serpentine voices still vibrating in his ears, and for a moment he could not tell where the dream ended and reality began. Some mornings he found his lantern still burning though he was sure he had blown it out. Other times, the scars of strange claw-marks etched themselves into the wooden posts of the ranch, though no beast had been seen nearby.
But the strangest change was within himself.
Cole felt it first when he lifted a barrel of feed one morning. What once took both arms and a grunt of effort now seemed as effortless as tossing a sack of flour. His strength pulsed unnaturally, foreign yet intoxicating. The earth beneath his boots hummed faintly at times, as if answering some hidden rhythm in his chest. And the stars—Lord, the stars—no longer seemed like distant, unreachable specks. When he gazed at them, they burned back at him, alive and knowing.
He told himself it was all in his head. He was just tired, overworked, spooked by some old ghost tale twisted into his bloodline. But then came the crows.
They arrived one afternoon, a black tide of wings that blotted out the sky. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, swirling above the ranch like a living storm. Their cries were not the usual harsh caws of scavengers. This was something deeper, almost ritualistic, like the chanting of some forgotten congregation. Ranger, his horse, panicked and nearly tore down the corral trying to flee. The cattle bawled, crowding against the fences in terror.
Cole had run into the open yard, shotgun in hand, though what he thought he could do against such a mass of creatures, he didn't know. His heart pounded, his mouth dry as dust. Then, as suddenly as they had come, the crows dispersed, scattering toward the horizon in a synchronized wave. When silence fell again, it was the kind of silence that suffocated—a silence that pressed against the ears until even his own breath sounded intrusive.
That night, the letter burned in his mind.
The thing your grandfather buried… it's waking.
He knew now it hadn't been some cruel prank. Something had indeed been unearthed in the mine, and he had touched it, awakened it. But what if it wasn't just bound to him? What if it was bleeding into the land, infecting everything it touched?
Cole tried to confide in his mother, but what could he say? That a giant serpent with horns had declared his fate tied to the Lone Star? She already carried enough grief after his father's passing—he couldn't lay this madness at her feet. So he kept quiet, burying it like the men before him must have done. But silence had a way of festering.
It wasn't long before Sage Creek began to notice.
Old Man Daugherty swore his sheep had vanished in the night, leaving behind only ash where their pen once stood. Miss Caroline at the church told everyone she'd seen lights on the ridge, moving like lanterns, but no riders in sight. Children whispered of voices calling their names when they strayed too close to the river.
And always, always, there were the stars. They seemed lower in the sky lately, brighter, as though they leaned closer to listen. The elders muttered prayers. The younger men shrugged it off as stories for restless children. But Cole knew. He felt it deep in his marrow: this was only the beginning.
One evening, as he repaired a section of broken fence, Cole's vision blurred. His hands tightened on the post, splinters digging into his palms, but the world around him melted away. Suddenly he was standing not on the ranch, but in a vast desert under a sky filled with alien constellations. A river of fire cut through the dunes, and upon its banks stood the serpent—larger, more terrible than before, its silver horns gleaming like blades.
"You carry my seal," the creature thundered. "And yet you deny me."
Cole tried to speak, but his tongue felt heavy, useless.
The serpent lowered its massive head, eyes glowing like suns about to die. "Your world trembles on the edge of awakening. Others have heard the call. Some will seek you. Others will seek to end you. Choose your path, mortal, or it will be chosen for you."
The vision shattered. Cole fell backward into the dirt, gasping, his hands trembling so hard he could hardly stand. Ranger stood a few feet away, eyes rolling white, nostrils flaring as though he too had seen something.
For the first time in his life, Cole Harper prayed. Not to the serpent. Not to the stars. But to the God his father had once taught him to believe in.
"Lord," he whispered hoarsely, "if you're listenin'… I don't know what I've gotten myself into. But if this thing's real, if it's comin' for all of us, don't let me face it alone."
The wind rose, carrying the faint scent of mesquite. The prairie stretched quiet and endless once more. No answer came.
But deep in his chest, beneath his ribs, a pulse beat once—stronger than his own heart.
It was not an answer. But it was enough to remind him that whatever this was, he would not escape it.
The days that followed blurred into a haze of unease. Every sound seemed louder, every shadow longer. He caught himself watching the horizon too often, as though expecting something to rise out of it. His mother noticed, asking if he was ill, and he lied with the ease of a man already carrying too many secrets.
But secrets cannot be kept forever.
Late one night, while Cole lay restless in bed, a knock rattled the front door. He rose, shotgun within reach, and opened it to find a figure cloaked in dust and starlight. The stranger's face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, but the eyes that met Cole's were sharp as flint.
"You're Harper's boy," the stranger said, voice roughened by years of travel. "You've seen it, haven't you?"
Cole's grip tightened on the doorframe. "Seen what?"
The stranger's mouth curled in something between a smile and a grimace. "The serpent. The Lone Star."
Cole's stomach turned cold. Whoever this was, they knew. And if they knew, then maybe—just maybe—he wasn't losing his mind after all.
But that realization brought no comfort. Only dread.
The night had opened its doors, and something old had stepped through.
---
The stranger stood in the doorway like a shadow torn loose from the desert, the dust of long miles clinging to his coat. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, searched Cole's face as though reading lines of a story he already knew by heart. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the creak of the porch boards beneath Cole's boots and the restless wind sighing through the mesquite trees.
"You've seen it," the man repeated, softer this time, like a confession. "That serpent don't visit just anyone. You carry its mark now. And that means you ain't got the luxury of pretendin' it's all a bad dream."
Cole swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He could feel the pulse in his chest, that foreign rhythm he had tried to ignore, thudding harder at the stranger's words. He wanted to deny it, to shut the door and forget the man's voice, but the look in those eyes told him denial was useless. This man knew too much.
"Who the hell are you?" Cole asked, his voice low, steady despite the storm boiling inside him.
The stranger tipped his hat back just enough for the lantern light to catch the edge of his face. Weathered skin, scars crossing one cheek, and a mouth set into a grim line. He looked like he'd spent years with his back to the sun and his eyes to the horizon. A drifter, maybe. But not an ordinary one.
"Name's Elias Crowe," he said finally. "Used to be a prospector, once upon a time. But I've seen things in these lands, boy. Things that don't sit right in God's world. Your granddaddy knew it too. He tried to bury it, but some things don't stay buried."
At the mention of his grandfather, Cole's gut tightened. The old stories of the mine collapse came rushing back, the whispers that the Harpers had cursed blood. He had always dismissed them as superstition, but now here was this stranger, speaking them aloud as though they were gospel truth.
"You need to leave," Cole said, though the words felt hollow. "This ain't your business."
Elias stepped closer, his boots thudding on the porch. "It's everybody's business now. That thing you touched? It's awake. And when the Lone Star serpent stirs, others come sniffin' around. Some will want to use you. Others will want you dead before you even learn what you carry. Either way, boy, you're the center of it now."
Cole's grip on the shotgun tightened, but a part of him knew the weapon was useless against whatever Elias was talking about. Still, it was the only shield he had between himself and the unknown. "Why should I trust a drifter showin' up at my door in the dead of night spinnin' tales about my family?"
Elias's gaze didn't waver. "Because I've seen what happens when folks ignore the call. Entire camps wiped clean off the map. Towns that vanish from records as if they never existed. I survived those nights by listenin'. And right now, you're walkin' blind into a storm that'll swallow you whole if you don't open your damn eyes."
The words dug into Cole like barbed wire. He wanted to slam the door and shut the world out. But the memory of those glowing eyes in the mine, the vision of the serpent by the river of fire, the endless crows blotting out the sky—none of it could be denied. He had seen too much already. He was already in it.
"What do you want from me?" Cole asked quietly.
Elias's mouth twitched, something like pity flashing across his weathered features. "I don't want a thing. But you need to learn what's happenin' to you before it eats you alive. There's a place, not far from here, where the old tribes kept their watch. They called it the Hollow Star. That's where we start."
Cole shook his head. "I can't just leave. My ma—"
"Your ma's safer if you're not here," Elias interrupted, his tone hard. "You stay, you put her in danger. You leave, at least you got a chance at survivin' long enough to figure out what you're dealin' with. Sometimes protectin' someone means not standin' beside 'em."
The truth of it struck Cole deeper than he wanted to admit. His mother was all he had left of his family. He couldn't risk dragging her into whatever nightmare was unfolding. And yet the thought of abandoning her gnawed at him, like tearing his own heart in half.
Elias seemed to read the war on his face. "You think this is about choices. It ain't. The choice was made the moment you touched that pendant."
Cole said nothing. He stared past Elias into the night, where the stars burned bright, cruel, and watchful. He felt them staring back, the same way the serpent's eyes had burned into him. His fate was no longer his own. He could feel it with every breath.
At last, he lowered the shotgun. Not in surrender, but in grim acknowledgment.
"When do we leave?" he asked.
Elias's eyes glinted. "Dawn. Bring only what you can carry. And boy—" he paused, his voice dropping into something colder, heavier—"whatever happens, don't let the serpent speak through you. Once it gets its tongue in your mouth, you'll never get it out."
The words lingered like smoke long after Elias disappeared into the darkness.
Cole closed the door, his hands trembling, and leaned his forehead against the wood. He wanted to scream, to punch, to cry. But nothing came. Only silence. Silence and the weight of the stars pressing on his shoulders.
That night, he dreamed again.
This time he was standing in the mine, the jade pendant glowing in his hands. The serpent coiled around him, its breath hot as a forge, its voice filling his skull until he thought it might split.
"You cannot run from me," it hissed. "Your blood is mine. Your soul is mine. You are Lone Star's chosen, and whether you fight or follow, the path leads only one way."
Cole screamed in the dream, a raw, broken sound, but his own voice was drowned beneath the roar of the creature. The ground shook, the mine collapsed again, burying him in stone and shadow.
When he awoke, his pillow was damp with sweat, and his hands ached as though he had clawed at rocks all night. But worse—far worse—was the faint glow he swore he saw under his skin, veins pulsing faintly with light before fading back to normal.
The serpent's words echoed long after morning came.
He saddled Ranger with shaking hands as the sun broke over the horizon, gilding the ranch in pale gold. His mother watched from the porch, worry etched across her face.
"You're leavin'?" she asked, her voice soft but steady.
Cole froze, guilt burning through him. "Just for a while. Work to do out past the ridge."
She studied him, eyes sharp, knowing. "Your father always said the stars had their own way of callin' us. If they're callin' you, son… just promise me you won't lose yourself in 'em."
He couldn't answer. He just tipped his hat, mounted Ranger, and rode toward the horizon where Elias Crowe waited.
The land stretched before him, wide and empty, but every shadow felt like a watcher, every rustle like a whisper. And above it all, the Lone Star burned brighter than all the rest, as if daring him to defy it.
He didn't look back.
Not once.
---
The sun rose hard and merciless over the Texas horizon, spilling gold across the plains. Dust lifted from Ranger's hooves in pale clouds, each stride carrying Cole further from the safety of the ranch and deeper into the unknown. Elias rode ahead on a wiry bay gelding, his back straight, his movements steady, as though the trail they followed was carved into his very bones.
Cole's throat was dry, though not from thirst. The silence pressed in heavy, broken only by the jangle of tack and the distant cry of a hawk circling overhead. He wanted to speak, to demand answers from this man who had barged into his life with talk of serpents and curses, but the words tangled in his chest.
Finally, Elias broke the silence. "You ridin' like a man with a hundred questions bitin' at his tongue."
Cole frowned. "Maybe 'cause I got 'em. You show up at my door talkin' about my granddaddy, about serpents and bloodlines. Now I'm ridin' God-knows-where with you, and I don't even know what the hell I'm walkin' into."
Elias didn't turn. His voice was calm, almost too calm. "You're walkin' into the truth, boy. That's more than most ever get."
Cole's hands tightened on the reins. "Truth don't make sense. I saw things down there—visions that weren't mine. Felt somethin' movin' inside me like fire and ice all at once. You expect me to just accept that? To believe I'm… what, chosen?"
At that, Elias finally glanced back, his gaze sharp as flint. "Don't matter if you believe it. It matters that it believes in you."
The words hit like a hammer. Cole looked away, jaw clenched. The land stretched endless before them—dry creek beds, thorn brush, the far-off shimmer of mesas rising against the sky. The kind of country that swallowed men whole if they weren't careful.
By noon, the heat bore down fierce. Sweat trickled down Cole's back, and Ranger snorted, tossing his head. They stopped under the shade of a twisted live oak, where Elias dismounted and pulled a waterskin from his saddlebag. He drank deep, then passed it to Cole.
As Cole drank, Elias pulled a small bundle from his coat. Wrapped in faded cloth, it looked almost like a charm. He unwrapped it carefully, revealing a piece of carved stone etched with strange lines.
"What's that?" Cole asked, wiping his mouth.
"Map," Elias said simply. "Not the kind you read with eyes. This one's older. Guides us to Hollow Star."
Cole leaned closer. The markings swirled like rivers, but when he blinked, they shifted—lines curling into shapes that almost looked alive. For a moment, he swore he saw a serpent slithering along the grooves.
He drew back. "That ain't natural."
Elias wrapped it again, tucking it away. "Neither's what you're carryin' inside you. Nature don't end at what we can measure, boy. It's wider. Wilder."
Cole sat in silence, staring at the dirt between his boots. His chest burned faintly, the pendant's warmth a reminder he couldn't shake. He wanted to deny everything, to turn back and bury the thing in the deepest hole he could find. But part of him knew the truth Elias spoke. He was already bound.
They rode again, the land shifting from rolling grass to harsher stone. By evening, they reached a dry canyon, its walls painted red by the sinking sun. Shadows stretched long, and the air cooled, carrying with it the faint smell of rain though no clouds marked the sky.
Elias slowed, scanning the cliffs above. His hand hovered near the rifle at his saddle.
Cole noticed. "What is it?"
"Watchers," Elias murmured. "We ain't alone."
Cole's heart jumped. He followed Elias's gaze but saw nothing—just rocks and scrub. "You see somethin'?"
"Not with eyes," Elias said grimly. "With feelin'. Air's too heavy. Like the land's holdin' its breath."
Before Cole could answer, Ranger shied, ears flat, nostrils flaring. Cole gripped the reins tight, whispering to calm him. Then he heard it too—a faint scraping, like claws on stone.
From the shadows above, a shape stirred. Two. Three.
Figures stepped into view along the ridge—tall, thin silhouettes draped in ragged cloaks. Their faces were hidden, but their eyes glowed faint silver, reflecting the last of the sunlight.
Cole's stomach dropped. "What in God's name—"
"Not God's," Elias said, pulling his rifle free in one fluid motion. "Starspawn. Drawn to the serpent's heir."
As if hearing him, the figures hissed, voices carrying unnaturally across the canyon. The sound made Cole's skin crawl, like snakes slithering inside his skull.
"Ride," Elias barked. "Now!"
Cole spurred Ranger forward, the gelding lunging into a gallop. Behind him, the figures leapt from the ridge—far too high, far too far for any human—and landed with bone-cracking force on the canyon floor. Dust rose around them as they gave chase, moving with inhuman speed.
Cole's pulse thundered. He ducked low in the saddle, urging Ranger faster as stones shattered under clawed hands behind him. Elias rode beside him, rifle cracking, muzzle flashes lighting the dark. One of the figures staggered, shrieking, but the others surged on unfazed.
"They ain't stoppin'!" Cole shouted, panic rising.
"Just keep ridin'!" Elias snapped.
The canyon narrowed, walls closing in. Cole's mind screamed with terror, but deep inside, something else stirred—heat coiling in his chest, rushing into his arms. Without thinking, he raised a hand. Light flickered along his veins, bursting from his palm in a flash that seared the canyon.
The pursuing figures reeled, shrieking as silver fire clung to their cloaks. They stumbled, writhing, before dissolving into ash that blew away on the wind.
Cole gasped, staring at his own hand. The glow lingered, veins like molten rivers beneath his skin, before fading. "What… what did I just—"
Elias reined in hard, staring at him. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between awe and fear. "You called the serpent's fire."
"I didn't mean to," Cole stammered. His hand trembled violently. "It just—happened."
"That's how it begins," Elias said darkly. "Power's in you now. But every time you call it, the serpent gets stronger. And the line between you and it gets thinner."
Cole's stomach turned. He wanted to scream, to rip the power out of him. But part of him still buzzed from the release, as if some buried hunger had been fed.
Night fell hard by the time they left the canyon. They camped in a dry arroyo, building a small fire shielded by rocks. The flames licked upward, casting flickering light on Elias's scarred face.
Cole sat across from him, staring into the fire. The silence stretched until he couldn't bear it. "If this power's poison, why not just kill me? Why bring me along?"
Elias met his gaze steadily. "Because killin' you won't kill what's inside you. It'll just move on to the next Harper. Bloodline's bound, boy. Only way forward is through."
Cole clenched his fists. "Through to what?"
Elias's eyes were grim, shadowed. "Through to Hollow Star. To the truth. And to the war that's comin'."
The fire cracked, spitting sparks. Above, the stars wheeled silently, cold and watchful. One in particular—the Lone Star—burned brighter than all the rest, hanging low over the horizon like an eye.
Cole lay awake long into the night, listening to the whisper of the wind. But it wasn't the wind that haunted him. It was the serpent's voice, coiling faint in the back of his mind:
"You cannot run, heir. You cannot hide. You are mine."
He closed his eyes, but sleep brought no rest. Only the promise of more shadows waiting on the trail ahead.
---
The world around Cole Harper dissolved into something between dream and nightmare. His knees buckled against the cavern floor, but he was no longer in the mine. The stone beneath him rippled like water, then shattered into starlight, and suddenly he was standing on an endless plain of darkness lit by fractured skies. Above him hung a sky split into two halves—one burning with silver fire, the other drowning in black smoke.
The serpent coiled above the horizon, so massive it seemed to stretch from one edge of eternity to the other. Its scales shimmered like rivers of midnight oil, its silver horns gleaming like blades. Each flicker of its body stirred the heavens themselves.
Cole's chest burned. The pendant had vanished, yet he felt it burrowed inside him now, carved into his bones, bleeding into his marrow. Every breath rattled his ribs. His heart thundered like it wanted to tear out of his chest.
Then came the voice. Not from the serpent's maw, but from everywhere—the ground, the air, his own skull.
"Blood of Harper… vessel of the Lone Star. Your trial begins."
The plain beneath Cole cracked, splitting into a canyon of red fire. From the rift crawled shapes that made his stomach twist. Figures like men, but twisted—jawless faces, bodies stretched into shadows, hands ending in hooked claws that dripped black tar. Their eyes glowed with hunger. The Devourers.
Cole stumbled back, horror catching his throat. He could feel their hunger directed at him, gnawing not at his flesh but at his very soul.
The serpent's voice thundered. "Once, before your kind tamed the plains, they came. The Devourers sought to consume the Lone Star, to feed upon eternity itself. They were driven back… but not destroyed. Only bound. And bound by blood, Harper blood."
Cole saw it then—visions unrolling inside his mind like banners in the wind. He saw the first Harper ancestor, a man in a dust-stained coat standing on the same plain, bleeding from a wound across his chest, holding a fragment of jade glowing with fire. Behind him, other settlers fell screaming, swallowed by the Devourers. The man lifted the jade high and cried out words Cole couldn't understand. The serpent coiled around him, sealing the Devourers inside the earth.
Cole staggered. His family… his whole line… had been chained to this serpent for generations, their blood the lock that held the monsters at bay.
The serpent's gaze bore into him now, silver eyes vast as moons.
"Your choice, Cole Harper. Refuse, and your bloodline ends. The gate will fall, and the Devourers will walk this world. Accept… and you will burn. You will shed your flesh and wear mine. You will never again be only human."
Cole's lips trembled. "I… I don't want this!" His voice cracked, raw with fear. "I never asked for it! I just wanted to keep the damn ranch, feed the cattle—"
The serpent's hiss rattled the plain. "Destiny does not ask."
The Devourers shrieked, lunging forward. Cole fell to his knees as they swarmed, black claws reaching for him. Their touch was ice, not on his skin but inside his spirit, tearing at the roots of his being. He screamed as they dragged him down, shadows wrapping around his chest, his arms, his throat.
Then the serpent's coils slammed down, smashing the Devourers away. The ground shook as the voice thundered: "Choose!"
Cole gasped, choking, sweat pouring from him. His chest burned hotter, every vein in his body glowing faintly beneath his skin like molten silver. His bones cracked, his muscles tore. He screamed as he felt his body breaking apart from the inside out.
If he refused, he knew the pain would end—in death. And the gate would fall.
If he accepted… he would live. But not as himself.
The voice whispered, softer now, curling like smoke inside his skull. "You are the last. If you fall, the world burns. If you rise, you burn… but the world lives."
Tears streaked Cole's face. He thought of his grandfather, whispering on his deathbed. He thought of Clara, her lantern eyes watching him with worry. He thought of the ranch, of the cattle, of the Texas soil soaked with generations of Harper sweat.
He clenched his fists.
And he chose.
"Then burn me," he spat. His voice shook, but it carried. "If that's the only way, then burn me, damn you!"
The serpent roared. Light exploded across the plain.
Cole screamed as his body convulsed, every nerve on fire. His skin split with lines of silver, veins glowing, blood boiling into steam. His bones shattered, then reformed in patterns not quite human. His eyes rolled back as fire flooded his mind—visions of the serpent wrapping the stars, of the Devourers howling in chains, of his ancestors kneeling in blood-soaked earth.
The world dissolved into white agony.
Then silence.
When Cole opened his eyes, he was lying on the cavern floor of the mine again. His lungs dragged in ragged breaths, but they felt… different. Stronger. Each inhale carried not just air, but power, like lightning threaded through his blood. His hands trembled as he lifted them. Beneath his skin, silver veins still glowed faintly, fading only slowly.
He stumbled to his feet, swaying, his chest heaving. In the reflection of a puddle on the ground, he saw his own eyes staring back—no longer only blue, but flecked with molten silver that shimmered in the lantern's ghost-light.
A voice whispered inside him—not thunder anymore, but a constant murmur, as if the serpent had taken up residence in his very soul.
"Now, you are bound. The Lone Star burns within you."
Cole clutched his chest, gasping. His humanity still throbbed inside him, but something else had taken root. Something vast. Something that didn't belong to the earth.
He staggered toward the mine's mouth, his boots dragging across stone. When he emerged, dawn had just touched the horizon, the sky streaked with red and gold. The land stretched out before him, endless and fragile.
He knew it then. He was no longer just Cole Harper, cowboy of Sage Creek.
He was the heir of the Lone Star.
And the war had only begun.
---