The air was thick with smoke, the scent of burning wood and oil hanging heavy in Zeke's nose. He coughed, spitting grit from between his teeth, his wrists raw from the coarse rope binding them. Every muscle in his arms screamed from hours of struggling. The rough stake behind him was already warm from the fire that had licked up from the bundle of sticks beneath his boots. The villagers were shouting—a chaotic roar of fear, rage, and the stubborn satisfaction of a mob that thought justice was about to be served.
He'd been in a hundred standoffs before. This wasn't one of them. In the desert towns back home, there were laws, even if they were written in gunpowder and blood. Here, there were just angry faces, pitchforks, and the kind of wide-eyed superstition you couldn't reason with.
"Burn the devil-man!" someone screamed in a language Zeke only half-understood. The words carried enough venom to get the meaning across.
The flames crackled higher, orange light flashing against the steel barrel of his revolver—still in the hands of the old man in the crooked hat, the so-called village mage. That bastard hadn't stopped staring at it since they'd taken Zeke's belt. His gnarled fingers hovered over the weapon like it was some kind of relic.
Then the ground trembled.
It was subtle at first, just a faint vibration through Zeke's boots. Then it became a pounding rhythm, heavy and deep, like the footfalls of something that didn't care what it crushed. The crowd faltered. A few heads turned toward the treeline beyond the square.
The first scream wasn't human.
From the shadows between the crooked timber houses, it came—a hulking beast with skin the color of swamp mud and muscles like knotted rope. Its head was too big for its shoulders, tusks curling upward past a broad, slobbering mouth. A crude axe of black stone hung from one fist. The ogre's single bloodshot eye rolled over the crowd, and when it opened its mouth to roar, the sound shook the rafters.
People scattered instantly. Torches dropped, buckets overturned, the fire at Zeke's feet sputtering as panicked villagers trampled it.
Zeke didn't waste time thinking. He leaned forward, twisting his wrists hard enough to make the rope burn into his skin. The stake behind him swayed, then cracked when he put his shoulder into it. The half-burned rope gave way. He stumbled free, boots kicking aside charred sticks.
The ogre swung its axe, sending a cart flying into the side of a house. Shingles and wood rained down. Then it reached into the fleeing crowd and plucked a child—a girl no older than seven—up by her tunic. Her small legs kicked frantically in the air.
Zeke's blood ran cold.
His eyes darted to the old mage, still clutching the Colt. Without asking, Zeke snatched it from the man's hands. The grip was warm—comfortably familiar, like shaking hands with an old friend. Six bullets in the cylinder. Six chances.
He leveled the revolver at the ogre. "Hey, ugly!" he barked.
The beast turned, single eye narrowing at the sound of his voice. Zeke pulled the trigger.
CRACK!
The first shot punched through the air like thunder. The slug hit the ogre dead center in the chest. But instead of bouncing like it had against the horned coyote days earlier, the bullet sank in, tearing flesh. A spray of black blood hissed onto the dirt.
The ogre roared, dropping the girl. She scrambled away, screaming.
Zeke cocked the hammer again. Second shot. This time, the round tore into the monster's shoulder, spinning it halfway around. The crowd, frozen in shock, started to murmur.
"Get to cover!" Zeke barked, firing a third shot. The ogre staggered, its knees buckling under the impact.
It tried to lift its axe, but Zeke didn't give it the chance. Fourth shot—right in the leg. Fifth—square in the gut. Black blood gushed like oil from a ruptured barrel.
The sixth shot was deliberate. He lined it up, inhaled slow, then exhaled as he squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit just under the creature's jaw, punching through the thick hide. The ogre's roar turned into a choking gasp.
It dropped the axe and stumbled backward, eyes wide. Then, with a final wheezing growl, it turned and lumbered off toward the forest, crashing through anything in its path until the sound faded into the distance.
The square was silent except for the crackle of the dying pyre.
Villagers peeked from behind barrels, carts, and doorways. A few looked at Zeke like he was a savior. More of them looked like they weren't sure whether to thank him or finish the job they'd started.
Zeke spun the revolver's cylinder out of habit, even though he knew it was empty now. The weight felt right in his hand. For the first time since he'd woken up under those two suns, he felt like himself again.
The old mage stepped forward, eyes shining—not with gratitude, but with something deeper. Reverence. He pointed one crooked finger at the Colt.
"You're the one we've been waiting for," he said, voice trembling.