“Uh… pay?”

  The tailor, his expression puzzled, persisted, “Don't make me pull out my gun, son.”

  Kazh, confused, stayed motionless, uncomprehending of the tailor's words. Silence fell upon the shop. All eyes were fixed on Kazh. The tailor, setting aside his newspaper, reached beneath the counter for his shotgun.

  Kazh, not knowing what to do, bolted for the entrance, clenching his wrists as he ran.

  “Son of a gun,” the man muttered, chasing after him. He leveled the shotgun, ready to fire—

  But Kazh felt it again.

  A slight gnawing sensation around his wrists. It surged more intensely than ever before. The air around him thickened. The boards beneath his feet groaned. The weight pressed outward.

  The tailor’s knees buckled slightly, shotgun drooping.

  Around them, townsfolk staggered.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Felt like my boots were weighing me down.”

  Panic rippled through the crowd.

  Then a voice—gruff, sharp—cut through the noise.

  “Enough.”

  An older man stepped forward, weathered but commanding. He stood tall in a long black coat, its elbows patched from years of wear. His gray hair was tucked beneath a wide-brimmed hat, shadowing sharp, discerning eyes. He looked to be in his forties, but there was an old weight behind his gaze that made him seem older still.

  The tailor, still gripping his shotgun, turned with a scowl. “Hey—”

  The man cut him off, snatching the weapon with a firm grip.

  “Leave the kid be. You saw how he walked in here. Looks like he just needed some clothes.”

  Kazh halted mid-step, panting. He glanced back, uncertain why this man—this stranger—was stepping in for him.

  The marshal turned to Kazh, nodding once.

  “Come on over here, son.”

  His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t kind either. It was... tired. Wary.

  Cautious but sensing no immediate danger, Kazh walked back toward him. He kept his arms close to his body, careful not to let the coat shift and reveal the chains still clamped to his wrists.

  “Why ain’t you pay the man?”

  Kazh frowned. “Pay?”

  “I don’t have anything to trade.”

  The silence returned, heavier this time. His words were strange, his dialect unfamiliar. The townsfolk around them shifted uneasily.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  “What kind of dialect is that?” someone muttered.

  “He must be from not around here,” the tailor said, grumbling.

  The marshal studied Kazh’s face. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. But Kazh could feel it—he was being weighed. Measured.

  The marshal’s gaze dropped briefly to Kazh’s wrists but didn’t linger. He turned to the tailor.

  “I’ll be taking him with me.”

  The tailor scoffed. “Alright, do whatever with him. But he’s gonna pay for those. Don’t think he’s getting off that easy.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the marshal muttered, already turning.

  Kazh followed as they walked away, every step stiff and uncertain. The townsfolk kept their distance, whispering. A few eyes lingered, watching him with suspicion—and something else. Wariness.

  After a stretch of dirt road, the man finally spoke.

  “Name’s Damstiel. Damstiel Davis.”

  His voice had a quiet grit to it, like boots scraping stone. “Marshal around these parts.”

  They walked a few more paces.

  “What brings you here?”

  Kazh hesitated.

  Silence.

  “Something’s wrong with you, kid,” Damstiel said under his breath.

  Kazh finally responded. “I’m from—”

  A sound tore through the air.

  A shriek. Guttural. Alien.

  Damstiel’s head snapped up.

  The townsfolk screamed.

  A beast staggered into the main road. Towering, twisted, and dripping with a gooey, violet substance that clung to its tentacle-like limbs. Its membrane shimmered like oil, ever-shifting, and its eyes—if they were eyes—burned with something primal.

  Buildings splintered. Screams echoed. A merchant stand exploded into splinters as the creature smashed through it.

  It wasn’t moving at random.

  It was searching.

  And then—it stopped.

  It saw Kazh.

  Its focus snapped to him like a blade.

  Without warning, it charged.

  The ground shook with each step. People scattered.

  Kazh stood frozen, stunned by its speed and fury.

  Beside him, Damstiel didn’t move until the last second. His hand went to his belt.

  A flintlock pistol—silver, engraved, polished ivory on its wooden grip. He raised it, aimed with impossible calm—

  Bang!

  Gunpowder burst. The report rang through the air like a thunderclap.

  The shot struck true. The bullet tore into the beast’s hide, piercing its corrugated flesh. Goo sprayed outward. The monster shrieked, stumbling.

  Kazh staggered back, blinking.

  That shot had felt... potent. Not just a weapon. Something old. Something forged for worse things than bandits.

  He looked at Damstiel, who was already loading a second round.

  “Get ready,” the marshal muttered, “'cause that thing ain’t down yet.”

  Kazh clenched his fists. The weight in his wrists pulsed again. The chains ached.

  Something inside him stirred.

  As the beast lunged again, Kazh moved.

  He stepped forward—fearless, deliberate. The pressure building in his body surged downward into the earth. The creature stumbled, caught mid-charge in a zone of sudden heaviness.

  Kazh’s chains blazed with pain—but he gritted through it. Just enough.

  He leapt forward, dodging a swipe, and wrapped the chains mid-air around the beast’s neck. They ignited on contact, glowing red-hot as gravity exploded through the links. The creature screeched, thrashed—then dropped.

  With a final wrench, Kazh twisted the chains.

  The beast’s neck snapped.

  Silence fell. Smoke drifted from the creature’s corpse.

  Kazh stood over it, panting, his hands trembling.

  He had killed it.

  Not with light.

  With force.

  Later, far from the town’s ruins, Damstiel and Kazh walked a wooded trail. Trees swayed overhead, quiet and uneasy. Damstiel’s coat swished as he moved.

  “Got a name, kid?”

  “Kazh.”

  Damstiel nodded. “Didn’t think you were normal. That thing—it came for you. Tracked you.”

  Kazh didn’t answer.

  Damstiel stopped, turned.

  He gestured to the chains. “You gonna tell me what those are?”

  Kazh hesitated, looking down at the bindings—scorched, glowing faintly. The sigils pulsed, slow and tired.

  “They’re a punishment,” Kazh said. “For defying the wrong side.”

  Damstiel squinted at him. “You don’t talk like any outlaw I’ve met.”

  “I’m not from here.”

  Damstiel waited. When no further answer came, he let out a breath.

  “Well, wherever you’re from, you sure as hell brought trouble with you.”

  He began walking again. After a few steps, he added, “You ever seen one of those things before?”

  “No,” Kazh replied.

  Damstiel grunted. “Then you better hope that was the last.”

  They walked in silence.