It had been days since the massacre at the canyon mouth. The desert had stretched long and wordless between then and now, the gang crossing its scorched ribs with their heads down and their mouths full of grit. No one spoke much of what they’d seen. Least of all the girl.

  By the time they stopped that afternoon, the horses were foaming at the flanks and the sun was burning low, spitting copper light across the gravel flats. They’d come upon a shallow river trickling weak through a wash of sycamore and brush, and Glanton had ordered the halt more out of heatstroke than generosity. The animals drank. The men pissed and stretched and scouted dry trees to lean against.

  A few of them got to lining up bottles along a stone shelf where the water met rock. Empty whiskey glass, busted gin. They started taking shots at ‘em from the dry side of the bank. The first few missed wide. Laughter followed. The next struck close enough to spook a bird from the branches. Eventually, after a few more jeers and corrections, they managed to hit every one—though not clean, not pretty. And still they hooted like kings.

  Then someone saw her watching.

  Edelgard stood in the shade beyond the brush, half-shielded by a crumbled stone wall older than the town that birthed it. Bernadetta sat next to her on the wall’s edge, small and tight as ever, her arms folded and her eyes lowered. But Edelgard... Edelgard was watching.

  She stood with arms crossed. Unblinking. That flinty stare fixed on the shooter's posture, on the sightline, on the trailing smoke of his last errant shot. Her expression was unreadable—though to the man, it felt like judgment.

  “What?” he barked. “You think you could do better, princess?”

  That cracked something in the air.

  The men turned. A few muttered. Nobody’d ever called her that—not to her face. Not like that. Not in that tone.

  Edelgard didn’t answer.

  She smiled.

  Just barely. Just enough.

  Then she stepped forward, boots crunching in the gravel, and held out her hand.

  The shooter blinked. “The hell—?”

  One of the Delawares grinned. “You heard the lady.”

  The shooter laughed, uneasy, and handed her the rifle.

  Edelgard took it with both hands, checked the weight. She turned it over once with a soldier’s familiarity, sighted the length, and crouched low in the dust.

  “Set me some targets,” she said.

  The shooter hesitated, looking around as if someone might intervene on his behalf. No one did. Another man shoved him in the back.

  “Go on, now.”

  So he went. He stooped by the heap of bottles left from the night before, then began to walk them out, one at a time, still glancing over his shoulder.

  She never moved. Just watched him down the barrel, eyes tracking his every step like a rifle scope with a heartbeat.

  He set down the first bottle.

  CRACK.

  It exploded before he’d straightened. The men roared.

  “Go on, boy!” someone shouted. “She’s still got shots to spare!”

  The shooter looked pale now, but he kept going. He set down the second bottle. Another crack. Another shatter.

  Then the third. Then the fourth.

  Each shot came like thunder. Each hit clean, no hesitation, no wasted motion. And with every one, the men laughed louder, slapped backs, shouted praises in that feral, gleeful tone of those who know they’ve just witnessed something real.

  At the fifth bottle, Edelgard stood.

  She passed the rifle back to the shooter without looking at him.

  “Your sights are off,” she said. “Fix it.”

  Then she walked away.

  Back through the grass, past the snickering men, back to the wall where Bernadetta sat still as stone.

  She didn’t speak as she sat beside her again. She didn’t need to.

  Bernadetta looked at her, just once.

  Her gaze lingered.

  And then she turned away.

  The laughter still rang out across the river.

  But Bernadetta only sat, quiet and watching.

  There was something heavy in her chest she could not name.

  Not sorrow, not pride. Not fear. Something else.

  The warmth of a fire she could already feel herself growing too far from.

  The fire was low, a dull red eye amid the dark. Most of the men had drifted into sleep or drunken stupor, their shadows curled like dogs among the stones. Beyond the camp’s light, the desert stretched silent and unwatched.

  Bernadetta sat alone on the edge of that dark, the rifle across her lap. She had dragged a few empty bottles from the ash heap and lined them on a flat stone, a little distance from where the camp’s glow could reach. Her hands ached from gripping the stock too tight. Her shoulder was sore from the kick of poor form. She hadn’t hit a damn thing.

  She fired again. The shot cracked through the night like a thrown bone splitting open. The bottle stood untouched.

  She grit her teeth and worked the lever. Her lip curled. She fired again.

  The silence mocked her.

  Then came a voice behind her. Amused. Smooth as worn riverrock.

  “Still chasing the light, young cub?”

  She froze.

  The Judge emerged from the dark like smoke off a slow fire. He did not sit. He crouched beside her, one arm draped over a knee, his pale head gleaming faint in the fire’s edge-glow. His smile was small, like he knew the punchline already.

  She did not look at him. She reloaded.

  “Don’t call me that,” she muttered.

  “Oh?” he said. “Does it not suit you anymore?”

  She didn’t answer.

  The bottle in her sights seemed to waver.

  “Some beasts,” he said, “hide until they’re starving. Others strike before they know what hunger is. You’re still trying to decide which kind you are.”

  He watched her aim. She did not fire.

  “Your breath’s all wrong,” he said. “Your shoulder’s off. You flinch like a man expecting lightning.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” she snapped.

  He chuckled, low. “No, you didn’t. But I’ll offer the lesson all the same.”

  She lowered the rifle. “I don’t want to pay your price.”

  He tilted his head. “And yet you’re here. At the edge of things. In the dark. Alone.”

  She looked at him then, for just a heartbeat. The way his eyes caught the fire, pale and bottomless, as if they saw every ghost in her marrow and smiled to each one in turn.

  “I’m just trying to learn,” she said. Her voice was small, and it shook.

  He rose. “Then you already know what it costs.”

  She stared at the bottle. She imagined Edelgard’s hands on the rifle, steady and sure. She imagined her voice—measured, certain, unimpressed. Your sights are off. Fix it.

  The Judge stepped back into the dark.

  “I’ll be here,” he said. “You’ll know when it’s time.”

  She fired again.

  This time, the bottle shattered.

  But it felt no triumph. Only silence, stretching long.

  The trail narrowed as it wound between low ridges crusted in red shale, the sun just cresting the jagged rim of the world behind them. Dawn spilled like blood over the horizon, thin and watery. The gang rode quiet, the mood unsettled—not by fatigue, but something else, a kind of premonition felt in the bellies of the horses and the backs of the men’s throats. No birds stirred. Even the wind had not yet remembered its path.

  Bernadetta rode between two of the Delawares, her rifle across her lap. She had not spoken that morning. Her eyes were shadowed, her breath slow. The silence between her and Edelgard, who rode near the front beside Glanton, was not unfriendly. But it was growing.

  The sun rose higher.

  That was when the first arrow sang.

  It thudded into the ground inches from Tobin’s horse, kicking up a hiss of dust. Another struck a rock and skipped. Then came the cry—from the ridge, a howl like a blade dragged over bone. Shadows broke from the stone and poured down like a tide.

  The warband came swift and without mercy, their ponies kicking up sheets of sand as they descended. Painted riders, their bodies daubed in ash and ochre, their faces masked by streaks of coal, descended with weapons high and mouths open in silence.

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  “Ambush!” Glanton roared, already swinging his horse round and firing.

  The gang scattered to meet them. Rifles cracked. Pistols flashed. Arrows cut the air in strange, birdlike arcs. Bernadetta’s horse wheeled beneath her and she clung tight to the reins, swinging her rifle up with both hands. She saw the first rider too late—he was nearly upon her.

  But Edelgard was there.

  Her shot punched through the warrior’s chest like a hammer through rotted wood. He fell sideways, his mount crashing to the dirt. Edelgard didn’t flinch. She was already turning for the next.

  The air was full of fire and grit. Bernadetta found herself half-dismounted, half-dragged. Her shoulder slammed against the dirt. She scrambled to her knees, fumbling for the rifle, the stampede surging around her like thunder. Someone screamed. A horse went down in a screech of broken limbs.

  She lifted the rifle, eyes squinted against the dust—and froze.

  Across the chaos, moving like a fish through whitewater, was a figure in blue and earth, her dark braids flying behind her, her bow abandoned, a rifle in her hands.

  Petra.

  The name struck her like a lash. She hadn’t seen her since—since? Had she ever truly seen her? A blur of memory. A girl among trees. A shared corridor. A voice like wind in leaves.

  Petra wheeled her mount and fired.

  Not at them.

  The shot struck a war-painted rider poised behind Edelgard. He dropped with a gurgle, his blade falling uselessly from his hand.

  Bernadetta stared, dumbstruck. Another shot rang—Petra again. Another of the attackers fell. Then Petra was closer, galloping through the chaos with rifle raised, face unreadable but certain.

  Glanton saw her.

  He was shouting something. The others hesitated, rifles lowered. Petra slowed her horse. She did not raise her hands. She did not speak. She only stopped among the corpses, her body straight, eyes unwavering.

  The battle had ended without anyone noticing.

  The ground was scattered with the dead. The sun caught the blood in the dust and turned it copper.

  Glanton rode forward.

  He looked at Petra.

  “You were with them.”

  Petra nodded once.

  “You fought against them.”

  Another nod.

  “You think that clears you?”

  She did not answer.

  Glanton turned to Edelgard, who had already dismounted, calm as ever.

  “Well?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “Your thoughts, lady?”

  Edelgard stepped forward. Her voice was low but clear. “She killed her own. Turned against those who once called her sister. Stood before us without flinching. If that’s not proof, I don’t know what is.”

  Glanton stared at her, then at Petra.

  “She didn’t speak a word.”

  “She didn’t have to,” Edelgard said.

  And the way she said it—like that settled it—was enough for most.

  The men looked to Glanton. He scowled. Spat.

  “She spills blood like the rest. Fine. She stays.”

  No one cheered. But no one protested.

  Bernadetta hadn’t moved. She stared at Petra as the other woman walked her horse toward her.

  They locked eyes for a moment.

  Then Petra rode on.

  The sun was rising fast now. Vultures were circling.

  And the desert, once again, remembered how to breathe.

  They burned the dead by noon.

  The gang worked without ceremony, dragging the bodies of friend and foe alike into heaps and dousing them in lamp oil. No prayers were said. No names spoken. Fire cracked in the dry wind and sent black smoke spiraling into the blank sky. The stink was unbearable. None flinched.

  Glanton sat on a flat rock with his leg stretched before him, the boot stripped off and his shin wrapped tight in bloodstained cloth. The wound wasn’t mortal, but it was ugly. The men gave him space.

  It was Edelgard who spoke in his stead.

  She stood beside the firepit, back straight, coat open at the collar, eyes sharp as the glint of a whetted blade. Her words were few and plain—rationing what powder they had, posting watches more regularly, altering their route westward toward an old water trail known to the Delawares. She did not shout. She did not posture. But the men listened.

  Even Toadvine, sharpening his knife on a rock, glanced up and nodded.

  Glanton watched her from his perch with a gaze like a fire banked beneath ash. He said nothing.

  Bernadetta sat nearby, perched on the edge of a half-buried wagon axle, her hands folded tight in her lap. Her boots were muddy. She’d been too afraid to ask anyone for water to clean them. She watched Edelgard’s silhouette cast long in the firelight and felt something curdle in her throat.

  She could still feel the imprint of Petra’s glance, the quiet weight of it. And she had seen how Edelgard looked at Petra, even in the midst of bloodshed—like someone surveying the edge of a new sword.

  She swallowed.

  A little way off, a few of the men were speaking low. The words drifted to her through the wind.

  “Hell of a shot, that one,” said Lasky. “Fast too. Didn’t see her blink once.”

  “Doesn’t flinch like most womenfolk.”

  “Doesn’t flinch like most menfolk,” said Tobin. He spat.

  Bernadetta turned her face away.

  She heard Edelgard’s voice again—cool, assured. She watched the way men angled their bodies toward her when she spoke. She watched the Judge, standing not far off, watching Edelgard with that strange bemusement of his, like a man who’d planted a seed and now wasn’t sure what kind of fruit was growing.

  And she sat there, hands still folded in her lap, shrinking more into herself.

  Her thoughts pressed close.

  She’s becoming one of them. No, not one of them. Something else. Something above them. And I… I just keep watching.

  She looked down at her hands.

  You always just watch.

  She didn’t hear the footsteps until they were close. A voice drifted in beside her, gentle as dust.

  “Incredible, isn’t she?”

  Bernadetta flinched, as if caught.

  Dorothea stepped up beside her, arms crossed, her wide-brimmed hat veiling her face in shadow.

  She had not fought. She’d crouched low behind the rocks with her hands over her ears, whispering the words of an old hymn she could no longer remember the tune to. When it ended, she rose without tears.

  She wasn’t smiling now, exactly. But there was a softness in her eyes. Not pity. Something quieter.

  “I’ve seen women like that before,” she said, voice low, “but never out here. Not in a place like this.” She followed Bernadetta’s gaze toward Edelgard, where the pale woman stood with Petra, quiet in conference. “She moves like she’s already won. Like the world’s just waiting to hand her the crown she misplaced.”

  Bernadetta didn’t answer. Her arms were wrapped around herself, her face turned just enough to keep Dorothea from seeing it straight.

  “She’s dangerous, you know.”

  Dorothea’s voice had gone softer. Not warning, not praise—just truth. “The kind of woman who walks into a room and rearranges it without lifting a finger. She makes the rules and you thank her for it.”

  Still nothing from Bernadetta. Her fingers twitched against her side.

  Dorothea glanced at her again and something changed in her expression, subtle as a breeze turning direction.

  She stepped back a pace. Looked again to Edelgard, then down at her boots.

  “But maybe that’s just what we need,” she said, as if revising. “Someone to steer the ship before it breaks apart. Glanton’s not the man he was, and—” she trailed off. “Well. You’ve seen it.”

  Silence stretched.

  She offered a sideways smile, not quite real. “I think I loved her a little, too, for a time. The way you love a storm. Or a god.”

  Bernadetta finally looked at her. Just briefly.

  Dorothea’s smile faded.

  “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” she said, quieter now. “With her?”

  A pause.

  “Yeah,” Bernadetta whispered. “Sure.”

  But her voice betrayed her.

  Dorothea didn’t press. She only tipped her hat lower, murmured something that might’ve been a farewell, and left Bernadetta to the silence, the dust, and the cold glow of the woman who'd made the desert blink.

  The fire had burned low. Only embers now, drifting like spent stars into the black. The men slept in loose heaps about the camp, their limbs tangled in old coats and trailing blankets, their breath slow and rasping. The hush was near-total, broken only by the distant whicker of horses and the dry click of stone shifting under the wind.

  Bernadetta was awake.

  She had crept from her bedroll with the rifle clutched tight in her arms, her boots muffled by the sand. Now she stood apart from the others, near a stone outcrop, staring out toward the wide-open dark. The moon hung swollen above the plains, pale and soundless. A line of bottles stood on a fallen log ahead—lined up before night itself.

  She raised the rifle, slow and stiff. The butt dug into her shoulder. Her breath caught. The muzzle drifted. She held the sight too long and her arms quivered from the strain. She tried again. Lowered it. Raised it. Squinted down the barrel.

  And still, she could not fire.

  “You hold it too tight.”

  The voice came from behind. Low. Familiar.

  She turned. The Judge stood not ten paces off, his silhouette immense against the starlit ridge. She hadn’t heard him approach. She never did.

  “You’ll tire yourself before the shot’s ever loosed,” he said. “And worse—miss.”

  Bernadetta said nothing. She turned her face away, tried again to lift the rifle.

  “I’d hoped you might return,” he said, stepping nearer. “Even after the girl in the dust turned you timid.”

  She flinched. “Don’t ever call me that.”

  His brows rose faintly. “What?”

  “Young cub.” She spat the words like thorns, kept her gaze ahead. “I’m not.”

  The Judge smiled, slow. “Not anymore.”

  A long silence stretched between them. The fire behind had gone almost fully cold.

  “Why now?” he asked. “You refused once.”

  Bernadetta’s knuckles whitened on the rifle stock. “I don’t want to be useless.”

  She didn’t say more. Didn’t say like before, or like now. Didn’t say like next to her. But the words hung there nonetheless, sullen ghosts too small to name.

  The Judge stepped to her side. His voice dropped lower.

  “All must be laid bare. You know what I’ll ask.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “And?”

  A pause. A breath.

  She nodded.

  Bernadetta stood still. The wind had quieted, the fire down to a pulse. Only the Judge watched her now.

  She reached up and unfastened the clasp of her cloak.

  It slid from her shoulders and fell to the dirt without a sound. Her arms curled in around her chest, but she made no motion to lift the rifle just yet. She stood there, exposed beneath the cold breath of the desert, not entirely nude, but the absence of the cloak—the thing she’d clung to for weeks like a second skin—left her feeling flayed.

  Her eyes met his. A silent plea. A question.

  The Judge did not speak. He did not nod. He only stared.

  She pulled the shirt over her head, slow. Her skin pricked with the chill.

  Her trousers followed, unbelted, peeled down with a kind of mechanical resignation.

  The last of her coverings pooled with the cloak, and still he said nothing.

  She took up the rifle only when there was nothing left.

  Her stance at first was rigid, focused, her breath steady. He circled her once, murmured a word of correction at her shoulder, the gentlest shift of her wrist. Then he stepped back and said: “Fire.”

  She did.

  The first shot rang out across the plain. Her exhale came sharp, precise, like a breath held too long finally loosed.

  Another.

  A breath that came lower now, dragged from somewhere deeper in her chest.

  Another.

  A shudder at the end of it. Her lip trembled, but her eyes did not close. Not yet.

  Another.

  This time the sound that left her was not clean. There was something snagged in it—grief, maybe, or shame. She adjusted her footing. The dust clung to her ankles.

  Another.

  Her hands were trembling now, and she steadied them only by gripping the rifle harder. The Judge stood silent. He did not touch her again. He didn’t need to.

  Another.

  She gasped. Her breath broke ragged. Her knees bent slightly as though the recoil had found its way into her bones.

  Another.

  The tears welled and spilled, but she did not wipe them. She was panting now, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like she’d just outrun something with teeth. Her hair stuck to her face. Her legs ached.

  Another.

  The rifle bucked. She nearly dropped it. But the bottle shattered.

  Her breath came in gasps. Her shoulders heaved. The weapon sagged in her grip, and still she did not speak.

  The Judge stepped forward, took the rifle from her, and inspected the barrel without comment. His face was unreadable.

  “You’ll shoot straighter in the morning,” he said, as if they had merely finished a lesson.

  She nodded—just once, short, automatic.

  He turned and walked into the dark, the rifle cradled beneath one arm like a shepherd’s crook.

  Bernadetta remained, bare and shaking beneath the stars, her throat raw, her breath still ragged in the silence he left behind.

  She had not missed. But something had gone with the bullet.