Cole rode east.
Not fast.
Not slow.
The kind of pace that let the land speak before it decided to shout.
Day one burned down to bone. Heat came early and stayed mean, pressing sweat out of places a man forgot he had. The road thinned to suggestion, then vanished altogether, leaving only a direction that felt agreed upon by habit more than sense.
Dusty kept ahead, nose low, tail steady. No barking. No chasing ghosts. Just working.
Cole felt watched most of the day.
Not by the House.
That was different.
This was older. Dumber. Hungry.
The kind of attention that didn't care who you were, only what you weighed.
He saw the tracks first.
Too wide.
Too deep.
Pressed into the dirt like the land had given up arguing.
Bear.
Or what used to be one.
The prints dragged wrong. Claws gouging at angles that didn't match the gait. Something heavy favoring nothing. Something that didn't feel pain the way it should.
Cole dismounted and let the mule drift back on the reins.
He studied the ground.
Dusty froze.
The dog's hackles rose, not sharp—controlled. Recognition, not panic.
"Yeah," Cole said quietly. "Me too."
They followed the sign another mile before the smell hit.
Rot layered with iron. Old meat and fresh blood arguing over which one got to warn you first.
Cole eased the revolver free.
He didn't like using it on things that didn't understand dying.
The bear came out of the scrub without ceremony.
No roar.
No bluff.
Just mass deciding it was time.
It was bigger than it should've been. Shoulder humped wrong. Fur patchy, burned thin in places like something had chewed it from the inside. One eye milky. The other too clear. Too aware.
Cards were carved into its hide.
Not cut.
Pressed.
Old ink-black symbols worked into scar tissue, warped by growth. Hearts and clubs twisted until they barely remembered what they were supposed to mean.
The House hadn't done this.
Someone else had tried.
The bear moved.
Fast for something that size. Too fast.
Cole fired once. The shot cracked the air and buried itself deep.
The bear didn't slow.
He fired again. Then again.
The third round hit bone. Staggered it half a step.
Dusty darted left, barking sharp, drawing its head.
Cole waited until the last second.
Then he stepped forward and put the barrel where the neck met the skull.
Pulled the trigger.
The bear went down hard. Not clean. Not quiet. It thrashed once, claws ripping earth like it was trying to dig back into something safer.
Then it stopped.
The silence afterward rang.
Cole stood there breathing, revolver smoking, heart steady because it had learned better years ago.
Dusty approached slow. Sniffed. Backed away again.
Wouldn't touch it.
That told Cole everything.
He waited until the light dropped low and the shadows grew long before he worked.
The meat smelled wrong once he cut into it. Sweet under the rot. Chemical. Like rain that burned.
He didn't try to salvage it.
Didn't pretend hunger made a man stupid.
Instead, he took the hide.
Thick. Heavy. Scarred with symbols that didn't want to be read.
The head came last.
That took effort.
When it was done, his hands were slick and his arms ached down to the bone.
He wrapped both tight and loaded them onto the mule.
The carcass lay open to the sky.
An invitation.
Cole didn't camp there.
Didn't even look back.
He mounted up and pushed east as the sun fell behind him, bleeding red across the land like it resented leaving.
Three hours into full dark.
No fire.
No song.
Just the sound of hooves and breath and the scrape of leather.
The night pressed close. Closer than it should have.
Dusty stayed tight to the mule, glancing back more than forward.
Something answered the bear's absence.
Not immediately.
But it would.
Cole felt it in his spine. The way the land leaned slightly, like it was counting.
He rode until his legs went numb and his eyes burned from staring into black that didn't blink.
When he finally stopped, it wasn't because he felt safe.
It was because the mule couldn't go another step.
Cole chose high ground. Bare stone. Wind-scoured. Nothing that wanted to crawl close.
He slept light.
Dreamed nothing.
Day two came sharp and gray.
The hide stank even wrapped. The head worse.
Cole didn't mind.
Proof weighed something.
The land changed as he rode. Scrub gave way to broken rises. Rock showed through like old bone. The air thinned. Cooled.
Rustline's pull sat constant now. A low ache behind his eyes. Not guidance. Not command.
Expectation.
By late afternoon, Dusty stopped again.
This time he didn't growl.
He stared.
Cole followed his gaze.
Far off—too far for sound—something moved along a ridge.
Big.
Slow.
Not the bear.
Something that had noticed its absence.
Cole adjusted the load and nudged the mule forward.
East.
Always east.
Behind him, the wind shifted.
And carried the faintest sound of something heavy learning it was hungry again.