A soaking wet commander stumbled into his dim office, still warm from the stove he’d left burning hours ago. Dawn was close, and he hoped to savor the darkness a little longer. A floorboard creaked under his boot, sounding like thunder in his aching head. He realized he was nearly tripping as he shrugged off his rain-soaked coat, shoulder colliding with the wall.

"Why didn’t you tell me about the murders?"

The commander jerked in surprise, hand almost pulling his Colt revolver. "By God, Blayke, you scared the hell out of me. You didn’t even light a candle." He let the gun slide back into its holster.

"It blew out when you opened the door. You should have oil lamps in here…" Blayke relit the candle, casting light over his broad face and heavy grey mustache, both worn by age and the weight of his duties.

"Well…" The commander sighed, leaving a trail of water as he hung his coat and hat. "Had I known you were coming—"

Blayke slapped the wooden desk he was sitting at. "If you’d told me about those murders, the council wouldn’t have had to send anyone. You’re not in the Civil War anymore; you can’t do as you please. What’s going on, Smith? You’re not drunk, are you?"

"I wish I still was…" the commander murmured, gripping the coat rack.

"What was that? For God’s sake, man, you’re supposed to be in charge, not the town drunk."

"One night!" Smith’s voice was louder than he’d meant, and he drew in a breath. "One night a year. Just one night…" He released the rack and met Blayke’s gaze, his intense brown eyes reflecting the experience and politics he had long endured. "And you choose to come on that night…" Smith closed his eyes, grateful for the momentary silence Blayke allowed him.

"I don’t suppose you bring good news."

"No..." The sigh alone told Smith all he needed to know. "No, I don’t. Take a seat, Edward."

Somewhat annoyed that Blayke had taken his seat at the desk, Commander Smith lowered himself into the visitor’s chair across from him. Unknowingly he briefely scratched an old scar in his right brow as his eyes moved over the papers Blayke had rifled through, then to the bottle that had caused his headache.

“So, they’ve made a decision?” he guessed, reaching for the bottle. Blayke’s hand shot out, snatching the bottle before Smith could reach it.

“You've had enough,” He said, gaze fixed, his voice as steady as his grip on the bottle. “The council’s losing patience. So am I.”

Smith looked into the man’s brown eyes and felt the hair on his neck rise. He rubbed his face, blinking hard, then shifted in his chair, as if the rough wood had suddenly grown uncomfortable. “Morrow’s handling the accidents… or murders. Maybe he’s better suited…”

“Not for this.” The councilman’s tone was colder than Smith remembered, forcing him to defend his captain. “I didn’t make him my captain for his good looks—he’s sharp.”

“I’m not doubting that, nor am I doubting your judgment,” Blayke replied. “The council’s not so sure anymore.”

Smith’s eyes went back to the bottle, wishing Blayke had arrived a day later. “They’ve always had mixed feelings about this place.”

Blayke smashed a fist on the table, his sudden anger startling even him. “How can you be so lax?" Smith looked at him wide eyed. "Have you lost all your military discipline? I can understand one night a year, but you’re still a commander. What kind of example are you setting?”

Smith closed his eyes, shame warming his cheeks. “I…”

Blayke steadied himself, voice level but strained. “Why did you think it was a good idea to keep the council in the dark for the last half year?”

Smith returned Blayke’s questioning look but stayed silent. “They started questioning me. Whether you still had control. They were right to.” Blayke pressed his lips together, trying to regain calm.

“I’m doing my duty. Day in, day out. The bounty hunters stay back. No one crosses the border. I keep my eyes and ears open…”

“Cut the nonsense, Edward,” Blayke snapped. “You don’t have to like the council—but we both need them. They need transparency.”

“To find scapegoats,” Smith muttered.

Blayke’s eyes narrowed. “To find evidence of innocence or guilt so there can be a fair trial. That’s what we fought to build.”

Smith stood, looking toward the window as silence settled. Blayke’s words had struck harder than he wanted to admit, leaving him feeling both exposed and cornered. "The council changed." he murmered and moved to the stove, poking the dwindling flames to bring them back to life.

“Do you think I’ve changed, too?” Blayke’s voice was softer now, but Smith could feel its weight behind him. “Is that why you stopped reporting to me?”

He didn’t answer, letting the words settle.

Blayke exhaled. “What happened to you, Edward? The council evolves. You seem… stopped. Have you given up on this place?”

At that, Smith straightened, feeling his pulse quicken. “I would never. They know that. You know that, too.”

Blayke’s eyes held steady, even sad. “I want to believe that, Edward. But you’re giving me nothing to work with here. And if this place goes down, I’m afraid you’re going down with it along with all the people you promised a second chance.”

Hasty footsteps sounded on the porch, followed by the door bursting open, blowing out the candle and letting in the first light.

"Commander! Commander!" A young man, nearly out of breath, stood in the doorway. "You'll never..." He paused to swallow and took a deep breath. "... believe who’s here: Cord, Killer Cord! Isn’t that unbelievable?"

The words sobered Smith instantly.

"What is unbelievable," Blayke’s sharp voice cut through the room, startling the young man. He backed up a step, eyes wide, mouth open. "... is that you burst in like a wild animal without even a knock."

"I... I’m sorry, sir, I..." The boy glanced over to Smith at the stove, searching for support. Smith's gaze, however, was locked on Blayke, jaw clenched.

"Where is he?" Smith forced his voice to stay calm, though it took effort not to snap at Blayke for not telling him sooner.

"At the crossing, sir. He was asking the men about the incident. He's... really interested. Do you think he’s here to end the blood-feather curse? If anyone could do it, it’d be..." The young man’s eagerness faded as he caught Blayke’s stern look.

"Do you have any regard for how to deliver a report?" Blayke’s voice was icy. "This is not a bar; it’s the commander’s office.”

The boy’s shoulders sagged. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled, eyes down.

"That's all right, Jasper." Smith’s gaze remained on Blayke. "This is exceptional news. Thank you. Now, make sure Mister Cord finds his way to Gregor’s."

Jasper stood a little taller, pride lighting his face. "To Gregor’s, sir. Yes, sir!"

"That’ll be all. Mr. Blayke and I have a few things to discuss."

The bright smile and light in Jasper's eye toward his commander did not go unnoticed. He nodded, backing out with a quick “Yes, sir,” clearly pleased to have delivered such important news.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Smith’s voice cut through the room like a knife: “You brought Cord here?”

Blayke flinched slightly, then squared his shoulders. “Allow me to explain—”

“You’re lecturing me about communication, yet you drag a bloodhound here?” Smith pressed his knuckles into the desk, leaning forward as if he might lunge. “Half the people here are hiding from him.”

"Edward, listen. I didn’t bring him. The council sent him without consulting me.” Blayke’s voice lowered, trying to diffuse the commander’s anger. “I had to catch up with him myself. Otherwise, it would’ve been Cord, not me, knocking on your door this morning.”

Both men looked at each other, with only the sound of the early morning activity in the streets. "It will not take long before they all know." Smith said at last, doing away with some of the tension and looked towards the window. "I will need to explain this, before someone pulls a gun on him."

Blayke hesitated before continuing. “When Cord and Marshal Haynes were last here…” He saw the look in Smith’s eyes, like a wound reopening. “…well, let’s just say we needed backup from the old timers to keep things from spiraling. Do they still have the same influence on the people?" 

Smith’s hands sifted through the papers, almost frantically, until they stilled on a faded photograph. He stared at the image of a woman and a young girl, his fingers trembling on the worn edges. “The doctor told me what you did,” he said quietly. “Hewitt even came to my bedside, after I was allowed visitors.”

Blayke stayed silent, watching the tears Smith tried to hide well up in his eyes.

“He said I should’ve refused to bring Laura here,” Smith’s voice broke, and he coughed to cover it. “…But he understood why I did it. ‘Family always comes first,’ he said.”

Blayke let out a slow, frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry for the way I barged in. For the accusations. But, Edward, you left me no choice. The blood-feather curse… it’s not just a superstition anymore. It’s a stain spreading through the town, and Cord’s arrival is going to rip it wide open.”

Smith walked up to the window. “I had hoped to end it quickly.” He glanced back. “The rumors, I mean. Because I don’t believe in curses.”

“People believe all sorts of things when there isn’t someone to give them a rational explanation. How long has this been going on? Half a year?”

Smith clenched his teeth and shook his head slightly. He knew Blayke wouldn’t stop trying to figure out what had happened during that time, but he wasn’t ready to share. “I bet longer than that,” he admitted, telling the truth. “They all look like accidents. Who knows—it could have been going on for a year, maybe longer.” He moved away from the window, heading to the rack for his coat.

“We only recently started to see a pattern.” He made sure Blayke couldn’t see his face while he put the coat back on. “That’s why I never reported it.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Blayke’s voice was sharp and demanding. Smith waited to turn and face him until he had his hat in hand.

“To see Gregor, and after that, greet Cord at the crossing, if he’s still there.”

“Not like this.” Blayke put on his own hat.

Smith shook his head as he moved to the door. “I don’t think you noticed, but we don’t have a lot of time.”

“You…” Blayke’s strong voice thundered through the room. “…will clean yourself up so Cord won’t dismiss you as a drunken fool. You need to gain his respect.”

Smith paused, closing the door he had barely opened. “He doesn’t…” He caught himself.

“You’d be wise not to insult the council.”

Smith's grip on the door handle was so firm his knuckles turned white.

“Cord isn’t your everyday ambassador, Edward.”

“I know who he is…” Smith kept his eyes on his hand, fearing what he might say or do if he didn’t control himself.

“I doubt it.” Smith took a deep breath as he heard Blayke put on his coat. “I thought I knew him, too, but these past ten days traveling with him… I’ve never felt safer and more afraid at the same time. No, Edward.” Blayke’s footsteps stopped at his side, and the hand on his shoulder made Smith look at him. “Give him no excuse to doubt you. Clean yourself up. I’ll talk to Gregor and find Hewitt… perhaps some of the others.”

He let go of the door handle, stepping aside to let Blayke pass. “Get the town together," Blayke continued. "We’ll need to explain why he’s back. There’s no doubt they’ll link it to what happened to…” Both their eyes drifted back to the photograph on the desk, and Smith took a heavy breath, avoiding further eye contact with the councilman. “…even if it isn’t.” Blayke’s whisper carried a hint of regret as he opened the door, leaving Smith staring after him.

“Oh, it is…” Smith thought. “He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.” He caught one of his soldiers with his eyes. “Get the captain for me, will you, Charles?” The man who had sought shelter from the rain on the office porch nodded and rushed into the muddy street. Smith glanced back at the desk. “It’s no coincidence he arrived today… He’s here to settle a score.”

***

Captain Morrow knocked on one of the beams holding up the slanted roof of the barracks, a sound that resonated through the half-enclosed space. Through a gap in the rough curtain that served as a wall, he met Smith’s eyes in the reflection of a mirror. It was a makeshift room. More a gesture than a true separation from the barracks beyond.

“You asked for me, sir.” As he stepped in, Morrow's gaze involuntarily shifted from Smith’s shaving to his bare back, marked with old scars.

“Allow me to finish,” Smith replied calmly.

Morrow dropped his eyes to the ground. Every time he saw those scars, he couldn’t help but imagine the pain. He knew his commander never talked about it, but Morrow had learned long ago that these scars predated Smith’s life as a soldier.

“I assume you’re aware of our guests?” Smith wiped his face and pulled a clean shirt from the rack.

“Yes, sir. I saw Mr. Blayke, and Jasper was all too eager to share that Mister Cord has arrived.” Morrow’s voice tightened slightly at the mention of the name.

“Did you see him? Cord?” Smith asked as he buttoned up his shirt.

“No, sir. I was busy tracking the missing horse. There’s no sign of it. Whoever took it must have moved fast. By the time I got back to the crossing, Cord had already left, leaving the men full of questions. They didn’t recognize him as a councilman. If it weren’t for Jasper, they might have arrested him for crossing the border.”

Smith paused, considering this. “May I speak freely, sir?” Morrow asked, glancing back towards the open barracks.

Smith gave a nod of permission.

“They should’ve announced their arrival, especially Blayke. He hasn’t been here in a while—he could have been mistaken for a stranger, too.”

Smith let out a sigh as he continued dressing.

“It’s one thing to let a lone woman through without checking, but two men covered in dirt, armed…”

“Last I heard, Cord doesn’t carry a gun anymore,” Smith remarked, cutting off Morrow’s rambling. The captain froze, visibly startled. He looked at Smith, momentarily speechless.

“Are they still searching for the horse?” Smith asked, breaking the silence.

Morrow blinked, his thoughts scattered. “The horse... from the cart where the boy was trapped. Yes, sir, we lost the trail. The rain washed away most of the tracks, and with all the footprints left by the woman—”

“Miss Hattygam,” Smith corrected.

Morrow swallowed. “Yes, sir. With the tracks Miss Hattygam left, it’s impossible to tell where the horse went. All we know is it didn’t detach itself. Either someone took it, or—” He hesitated under Smith’s sharp gaze. “But I doubt the miss had anything to do with it, considering her panic over the boy’s safety.”

“It wasn’t just about the boy,” Smith muttered. “She was angry—at our incompetence and at my drunken state. I believe she was telling the truth about finding the cart overturned with no horse in sight.”

Morrow felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Smith’s words carried a heavy implication.

“It’s not your fault, Thomas,” Smith continued, softer now. “I know even our men are starting to fear the full moon.”

Smith grabbed his coat and nodded towards the door. “Walk with me. I need you to speak with MacKee. We’ll need the church for a town meeting—no room for misunderstandings about the councilmen’s arrival.”

Morrow nodded. “And you?”

Smith’s voice dropped lower. “I need to warn Larson before he heads to the doctor’s place. We can’t afford any surprises today.”

***

Smith's firm knocks echoed through the wooden door of Larson's dwelling, urgency driving the force behind each rap. It swiftly swung open, revealing the towering figure of the man within.

"You choose to stay in this shack. I don't get it," Smith remarked, shaking off raindrops as he entered Larson's modest one-room abode. Although it was a patchwork of reclaimed wood and metal, it was watertight. "The doctor's offered you a spot in the side-wings plenty of times."

The smell of coffee that hang thick in the air reminded Smith he hadn't eaten since he was woken from a drunken sleep.

"Doubt you're here for a chat about my accommodations." Larson's face, cherubic in appearance, matched the gravelly tone of his voice. He motioned for Smith to join him at a small table, tossing a piece of bread his way. "I heard you've been busy this morning. Another victim of the blood feather's curse."

"He's not dead yet; the doctor's still working on him."

"The doctor's good, brought you back from the dead, but he ain't a magician."

Smith shook his head focusing on why he came: "I've got some bad news."

"I know. You wouldn't be here if it were good." He took another mouth full of his breakfast. "Weren't you supposed to take a day off today? Let Morrow handle it?"

The thought that Larson might already know why he was here crossed Smith's mind, but he couldn't risk it. "The council sent a guy." Fear laced Smith's words as he anticipated Larson's reaction. However, the giant remained composed, casually sipping his coffee.

"I know. Eat the bread, Ed; you'll need it."

"How do you know?" Smith demanded. "Why aren't you worried?"

"I saw Blayke at your office."

Smith stepped over to the table, whispering, "Cord's here."

Larson's smile broadened. "I know. Perhaps that's exactly what this town needed." The giant stood up, donning his raincoat. "I know there is a lot of dislike, but nobody will deny that he is thorough. He always finds what he seeks. He has a strange talent."

"You can't be serious. As soon as he sees you, he'll know. Blayke has no clue, but Cord could refresh the council's memory."

Smith knew he triggered something in the giant man as a sharp look return his. "Cord is not the type to just show up without a reason, so whatever we hope to cover up for him; we better expect he already knows about it." Larson raised his hand as soon Smith uttered a sound.

"This town doesn’t need a killing curse hanging over it. And Cord? Like it or not, he's the kind of guy that finishes what he started. Besides, it's not like they don't know I'm here. There was some truth in those papers I gave you."

The commander's shoulders dropped a little as he rubbed his temples. "I'm sure they will not be happy to realise we helped them forget by not adding you to the register, nor mentioning you in any of my reports."

"And I'm still grateful for that. Listen, Edward, don't worry so much. I can stay hidden when I choose to."

"You don't know Cord like I do." 

An over confident smirk came over Larson's face causing Smith to give up with a sigh. It was then that he noticed the newspaper. "You have to stop giving him those."

"The doctor likes to stay informed."

"They're outdated, and half of it's lies anyway."

"He wouldn't need them if you shared a bit more."

Smith grew annoyed. "You know exactly why I don't tell him everything."

"The doctor has a good heart."

"That's exactly why he ended up here. Christian is my friend. He’s saved my life more than once. He’s been there for... He was there..." Smith’s voice faltered. He couldn’t bring himself to say their names. Laura’s warmth, Eliana’s laughter—they haunted him in quiet moments, fragile memories that felt both comforting and unbearable.

Larson tapped him on the shoulder. "I know, I miss them too. So does the doctor. Don't tell Achmet, but he still says she was the best assistant a doctor could wish for."

He waited until Smith gave a small nod.

"And I'll make sure to stay clear of Cord. But don't just see his arrival as misfortune. He's the best at what he does. If you play it right, who knows, we all might benefit from it."

Larson gestured towards the leftovers on the table inviting Smith to help himself.

"See yourself out when you’re done," Larson said, as he moved toward the door. He paused with a hand on the frame, looking back. "And Ed? Don’t underestimate Cord. He’s got a way of uncovering truths—even the ones we bury deep."

***

The graveyard stretched out in quiet solitude, a solemn patch of earth holding the weight of the town’s unspoken sorrows. Amid the crosses and the gentle patter of rain, one figure stood alone. Larson’s broad shoulders hunched slightly as he knelt by a particular grave, tracing its weathered inscription with calloused fingers:

Laura Haynes—Beloved Wife and Mother.

"She was a good woman, Cord," Larson said softly, his voice carrying just enough to break the graveyard’s hush. "You did right by her memory."

Behind him, the rain whispered over leaves and stone, masking the nearly silent approach of another man. When Larson finally turned, Cord stood there, shadowed by the overcast sky. His hat brim shed rainwater, droplets falling to the muddy ground at his feet.

For a moment, the two men said nothing. Cord’s presence alone seemed heavier than the storm.

"You didn’t come all this way to mourn her, did you?" Larson asked, rising to his feet.

Cord's gaze flicked to the cross before meeting Larson’s. "To a grave without a body?" he asked, his voice clipped.

Larson reached into his coat, withdrawing a small, carefully wrapped package. "Take this. You’ll want to see for yourself."

Cord took the parcel without a word, slipping it into his coat. His movements were deliberate, the weight of the exchange unspoken but understood.

"They’re stirring up fear," Larson continued, his tone measured. "You know how it gets when people start whispering about curses. Trust crumbles. Friends turn into enemies. Everyone starts seeing shadows where there are none."

Cord’s expression remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered on Larson a fraction too long. "And Smith?"

"He doesn’t know," Larson replied, folding his arms. "But he came to warn me you were here. Seems like he still thinks he can solve this on his own."

Cord’s jaw tightened as his gaze returned to the grave. Rainwater trickled over its engraved letters like tears.

"You better not have dragged me back here for nothing, old friend," Cord said, his tone carrying a sharp edge. "If this is just ghosts and superstition, I’ll leave the dead to rest."

Larson gave a faint smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "I can deal with those myself. No, something more foul slipped into this town. Something I fail to see." The man, towering even in stillness, seemed to shrink under the weight of his own words, his shoulders folding inwards as if burdened by unseen chains. "I'm sure..." he continued glancing back at the grave. "... that once you start looking, you'll find it. You always do."

Cord tipped his hat, a curt acknowledgment, before stepping back into the shadows. Larson stayed behind, his eyes fixed on Laura’s name. Rain fell harder, the letters blurred, until they seemed to vanish altogether under the relentless downpoor.