The heavy thud of the iron deadbolt sliding home echoed through the cavernous timber entryway like a gunshot.

Two weeks had passed since the downfall of Clement Reed. The cabin on Bitter Peak had transformed from a guarded fortress into a true home. The air inside smelled of freshly baked rye bread, woodsmoke, and roasted venison.

Outside, however, the mountain was dangerously quiet.

Gideon Hayes sat on the front porch, sharpening his hunting knife against a whetstone. The rhythmic shhh, shhh of steel against stone was the only sound cutting through the crisp afternoon air. His sharp eyes scanned the valley switchbacks far below, tracking every shifting shadow in the pine forests.

Wyatt stepped out onto the porch, carrying a mug of hot cider. He handed it to the mountain man without a word, leaning against the wooden railing beside him.

"You're waiting for them, aren't you?" Wyatt asked, looking down toward the valley.

"They're coming," Gideon replied quietly, without breaking his rhythm. "Marcus Vance was right about one thing. The men behind the Silver Creek syndicate aren't local thugs. They're corporate barons from Denver with deep pockets and private militias. Taking down a mayor is easy. Taking down an empire makes you a target."

"Then we fight them," Wyatt said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a determination that mirrored Gideon’s own. "I'm not hiding in the root cellar again, Gideon. I know how to shoot, and I know how to hold a line."

Gideon stopped sharpening the blade. He looked up, studying the boy’s hardened features. For a second, a flicker of deep, painful memory crossed the mountain man’s scarred face—memories of his own family, lost to the exact same syndicate years ago.

"You aren't hiding, Wyatt," Gideon said, standing up and clapping a heavy, reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. "That's why your father brought you here. But fighting an empire requires more than bullets. It requires proof that reaches higher than the territorial courts."

"What kind of proof?"

Before Gideon could answer, a sharp, metallic ping echoed across the canyon.

Clink.