The second bar groaned, a heavy, scraping protest of oak against stone as Patrixia turned it, steadying the weight before stepping back from the wood. The barrier was set. They were not crossing that threshold without going through the timber first. Outside, the man on the horse shifted his weight, the parchment trembling in a hand that had already lost its nerve. Behind him, two figures on foot exchanged a tense look, their boots sucking at the mud. One of them began to drift left, trying to angle toward the side of the porch steps. Cormac’s voice cut across the mud like a flat blade, stopping the man cold without Cormac even looking away from the gate. "You can keep reading aloud to see if your handwriting changes, syndicate men, but the ridge doesn't answer to valley ink," Cormac said, his shoulders squaring against the gray mist. "I didn't sign my ledger for free, and I certainly didn't sign it so you could come up here with a paper storm and think it would wash my posts away. Turn that horse, counselor, or find out what happens when a man decides he's done entertaining strangers at his own gate." The horse whinnied, uneasy, and stomped once, throwing a heavy spray of wet mud against the bottom rail. The wind picked up right then, driving the mist sideways and howling through the pine needles. Inside, Patrixia stood with her hand hovering just an inch over the wood, listening to every word, her pulse jumping in time with the wind. Cormac stood completely alone between the intruders and his home—a line drawn in bone and muscle that wouldn't move a single inch. The silence that followed was absolute, save for the wind. The counselor looked at the unyielding wall of a man on the porch, then down at the useless parchment in his hand. With a jerky, humiliated motion, he shoved the paper into his coat and hard-reined his mount around. "This isn't over, Cormac!" the counselor yelled over his shoulder, though his voice cracked against the gale. The two men on foot didn't wait for a second invitation. They scrambled backward into the gray fog, following the retreating, squelching rhythm of the horse's hooves until the mountain swallowed them whole. Only then did Cormac let out a slow, fog-rimmed breath. He didn't drop his guard immediately, scanning the misty tree line for a full minute before he finally turned back toward the cabin door.

The second bar groaned, a heavy, scraping protest of oak against stone as Patrixia turned it, steadying the weight before stepping back from the wood. The barr…

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The second bar groaned, a heavy, scraping protest of oak against stone as Patrixia turned it, steadying the weight before stepping back from the wood. The barrier was set. They were not crossing that threshold without going through the timber first. Outside, the man on the horse shifted his weight, the parchment trembling in a hand that had already lost its nerve. Behind him, two figures on foot exchanged a tense look, their boots sucking at the mud. One of them began to drift left, trying to angle toward the side of the porch steps. Cormac’s voice cut across the mud like a flat blade, stopping the man cold without Cormac even looking away from the gate. "You can keep reading aloud to see if your handwriting changes, syndicate men, but the ridge doesn't answer to valley ink," Cormac said, his shoulders squaring against the gray mist. "I didn't sign my ledger for free, and I certainly didn't sign it so you could come up here with a paper storm and think it would wash my posts away. Turn that horse, counselor, or find out what happens when a man decides he's done entertaining strangers at his own gate." The horse whinnied, uneasy, and stomped once, throwing a heavy spray of wet mud against the bottom rail. The wind picked up right then, driving the mist sideways and howling through the pine needles. Inside, Patrixia stood with her hand hovering just an inch over the wood, listening to every word, her pulse jumping in time with the wind. Cormac stood completely alone between the intruders and his home—a line drawn in bone and muscle that wouldn't move a single inch. The silence that followed was absolute, save for the wind. The counselor looked at the unyielding wall of a man on the porch, then down at the useless parchment in his hand. With a jerky, humiliated motion, he shoved the paper into his coat and hard-reined his mount around. "This isn't over, Cormac!" the counselor yelled over his shoulder, though his voice cracked against the gale. The two men on foot didn't wait for a second invitation. They scrambled backward into the gray fog, following the retreating, squelching rhythm of the horse's hooves until the mountain swallowed them whole. Only then did Cormac let out a slow, fog-rimmed breath. He didn't drop his guard immediately, scanning the misty tree line for a full minute before he finally turned back toward the cabin door.

The second bar groaned, a heavy, scraping protest of oak against stone as Patrixia turned it, steadying the weight before stepping back from the wood. The barrier was set. They were not crossing that threshold without going through the timber first. Outside, the man on the horse shifted his weight, the parchment trembling in a hand that had already lost its nerve. Behind him, two figures on foot exchanged a tense look, their boots sucking at the mud. One of them began to drift left, trying to angle toward the side of the porch steps. Cormac’s voice cut across the mud like a flat blade, stopping the man cold without Cormac even looking away from the gate. "You can keep reading aloud to see if your handwriting changes, syndicate men, but the ridge doesn't answer to valley ink," Cormac said, his shoulders squaring against the gray mist. "I didn't sign my ledger for free, and I certainly didn't sign it so you could come up here with a paper storm and think it would wash my posts away. Turn that horse, counselor, or find out what happens when a man decides he's done entertaining strangers at his own gate." The horse whinnied, uneasy, and stomped once, throwing a heavy spray of wet mud against the bottom rail. The wind picked up right then, driving the mist sideways and howling through the pine needles. Inside, Patrixia stood with her hand hovering just an inch over the wood, listening to every word, her pulse jumping in time with the wind. Cormac stood completely alone between the intruders and his home—a line drawn in bone and muscle that wouldn't move a single inch. The silence that followed was absolute, save for the wind. The counselor looked at the unyielding wall of a man on the porch, then down at the useless parchment in his hand. With a jerky, humiliated motion, he shoved the paper into his coat and hard-reined his mount around. "This isn't over, Cormac!" the counselor yelled over his shoulder, though his voice cracked against the gale. The two men on foot didn't wait for a second invitation. They scrambled backward into the gray fog, following the retreating, squelching rhythm of the horse's hooves until the mountain swallowed them whole. Only then did Cormac let out a slow, fog-rimmed breath. He didn't drop his guard immediately, scanning the misty tree line for a full minute before he finally turned back toward the cabin door.

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