Chapter One: The Door That Shouldn’t Be

He had just won his guns. The trial with Cortland Andrus had left Jacob Buchanan bruised, bloodied, and changed. His hands still trembled with the weight of killing—not out of rage, but duty. He was fifteen, a man in Mid-World by the creed of the Gunslingers, though his heart still clung to boyhood in secret. He fled Gilead that night, boots echoing down ancient stone halls and out into the endless desert. He didn’t know why. Maybe he wasn’t ready for the eyes of other men. Maybe he was chasing something deeper than honor. He found the door under a crumbling arch near Thunderclap. It shimmered like heat on steel, the smell of ozone thick around it. It was no door made by hands. It sang. Ka called. And Jacob stepped through.

Chapter Two: A Dead Face

He woke in the dirt beside a barn. The smell of blood, rot, and smoke hung thick in the air. Crows circled overhead, screaming their hunger. And lying beside him was his own face. The body was twisted awkwardly, a bullet hole between the eyes. The duster was the same. The boots. Even the birthmark near the jawline. Jacob stumbled back, heart hammering. It wasn’t just a man. It was him—older, maybe by a few years. Cold and gone. His guns were missing. The sound of hooves approached fast, and voices shouted in clipped, urgent tones. Men in uniform—blue jackets, brass buttons—appeared, rifles raised. “What the hell?” one barked. “There's another one!” Jacob raised his hands slowly.

Chapter Three: The Boy Soldier

1870, the officers said later. Arizona Territory. America. Jacob didn't understand half the words they used, but he caught the tone—suspicion and opportunity. A boy alone, with no past and a dead man that looked just like him? He should’ve been hanged or dissected. But they saw a body in the dust and a survivor on his feet. They gave him a uniform. For three years, Jacob served in the United States Cavalry. He rode under a sky that reminded him of Mid-World, though the stars were wrong and the land spoke a different language. He learned drills, how to fire their clumsy carbines, how to ride in formation and follow brutal orders. But the world was no less cruel than the one he left. Raids, reprisals, “pacification” missions—he saw men burn villages and laugh. He saw native families treated worse than animals. And then, he met her. Her name was Wiyohpiyata. She said it meant “west.” She didn’t run from him. She looked him in the eye like she saw something real. They spoke in broken English and long silences. She showed him how to listen to the wind. How to move like a whisper through pine. He never returned to the fort after that night. He left the blue coat behind in the ashes.

Chapter Four: Smoke Between Stars

The land where Jacob wandered was old—older than Gilead, perhaps, though shaped by different stories. He found refuge among Wiyohpiyata’s people, a Lakota band who had already lost too much and trusted little. But she vouched for him, this strange boy who spoke like a ghost and carried the weight of a world no one else could see. They called him Wicasa Sica—the ghost-souled man. Wiyohpiyata taught him how to live again, not as a Gunslinger but as a man of the earth. He learned to hunt with bow and silence, to read the clouds like scripture, to sing low songs to the fire. But her brother, Chaska, never trusted him. “He carries no blood of ours,” Chaska warned the elders. “He eats with us, but fights with no one.” And Jacob would not fight—not for raids, not for revenge. He had killed already, too young, too often. His guns were gone, and he had no wish to spill more blood without the Tower’s voice guiding his aim. “I don’t belong here,” Jacob once told Wiyohpiyata. She pressed her forehead to his. “You do to me.”

Chapter Five: Fire in the Blood

One year passed like a long breath, and in that time a daughter was born. They named her Singing Sky, for the way she looked up at the heavens with laughter before she could speak. Jacob held her like she was made of light and ash—something fragile, something holy. For a time, the past seemed far away. Mid-World. The Tower. The door. Even the dead twin he'd left behind in the barn. But ka does not forget. And neither did Chaska. One night under the full moon, the brother came to him with fire in his eyes. “You live here, but your blood is not ours. You lie with my sister. You father a child. But when we bleed, you vanish.” “I never asked for any of this,” Jacob said, voice cold. “You stole it.” They fought beneath the cedar trees. No guns. Only hands, teeth, rage. Jacob didn’t want to kill him. But he did. Chaska fell broken across the roots. Jacob fled before dawn.

Chapter Six: The Hollow Life

He ran until the land changed. Through broken hills and tall pines, across the border into New Hanover. He didn’t even know the name of the place at first—only that it was quiet, that it asked nothing of him. He built a small shack near the Roanoke Ridge, where the mist lingered like memory and the mines wept iron tears. He hunted elk, sold pelts in Annesburg, worked the hills for silver and gold. His daughter’s laugh haunted him in his sleep. The rifle he carried now was heavy, old, and dull—nothing like the long-barreled revolvers he’d once called his own. He’d never found them again. Maybe he never would. He told himself he was nobody now. But the land had other ideas. And ka had not finished with Jacob Buchanan.

Chapter Seven: The Crimson Horizon

It was 1901. Jacob Buchanan was an old man now. His hair, once as black as gunmetal, had turned to wind-blown ash. His back ached with every cold morning. His hands, once steady enough to draw steel in the blink of a breath, now trembled when he laced his boots. He still lived in the high woods of New Hanover, tucked far from the world’s noise. His shack, patched with scrap and moss, stood like a relic on a lonely ridge. Birds nested in the rafters. The river below sang him to sleep. He went into town when needed—Annesburg, Van Horn—always quiet, always with coin enough to not be questioned. Folks knew him only as “that old hunter in the hills.” Some thought he was a Union deserter. Others swore he’d once been an outlaw. No one guessed the truth. That he was a Gunslinger. Or that he had walked between worlds.

Chapter Eight: Hollow Salvation

In the churches of the frontier, Jacob found something strange and familiar. He listened to preachers talk of forgiveness and blood and a Man who died for others. He saw the pain in the faces of the faithful and felt something stir. The Man Jesus, they called Him. Jacob didn’t know if he believed. But he wanted to. He’d done enough killing. Enough running. If there was a God in this world, maybe He’d understand the sins of another. But the dreams didn’t stop. Night after night, the Tower rose before him—colossal, terrible, red as slaughter. Its doors pulsed like a wound in the sky, and somewhere behind them, a laugh echoed. Her laugh. His daughter, Singing Sky. But not as a child. She was grown now in his dreams—tall, cloaked in stars and smoke, eyes like mirrors. She would laugh, and point at him with a hand made of flame. “You ran,” she would say, over and over. “You left.” And Jacob would wake choking on regret.

Chapter Nine: The Echo in the Wind

By day, he hunted. Trapped. Mined silver from the old veins. By night, he sat by the fire and stared into the flames like they were windows to another world. He still had the bullet that killed Chaska. Still carried it in a pouch on a leather cord. He never saw Wiyohpiyata again. Never saw Singing Sky. Never dared return. Sometimes he imagined her grown, with children of her own. He wondered if she hated him. If she remembered the man who had rocked her to sleep, whispering old Mid-World lullabies in a tongue no one else knew. And sometimes—just sometimes—he saw something in the trees. A shimmer, like heat off stone. A door. But he never went to it. Not yet.

Chapter Ten: One State Under Crimson

Jacob Buchanan was forty-four when the map changed. The frontier had quieted over the years—less gunfire, more silence. But silence can lie, and the land beneath still shifted. Word came in soft and strange at first, like wind through hollow trees: the five regions—New Hanover, Lemoyne, West Elizabeth, Ambarino, and New Austin—were to become one. A single entity. They called it Monroe. There was no vote, no ceremony, no declaration from Washington. Just one morning, it was fact. Signposts changed. Maps redrawn. The newspapers printed it like it had always been true. No army. No president. No government to question. Only the Monroe Sheriff’s Office. Headquartered in Saint Denis, but with reach far beyond the swamps and brick. The sheriff wore a star dipped in tar and smiled through gold teeth. His deputies carried ledgers and ropes. They were not men of the badge—they were wolves with paper skins. Their justice wasn’t swift. It was slow. Creeping. Bureaucratic in public, brutal in private. Monroe didn’t bleed you all at once. It drained you over years.

Chapter Eleven: Brass Stars and Dead Eyes

The Monroe deputies arrived like the plague. They’d come to Annesburg and Van Horn under the pretense of law—reviewing land claims, seizing property for unpaid taxes, offering deals that left people penniless or vanished. No trials. Just judgments, signed and sealed in Saint Denis. Jacob watched them from the woods above the town. Their badges were too clean. Their boots too new. Their eyes too quiet. And always—on every writ, every deed, every seal—a stamp of red wax. A circle within a tower. Jacob had seen that mark before. In another world. He felt the Tower pressing into his dreams again. The blood-soaked horizon. The laugh of a girl now grown—a woman who had his eyes. Singing Sky, daughter of two worlds. “You still run,” she told him. “Even here.” He dug beneath the floorboards of his cabin. The rifle. The belt. The old cartridge that killed Chaska. All there. All waiting. He was no longer the green boy who’d fled after spilling his first family’s blood. He was harder now. Quieter. Meaner in the bone. Not a gunslinger. But a ghost with purpose. And in the woods behind the shack, the air shimmered again. A door. Not open. Not yet. But waiting.

Chapter Twelve: The Price of the Past

January 1901. The wind howled through the trees, rattling the worn timbers of Jacob Buchanan’s cabin. Snow piled against the door, thick and heavy, like the weight of the years that had settled on his shoulders. The world beyond was frozen in its own silence, but inside, there was a different kind of stillness—one that had festered in Jacob’s heart since the moment he left Wiyohpiyata and Singing Sky behind. He hadn’t thought much about her over the years—not because he didn’t care, but because it was too painful. The memories of the woman he loved and the daughter he’d abandoned had haunted him long enough. He buried them deep, wrapped them in shadows, and convinced himself that they were better off without him. But something had shifted. The Monroe Sheriff’s Office had become an ever-tightening noose, and the whispers of a new world closing in on him had triggered something long dormant—a sense of urgency. He couldn’t run forever. Not from his past. Not from the Tower. So, he wrote a letter to an old friend. The letter was brief. There were no pleasantries, no wasted words. Dear Jacob, I hope this finds you well, though I know it’s been a long time since our paths crossed. I hear things about the North. About the Lakota. If you’re looking for someone, I’ve got ears. You know I still run with a few old contacts from the Army days. If you’re asking for information, I’ll keep my eyes open. Just tell me what you need. Take care, friend, —J. Jacob had served beside Jebediah "Jeb" Thomas in the U.S. Cavalry years ago, both men bonded by blood and iron. After the war ended, Jeb had become a bit of a wanderer himself, always circling the edges of cities and towns, hearing things others didn’t. The cavalry had taken their toll on Jeb’s mind, but his loyalty was still sharp. And Jacob needed it now. It had been a month since the letter went out. He sat by the fire, waiting, until the day came when he heard the sound of a horse—slow and steady—coming up the snow-covered path. Jeb’s face was weathered, like Jacob’s, but there was a fire still in his eyes. He wore a long overcoat, a wide-brimmed hat, and carried a bag of supplies across his shoulder. He dismounted with a grunt and nodded toward the cabin. “I got word, Jacob. Ain’t good news, though.” Jeb’s voice was rough, gravelly from years of travel. Jacob stood, his hand steady on the grip of his rifle. “What’d you find?” “Wiyohpiyata…” Jeb hesitated, as if the name was a prayer. “She’s gone. Killed by soldiers. From what I can piece together, they found her, took her, and… well, she didn’t make it. It happened some years back. A raid.” Jacob’s heart sank, a cold lump of regret rising in his throat. “How did you find out?” Jeb shook his head, his jaw tight. “I’ve got a friend in Montana. A scout. I asked him to keep an eye out for anything—anything—about your daughter, Singing Sky. He tracked down a small band of Lakota. They said she’s alive, Jacob. She’s living up near the northern border, with a band in Montana. She’s got a daughter of her own, five years old.” Jacob took a long breath, trying to push past the knot in his chest. The news of Wiyohpiyata was a blow, but the thought of his daughter being alive—having a child of her own—felt like a flicker of light in a long dark night. “Where is she? Where can I find her?” Jacob asked, his voice hard with purpose. Jeb stepped closer, lowering his voice. “It ain’t gonna be easy. They’re moving. The Lakota don’t stay in one place for too long anymore. But they’re in the mountains near the Missouri River, about as far north as you can get.” Jacob nodded, tightening his coat around his shoulders. “Then I’ll find her.” Jeb didn’t speak for a moment. He could see the determination in Jacob’s eyes. But there was something else there, too—an old sadness, a weariness. “You’re gonna leave Monroe, ain’t you? You sure you’re ready for that?” Jacob’s hand brushed over his rifle. He wasn’t ready. But the decision had already been made. “I’ve been running from my past for too long, Jeb. I’m going to find my daughter. And maybe…” Jacob’s words faltered. “… maybe I’ll get to meet my granddaughter.” Jeb slapped him on the back. “I’ll give you some supplies. The roads up north are treacherous, especially this time of year. But you’ve got the spirit of a man who doesn’t quit. You’ll make it.” Jacob stood at the door of his cabin, looking out into the snow-covered trees as Jeb packed him a few supplies. The wind howled, carrying the scent of pine and cold earth. He wasn’t sure what he’d find when he reached those northern mountains. Whether his daughter would even remember him, or if she’d hate him for leaving her all those years ago. But one thing was certain: he was going. The past had caught up with him, and now, he had to face it. By the time the first week of January had passed, Jacob packed his gear, strapped his rifle to his back, and saddled his horse. His cabin, silent in the snow, seemed to bid him farewell with a quiet hum. As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the land, Jacob turned his back on Monroe for good. His journey was only beginning.

Chapter Thirteen: Cold Reunion

The winds had turned brutal by the time Jacob reached the northern border, the frigid air biting through his clothes like the teeth of an animal starved for its prey. The mountains rose tall in the distance, jagged peaks cutting the sky. The scent of pine and snow filled his lungs, but no matter how much the land tried to steal his breath, his thoughts stayed focused. Singing Sky. He thought of her every day. Her face—still young in his memories, despite the years. The little girl she had been when he left, her small hand clutched in her mother’s. He had abandoned them both, he knew it. And no amount of snow or ice could wash that guilt away. But he had to make it right. He had to. The journey had taken longer than expected—his horse, worn from the harsh weather, and the trail, winding and treacherous in the dead of winter. But there had been signs, markings left by the Lakota. Fresh fires, tracks in the snow, the faint sound of voices carried by the wind. Finally, Jacob had found them. The small camp tucked beneath a cluster of pines, smoke rising from a fire as the wind whistled through the branches. The people here weren’t all Lakota, but the ones who were looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity as he rode in. And then, he saw her. Singing Sky. She stood with her back to him at first, tending the fire. Her dark hair was braided, streaked with silver, though she was still young in years—maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He could see the woman in her now, the one he had left behind all those years ago. Her back stiffened as if she felt his presence before she even turned. Slowly, she faced him, and their eyes met across the fire. For a long moment, neither moved. And then, in a voice colder than the air around them, she spoke. “You’re alive.” Jacob felt a weight drop in his chest. His daughter’s voice—so sharp, so accusing—pierced him like a bullet. It felt like the years melted away, and he was once again the young man who had left her and her mother behind, with no word, no warning. “I—” he started, but words failed him. “Where were you?” she demanded, stepping forward, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. “Where were you when they came for her? When the soldiers killed my mother? You ran, you coward!” The words hit him like blows. His knees weakened, but he stayed upright, biting back the ache in his chest. “They were looking for me, Jacob. For you. The deserter. The one who fled the army. They came for my mother because of you.” She spat the words, her face twisted with anger and pain. “I didn’t know,” Jacob said hoarsely, taking a step toward her. “I didn’t know they were looking for her.” Singing Sky’s eyes flashed with a fury that mirrored the storm brewing in the distance. “You left us. You abandoned us.” “I didn’t know—” “Enough!” she cried, stepping back from him, the weight of the past pulling her further away. “You don’t get to explain yourself, Jacob. You don’t get to come back after all this time and expect me to just accept you.” Her voice broke for a moment, and she wiped a hand across her face as if to chase away the tears. “My mother died because of you. And now you show up like nothing happened?” The wind whipped at them both, carrying the chill through their clothes and to their bones. But it wasn’t just the winter that made Jacob’s skin crawl—it was the bitter edge in her voice, the pain she carried, and the anger that she had every right to hold. He stood there, silent, unsure how to fix it. After a long beat, Jacob finally spoke. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I loved your mother, Singing Sky. And I loved you.” He couldn’t stop himself from saying it. “I didn’t run from you. I ran from everything else.” She shook her head, her face tight with anger and grief. “You ran from me. From us. And now you expect me to just forgive you? To forget what happened?” Her voice cracked, the ice around them somehow colder. He didn’t know what to say. All the excuses he could’ve made seemed hollow, lost in the years that had passed. He didn’t know how to make her understand, how to undo the mistakes he’d made. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, and the words felt as empty as the winter around them. For a long time, Singing Sky didn’t speak. She just stared at him, her eyes dark and unreadable. Finally, she spoke again, her voice quieter now, but still laced with bitterness. “You left me. And you left her.” She nodded toward the small tent on the edge of the camp, where a little girl, barely five, peeked out. “I’m raising my daughter alone, Jacob. I’m trying to protect her from the same kind of life you gave me.” Jacob’s heart clenched. He turned to look at the child—his granddaughter. Her dark eyes watched him from the tent, curious but distant, the same eyes that had once belonged to Wiyohpiyata. “I’m sorry,” Jacob said again, his voice rough with regret. “I never meant for any of this to happen.” Singing Sky’s face softened for a moment, and for just a flicker of a second, Jacob saw the girl she had once been, the little girl who had clung to his leg all those years ago. But then the moment was gone. She straightened, a guard coming back down over her eyes. “I can’t forgive you,” she said, her voice low but firm. “Not yet. And maybe not ever.” Jacob nodded, feeling the sting of her words like an open wound. But he wasn’t going to walk away. Not this time. He had no idea what the future held, but one thing was certain—he wasn’t going to leave her again. “I’ll stay. I’ll help,” he said quietly. “I’ll do what I can.” Singing Sky just nodded, turning away, the wind catching the hem of her furs. "We don’t need your help. But... you’re welcome to stay for now.” Jacob stood frozen for a moment, the weight of the years between them pressing down. But he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t walk away from this. Even if she hated him, even if the anger never faded, he was here. He would be here for her and for his granddaughter, no matter how cold the world became.

Chapter Fourteen: The Pull of Crimson Skies

Montana’s winter was long and unforgiving. The mountains stood like ancient giants, their peaks draped in snow and silence. The Lakota camp Jacob had found himself in was nestled deep within the foothills, far from the world of men, and for the first time in years, Jacob felt the weight of his past lighten, if only just a little. For four months, he had lived in the camp, as much a stranger as a familiar face. He helped with the hunting, tracking bison through the deep snow, scouting the land for dangers. His hands were rougher than he remembered, and his bones ached at the cold, but the work kept him busy, kept him from thinking too much about the past. About Wiyohpiyata. About his mistakes. And about the strange pull he felt in his chest—the pull toward Monroe, even now, so far from that place. He spent most of his time alone, a figure moving in and out of the camp's perimeter, always watching, never speaking much. He wasn’t the easiest to approach, but there was something steady about him, something familiar that the Lakota began to see. His skill with a rifle earned their respect, but it wasn’t until a child—a little girl with wide brown eyes—approached him that things began to change. She was Singing Sky’s daughter, but for a long while, Jacob hadn’t known her name. She was just a child to him, a quiet presence in the camp. At first, she watched him from afar, hiding behind her mother’s skirts when Jacob passed by. But one day, after a long hunt, she came up to him, shy but curious. Jacob was sitting by the fire, his rifle across his lap as he cleaned it. He didn’t notice her at first, until a small voice interrupted his thoughts. “Will you teach me how to use that?” the little girl asked. Jacob looked up, startled. She was standing just outside the firelight, clutching a small wooden toy rifle in her hands. Her mother wasn’t around. “Teach you?” Jacob asked, his voice rough from days spent in the cold. “A rifle’s no toy, little one.” She didn’t back down. “Mama says you know how to shoot better than anyone.” Jacob sighed, feeling the weight of the words, unsure of how to answer. “I don’t know about that. But I could show you how to hold it, if you’re careful.” Slowly, he rose to his feet, keeping his distance. The little girl stepped forward, her eyes wide with both admiration and caution. She didn’t speak for a long moment, just stared up at him. Finally, she extended her hand. “My name is Kangi,” she said softly. “I’m your granddaughter.” Jacob froze. It took him a moment to realize what she had said. His granddaughter. His heart tightened. The last time he had seen her, she had been nothing but a small child, the daughter of the woman he had loved and lost. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. But then he nodded, his rough hand reaching out slowly. “It’s good to meet you, Kangi,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He could barely believe it. Over the weeks that followed, the interactions between Jacob and Kangi grew more frequent. When Singing Sky wasn’t looking, the little girl would approach him, bringing small offerings—twigs, berries, even feathers she’d found in the snow. Jacob didn’t ask for them, but he accepted each gift, understanding that in her small way, she was trying to connect with him, to make up for the years he had missed. One afternoon, after a successful hunt, Kangi approached him again. This time, she had something special in her hands: an eagle feather, its vibrant colors a sharp contrast against the white of the snow. She held it out to Jacob, her small hands trembling. “I found this for you,” she said, her voice almost shy now. “Mama says it’s a sign of strength.” Jacob looked down at the feather, his heart swelling in his chest. Without saying a word, he took it, carefully threading it into his coat, just above his heart. Kangi’s face lit up when he did, and for the first time, Jacob felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d allowed himself to feel something like this—something soft, something pure. But even as the warmth of the camp began to seep into his bones, something stirred in the air—something darker. The quiet days in Montana were disturbed by dreams. At night, when Jacob finally found sleep, the world twisted around him. The sky over Monroe burned red, a crimson haze that blotted out the sun. There were explosions—gunshots and screams echoing across a landscape he knew all too well. In the distance, he saw criminals running wild, taking advantage of the chaos. And standing at the top of Mount Hagon, as if watching over it all, was a figure—a Strange Man. The man wore a wide-brimmed hat, just like Jacob’s, though his clothes were darker, more tattered. There was something wrong about him, something that sent a chill crawling up Jacob’s spine. He could feel the pull of the man, hear his voice echoing across the wind—though no words were ever spoken. The Strange Man stood there, silent and unmoving, like a sentinel, as the world below burned. Jacob awoke each time with a start, gasping for breath, the image of the man’s figure burned into his mind. But even after waking, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being called back to Monroe, back to the Strange Man, back to whatever was happening in that town. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t stay here forever. He had found Kangi, and he had been given a chance to make things right, but there was something still pulling him—something unfinished. Singing Sky had been watching all of it, the subtle shifts in Jacob and Kangi’s interactions. She saw the bond forming, and though she didn’t speak of it, she kept a quiet distance, her eyes ever watchful. There was no forgiveness in her heart—not yet. But she knew one thing for sure: the man who had once been her love, who had left her and their daughter to the wolves, was no longer the same man who stood before her. And as the winter days passed, Jacob’s presence began to change the camp. The people of the Lakota had softened to him, but they had not forgotten who he had been, who he still was. The past could not be buried so easily. The question remained: Would Jacob ever truly find redemption? And what was the true price of the past that he couldn’t run from forever?

Chapter Fifteen: The Eye Above Doverhill

The people of Monroe spoke of rising crime, of gangs running unchecked, of the Sheriff’s Office in Saint Denis as nothing more than a badge worn by men without honor. Some whispered about missing persons near the Roanoke Hills, others about strange lights flickering through the trees at night, lights that didn’t match the stars above. But few asked questions. Most assumed it was the rumble of industry, the cost of progress, the rot that comes with power. They were wrong. In truth, Monroe was a fracture. A wound in the world. And he had come to widen it. The Strange Man wasn’t born of flesh or time. He had stepped through the cracks between worlds long ago, not chasing the Tower like the Gunslingers once did—but watching it. Feeding on it. He was old when Mid-World was young. Perhaps even before Gan had spoken existence into being. His goal was not destruction—not in the way men understand it. He did not crave chaos for its own sake. He was an agent of dissolution. His presence in Monroe was strategic, part of a greater aim: to unmoor reality, one corrupted place at a time, until the beams cracked and the Tower, overloaded with instability, finally fell into itself. But he needed a locus—a tether. And he found it in the crumbling remnants of the Doverhill Laboratories, hidden deep in Roanoke Ridge. Doverhill had once been a technological marvel, a pet project of a mad inventor named Marko Dragic. He had died long ago under mysterious circumstances, and the lab was sealed and forgotten. That’s what the papers said, anyway. In truth, the Strange Man had taken it. He didn’t live there. He inhabited it. The old instruments were no longer measuring natural forces—they had been twisted, bent through impossible means, probing not just weather or magnetism, but reality itself. Within those walls, the Strange Man opened rifts, sent out pulses across the beam-lines, watching what broke, what bled. Through his experiments, he whispered poison into the cracks of the world. He watched the beams tremble, sent agents—unknowing or not—into positions of power to exploit the weakest links. The Sheriff’s Office, for instance, was not entirely aware of him, but the Strange Man nudged its rise, whispering promises into the minds of desperate men, always guiding them toward one simple idea: “There is no truth. There is only power.” Monroe itself was his proving ground. A state thick with corruption, vice, and decay. Gangs carved it up, rail lines twisted through its heart like veins. The old laws had long since died, and even the churches had become more about spectacle than spirit. But beneath it all, the fabric of reality had grown thin. Some nights, the air itself shimmered. Time seemed to skip a beat. Children were born speaking in tongues. A miner vanished into a shaft and was never found—but his voice echoed from the walls days later, reciting names of those not yet dead. And no one noticed. The people of Monroe chalked it up to madness, bad whiskey, or devil-luck. But the Strange Man watched from the shadows, from the peak of Mount Hagan, or the heart of Doverhill, with the patience of a being that did not measure time in days, but in epochs. Jacob had seen glimpses in his dreams. Crimson skies, smoke rising from burning buildings, shadows writhing in the alleys of Blackwater and Saint Denis. He’d seen the Strange Man standing atop Mount Hagan, arms spread wide, as the land cracked like glass beneath him. The Tower, in those visions, leaned to one side, bleeding light. And behind the man? A door of black iron, marked with the sigil of Discordia—the enemy of the White. It was clear now: the Strange Man’s aim was not merely to watch the world fall, but to use Monroe as a keystone of collapse. From the twisted remnants of Doverhill Laboratories, he would fracture more than this reality—he would pull the whole tapestry apart. Jacob knew what it meant. The Tower wasn’t just in danger. The last round hadn’t been fired after all.

Chapter Sixteen: Ka-Tet by the Fire

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The following are more dream sequences, and reactions to dreams.

EXT. RUSTIC CABIN — NIGHT

Jacob sleeps fitfully by a dying fire. Wind rattles the walls. The night outside seems alive with whispers. DREAM SEQUENCE Jacob walks through the twisted streets of Monroe. The town seems to breathe—walls pulse like veins. Lanterns flicker with crimson light. In the distance, he sees the Strange Man standing atop a hill, backlit by a blood-red moon. STRANGE MAN (V.O.) One Beam… two… three… All broken. All bleeding. The Tower cannot stand forever. Jacob reaches for his revolver—but finds his holster empty. His hands tremble.

INT. SAINT DENIS SALOON — NIGHT

Jacob pushes through the swinging doors. The music stops abruptly. Eyes turn. At a table near the back, a dealer plays cards with a grin too wide, too knowing. Jacob’s gaze locks with the dealer’s. A shiver runs down his spine. DEALER Evenin’, stranger. Care to join? JACOB I’ll pass. The dealer leans back, his smile growing. DEALER The King has plans for this place, gunslinger. Plans you can’t stop. Jacob stiffens. JACOB The King? DEALER The one at the end of all stories. When the last Beam breaks… you’ll kneel like the rest. For a flicker of a moment, the dealer’s eyes glow crimson—pupils like burning coals. Jacob’s hand inches toward his revolver—but he hesitates, cold realization creeping in.

INT. MONROE SHERIFF’S OFFICE — DUSK

The Sheriff sits behind his desk, pale and sweating. Papers scattered around him—maps of Doverhill Labs, old symbols sketched in margins. Jacob enters, calm but resolute. JACOB You know who’s behind this. The Sheriff looks up—haunted eyes, lips quivering. SHERIFF We… we made a deal. He promised us order. A new world. No more bloodshed. Jacob steps closer, his voice low. JACOB That’s not order. That’s rot. And you know it. The Sheriff’s hand trembles—he glances at a letter on his desk, sealed with a red sigil of the Crimson King.

EXT. ROANOKE RIDGE — EDGE OF DOVERHILL — NIGHT

Jacob stands on the ridge, eyes locked on the Labs below. Lightning arcs around the machinery—red energy pulses through the night. In his hand, the eagle feather Kangi gave him. He tucks it into his coat, a silent prayer. JACOB (V.O.) I know now. The Tower’s more than myth. If it falls… all of this—her, Kangi, the whole damned wheel—goes with it. He squares his shoulders, steps forward.

INT. JACOB’S CAMP — NIGHT

The fire has burned low. Jacob sits in a worn chair, staring into the embers. His eyes grow heavy, and soon he drifts into a restless sleep. DREAM SEQUENCE — MONTANA HILLS — TWILIGHT The air is heavy with mist. Jacob stands alone on a ridgeline overlooking a Lakota camp. Smoke from the fires drifts skyward, blending with the dusk. A figure stands nearby—tall, lean, wearing a simple hide tunic and leggings. Tatanka Ska. He gazes at the camp below with sorrowful eyes. Jacob approaches slowly, unsure if this is dream or memory. JACOB You’re… him. Her father. Tatanka Ska turns, his features marked by age and grief. His eyes carry the same quiet resignation Jacob knows too well. TATANKA SKA I am. And you are the one who ran. Jacob’s breath catches. The words hit him like a bullet. JACOB You left her too. Tatanka Ska nods, looking down at his hands, calloused from years of hunting and carving. A small bone pendant dangles from his wrist—a match for the one Singing Sky always wore. TATANKA SKA I thought I was protecting her. Thought leaving would spare her from the death that follows me. Jacob’s jaw tightens, eyes flicking to the camp below. JACOB I thought the same. But death comes either way. Tatanka Ska looks up, his eyes distant, almost haunted. TATANKA SKA We are the same, you and I. Marked by guilt. Burdened by ka. Jacob clenches his fists. JACOB Ka… I thought I could outrun it. Tatanka Ska steps closer, his voice gentle but unyielding. TATANKA SKA Ka is a river. It flows whether we swim or drown. But sometimes… we can guide its course. Jacob stares at him, understanding blooming like pain in his chest. JACOB And sometimes… it drowns the ones we love. Tatanka Ska nods slowly, his gaze unwavering. TATANKA SKA A man can choose to fight the current, Jacob Buchannon. Or he can let it carry him away. He reaches out, placing a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. TATANKA SKA (CONT’D) Don’t let it carry her away. FLASH OF LIGHT. Jacob jolts awake, sweat on his brow, the fire now dead. He looks down at his hand—clutching an eagle feather. Tears line his eyes as the weight of the dream settles over him. JACOB (V.O.) He and I… we’re more alike than I wanted to admit.

INT. JACOB’S CAMP — EARLY MORNING

Jacob sits at a rough-hewn table, a single candle burning. He takes a battered pencil in his calloused hand and begins to write on a scrap of parchment. JACOB’S LETTER (V.O.) Singing Sky, I don’t know if you’ll read this, or if you’ll care. But I need you to know what I saw. I dreamt of him. Your lover. Tatanka Ska. He stood beside me in the hills, looking down at your camp the way I have a hundred times. His eyes were tired. Like mine. He told me he thought leaving would save you from the death that followed him. That he feared his own shadow more than the men who hunt us. I told him I ran too. And I did. I thought the past couldn’t touch me if I kept moving. But I was wrong. Ka’s a wheel, and it always rolls back around. He told me we were the same. That guilt and fear ride the same horse. And he was right. I know I left you alone. I know I let you carry a burden I should’ve shared. I can’t change what I did. But I can tell you this: I’m done running. If there’s a chance to keep you and Kangi safe — to keep this world from burning — I’ll fight for it. For you. He told me a man can fight the current or let it drown him. I’m choosing to fight. Even if ka pulls me under, I’ll fight. You’re stronger than me. I see it in your eyes. I just hope someday you can forgive me. And maybe understand why I left — and why I came back. Your father’s gone. But I’ll try to be here, even if I’m broken. Jacob Jacob sets the letter down, staring at the words until the candle burns low. He knows the words may never be enough, but they’re all he has.

INT. LAKOTA CAMP — SINGING SKY’S TENT — DUSK

A hush settles over the camp as the sun bleeds into the mountains. Singing Sky sits cross-legged by the fire, Kangi asleep beside her. The flames dance in her dark eyes, reflecting memories she can’t shake. She holds the letter, her fingers tracing the worn edges. She’s read it a dozen times, each word heavier than the last. SINGING SKY (V.O.) He dreams of Tatanka Ska. The man who gave me Kangi. The man who left me with silence. Jacob is no different. Her fingers tremble, but she tightens her grip. SINGING SKY (V.O.) He speaks of Ka, like a curse or a blessing. But it’s just another name for leaving. For breaking hearts and making excuses. She wipes a tear with the back of her hand, but her face hardens. SINGING SKY (V.O.) Yet he says he’s done running. That he’ll fight for me. For Kangi. I want to believe him. Spirits know I want to believe. She looks at the eagle feather Jacob gave her long ago, now tied in Kangi’s hair. SINGING SKY (V.O.) Tatanka Ska left me a pendant. Jacob left me a daughter. Both left me alone. She closes her eyes. SINGING SKY (V.O.) But maybe… just maybe… Jacob can be different. If Ka wills it. She folds the letter carefully, tucking it inside her medicine bag—a place of honor. SINGING SKY (V.O.) I will wait. For now. But I will not break again. She draws a long breath, eyes fixed on the horizon where the wind carries Jacob’s name.

INT. LAKOTA CAMP — SINGING SKY’S TENT — NIGHT

The fire burns low, casting shadows on the deerskin walls. Singing Sky sits, silent tears slipping down her cheeks as she holds the letter close to her chest. KANGI stirs beside her, eyes blinking open. She’s small, but her gaze is sharp, the wisdom of the Lakota in her blood. She watches her mother in the half-light, the candle’s flame dancing on her face. KANGI (V.O.) Mama cries when she thinks I sleep. She cries for him—the man she calls a coward but loves too. She cries for the world and all the things she cannot change. Kangi shifts, small hands fidgeting with the eagle feather tied in her hair—a gift from Jacob. She remembers his eyes: sad, like hers after a hunt gone wrong. And strong, like the stories of the old warriors. She reaches out, her tiny hand brushing her mother’s arm. KANGI Mama… don’t cry. Singing Sky startles, wiping at her cheeks, trying to hide the pain. But the tears are stubborn. SINGING SKY Go back to sleep, Kangi. KANGI Was it him? The man with the old eyes? Singing Sky swallows, eyes fixed on the tent’s ceiling. She can’t lie—not to her own daughter. SINGING SKY Yes, my little eagle. It was him. Kangi looks down, brow furrowed. She’s young, but the winds of this land have aged her faster than most. KANGI (V.O.) Mama loves him. Even when she says she doesn’t. And I… I think I do too. She crawls into her mother’s lap, small arms wrapping around her neck. KANGI I love you, Mama. Singing Sky pulls her close, breathing deep. The tears stop, but the pain lingers—like the smoke of a long-dead fire. SINGING SKY And I love you, Kangi. Always. The wind whispers outside, carrying the scent of smoke, pine, and something else—destiny’s breath, carrying a man back to face his fate.

EXT. LAKOTA CAMP — DAWN

The first light of day paints the sky in bruised pink and gold. The camp is still. Smoke rises from the last embers of night fires. Jacob stands beside his horse, saddlebags packed, rifle slung across his back. His coat is worn, the eagle feather Kangi gave him tied at the lapel. He looks back one last time. Singing Sky steps from her tent, Kangi clutching her hand. Both watch him with eyes that hold every goodbye the world has ever known. Jacob walks to them, boots crunching in the frostbitten grass. He kneels before Kangi, meeting her gaze. JACOB You keep that feather close, little eagle. It’s your strength—and mine. Kangi nods, eyes bright with tears she’s too proud to shed. She presses her tiny hand into his, leaving behind a small pouch of dried sage and sweetgrass. KANGI For safe travels, Jacob. Jacob’s throat tightens as he looks up at Singing Sky. Her eyes are steady, strong, but he sees the storm behind them. SINGING SKY You always run toward trouble. JACOB This time… I’m runnin’ at it. She looks at him a long time, words caught between anger and forgiveness. Finally, she steps forward and places her hand over his heart. SINGING SKY Ka is a wheel, Jacob Buchannon. But it don’t have to crush you. Jacob covers her hand with his, the weight of a hundred regrets and a thousand hopes settling on his shoulders. JACOB If I make it through this… I’ll come back. I swear it. SINGING SKY If ka wills it. She steps back, tears at the corners of her eyes. Kangi holds her mother’s hand, but steps forward to give Jacob one last hug. KANGI (V.O.) He smells like the old stories. Like gunpowder and the wind. Like the man who might save us all. Jacob holds her close, then stands and mounts his horse. JACOB (V.O.) Ka’s a wheel, and I’ve been spinnin’ too long. Time to face what waits at the center. He tips his hat, the eagle feather catching the morning light. JACOB I’ll be seein’ you. He rides off toward the crimson glow on the horizon, where Doverhill Labs waits—and with it, the fate of every world that ever was. FADE OUT.

EXT. VALENTINE — MONROE — LATE AFTERNOON

The sun dips low, casting a warm glow over the town’s dusty streets. Valentine looks the same — weathered buildings, muddy main road, the faint smell of whiskey and sweat — but Jacob feels the change in the air. A deeper corruption has sunk its teeth into Monroe. Jacob rides in slow, the horse’s hooves clicking on the dry road. Locals glance his way, suspicious, as if they can sense the weight he carries. He nods to a few familiar faces — the blacksmith, the bartender at the saloon — but their eyes are wary. JACOB (V.O.) Every place has its own sickness. Monroe’s has always been greed and ambition. But now it’s somethin’ deeper — a shadow that crawls beneath your skin. And it’s wearin’ a smile. He ties his horse outside the Sheriff’s Office — the door hangs open, a deputy inside half-asleep, boots on the desk. Jacob hesitates, then steps back, deciding against a direct approach. He’s not ready to announce himself. Instead, he crosses the street to the VALENTINE SALOON.

INT. VALENTINE SALOON — EVENING

The air inside is thick with cigar smoke and cheap whiskey. A piano tinkles a slow, mournful tune. Jacob scans the room — old regulars, but some new faces too. Men with hard eyes and clean boots that don’t belong to a rancher’s life. He finds a table near the back, orders coffee instead of whiskey. He needs his mind clear. A barkeep recognizes him. BARKEEP Jacob Buchannon. Didn’t think I’d see you back in Monroe. JACOB Didn’t think I’d come back either. World’s got a way of callin’ you home. BARKEEP Home’s changed. Sheriff’s men take bribes to look the other way. Outlaws rule the roads. And there’s talk of men vanishing — good men. Like the land’s swallowin’ ‘em whole. Jacob’s jaw tightens. JACOB Strange Man’s behind it. I’m sure of it. But I need to know how tight a grip he’s got on this place. BARKEEP Strange Man? You mean that drifter with the dead eyes? Folks say he can talk the dead out of their graves. He’s got men in every town, Jacob. Some wear a badge, some a smile. All wearin’ his shadow. Jacob leans forward, eyes sharp. JACOB I’m gonna find the cracks in his hold. And when I do, I’m gonna tear ‘em wide open. The barkeep nods, voice low. BARKEEP Careful, Jacob. This state’s got more ghosts than men these days. Jacob looks around — at the saloon, the people, the town that’s been his refuge. He knows he’ll need allies — men who haven’t sold their souls to the Strange Man. Maybe a rancher here, a preacher there. The old deputy he trusted once. JACOB (V.O.) I’ve got to build my own ka-tet in this broken place. If the Tower’s to stand, I can’t stand alone.

EXT. VALENTINE SALOON — NIGHT

Jacob steps out into the cool night air. Stars blaze overhead, indifferent to the struggles of men below. JACOB (V.O.) Time to plan. Time to hunt. And time to finish what I started. He heads down the street, the night swallowing him as the wind carries a faint whisper: STRANGE MAN (V.O.) You can’t stop the wheel, Jacob. But you can ride it — all the way to the end. Jacob’s hand tightens on the revolver at his hip. JACOB (V.O.) We’ll see about that.

FLASHBACK — GILEAD — DAWN

The towers of Gilead rise against a pale sky, their stonework cold and gray in the morning light. Young Jacob Buchannon — no more than twelve — sits on the stone steps of the training yard. He’s small but wiry, his dark hair cut short, his eyes tired but sharp. He polishes a practice gun, the steel worn from hours of drills. Around him, older gunslingers — tall, lean, hardened — move like shadows of the legends they are. Jacob’s eyes follow them, awe and fear mixing in his chest. CORTLAND ANDRUS (O.S.) That iron’s never gonna shine if you rub it to dust, boy. Jacob jumps, nearly dropping the gun. Cortland Andrus, his teacher — the man he fears most — stands above him, arms crossed. His hawk eyes are a map of every disappointment. JACOB Sorry, Cortland. Just… tryin’ to make sure it’s right. Cortland crouches, his gaze fierce but not unkind. He takes the gun from Jacob, runs a finger along the barrel. CORTLAND A gun’s only as good as the hand that holds it. Shine it all you want — if you can’t stand steady, it’s just iron. Jacob nods, ashamed but determined. JACOB I’ll stand steady. I promise. Cortland studies him a moment, then hands the gun back. CORTLAND See that you do. The world don’t have much mercy for men who don’t know where to stand. He walks off, his long coat trailing dust. Jacob watches him go, determination burning behind his young eyes.

FLASH FORWARD — THE HALL OF THE WHITE — NIGHT

Jacob stands in the library of Gilead, hidden among tall shelves. The scent of old paper and candle smoke fills the air. He runs a finger along a map of the Beams — lines crisscrossing a circle, all leading to the Tower at the center. A small voice whispers from the darkness — the voice of his own doubt. YOUNG JACOB (V.O.) The Tower’s just a story. Just a dream. He shakes his head. YOUNG JACOB (V.O.) (CONT’D) But dreams can be real. And sometimes… they’re all that’s left. He folds the map, tucks it into his jacket. His eyes glow with a mixture of fear and resolve.

FLASH FORWARD — GILEAD TRAINING YARD — DAWN

Jacob stands with the other apprentices, waiting for his turn to face the test that will earn him his guns. His knees shake, but he hides it behind a calm mask. He looks up at the sunrise — the last one before everything changes. JACOB (V.O.) I was just a boy. But the world was already leanin’ on me.

FLASHBACK — GILEAD — THE BARRACKS — NIGHT

A cold wind rattles the wooden shutters. Jacob, no more than twelve, sits cross-legged on his small bed, a tattered blanket pulled tight. The moonlight slices through the window, painting his face in silver and shadow. He holds a small, worn locket—an old piece of iron with the sigil of the Big Coffin Hunters etched into it. He fingers it absently, torn between pride and shame. A knock comes at the door. Cortland Andrus steps in, his expression grim. CORTLAND You’re up late, boy. Jacob startles, closing the locket with a snap. He shoves it under his pillow. JACOB Just… couldn’t sleep. Cortland studies him a moment, his eyes sharper than any blade. He sits down heavily on the edge of Jacob’s bed. CORTLAND I’ve seen that locket before. The mark of the Coffin Hunters. Jacob’s eyes dart away. His heart hammers. JACOB It’s just a trinket. Doesn’t mean anything. Cortland leans closer, his voice dropping. CORTLAND It means everything, Jacob. It means you’re the son of a man who betrayed this place. Eldrid Jonas. Jacob’s eyes widen—fear and defiance mixing in his young face. JACOB I’m not him. CORTLAND No. But his blood runs in your veins. And that blood carries a debt. Jacob grips the blanket, his knuckles white. JACOB I didn’t ask for his blood. Or his name. Cortland sighs, a sound like worn leather. CORTLAND Doesn’t matter. You’ve got it. And the people of Gilead won’t forget. You’ll have to be twice the man he ever was to earn their trust. Jacob’s eyes burn. He looks up, defiant. JACOB Then I will. I’ll be better than him. Cortland nods, but his eyes are heavy with doubt—and something like pity. CORTLAND We’ll see, boy. We’ll see.

FLASH FORWARD — GILEAD’S TRAINING YARD —

Jacob stands among the other apprentices, but he stands apart—marked by his father’s shadow. Whispers drift through the air. APPRENTICE (whispering) That’s Jonas’ bastard. Shouldn’t even be here. Jacob’s jaw tightens. His hand brushes the revolver at his hip. JACOB (V.O.) I carried his blood, but I’d carry my own name. Even if it killed me.

FLASH FORWARD — INT. GILEAD LIBRARY — NIGHT Jacob stands before the ancient map of the Beams, tracing his finger toward the Tower. His eyes are determined. JACOB (V.O.) A father’s sins don’t have to be a son’s destiny. I’d walk the path, even if it broke me.

FADE OUT.