His father worked as a bounty hunter. He lived and died by the gun before Alistair turned ten. His mother raised him alone. She was a woman of wisdom. She taught him patience. She instilled discipline. She showed him the value of knowledge.

  As a child, Alistair's hands grew familiar with the cold metal of a gun. His obsession was his father's old revolver. It was too heavy for a boy. He practiced every day and night. He drew, aimed, and fired at makeshift targets in the open fields. By fifteen, he could shoot faster than any grown man in town. Accuracy became his religion. One shot. One kill.

  Others in his town saw guns as tools for survival. Alistair saw them as instruments of precision. They were an extension of himself. He never wasted a bullet. Each shot had a purpose. He never fired in anger.

  Then came the night he lost his eye.

  It was a job gone wrong, an ambush in a crumbling saloon. A bullet meant for his skull grazed his right eye instead, leaving him half-blind and forever changed. He should have died, but instead, something awakened in him—a sense beyond sight. He learned to listen to the air, to feel the presence of a target before they moved. Some called it instinct, others luck, but Alistair believed in something deeper.

  His interest in the mysterious started then. In his recovery, he applied himself to the study of ancient magic, the mystic arts, and lost texts on psychic activity. He read ancient texts of rituals, telepathy, control of energy—anything that hinted at the possibility that there was power other than in the physical realm. He was convinced that if one could control his mind to an unimaginable extent, even a blind man would be able to see.

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  Alistair stayed as sharp as the weapon he carried. He stood tall and wiry. Years of precise movement shaped his body. Unwavering control defined him. His face held the rugged handsomeness of a man who had seen too much. His left eye shone icy blue and cut through lies. His right eye was long gone. A black leather eyepatch covered it. He wore it with the quiet pride of a survivor. His hair was once golden. It had faded to a pale, ashen blonde.

  His gunslinging skills remained unmatched. He hit moving targets from impossible distances. He shot the wings off a fly. He reloaded faster than most men could blink. He favored revolvers. They were sleek, polished, and deadly. He never carried more than necessary. He believed skill mattered more than excess.

  Alistair was a deadly man. He was an enigma to those around him. He spent hours on the range. He practiced incessantly or sat slumped across dusty tomes. He scratched symbols across the pages of his palms. He muttered words in forgotten tongues. Some thought him mad. Others believed he might uncover something.

  When the letter arrived in his mailbox, he knew who it was from before even opening it. Clavius. A call to action.

  Alistair sighed, tucking the letter into his coat. A missing woman. A tangled web of power.

  And perhaps, somewhere in the darkness of the city, a secret waiting to be uncovered.