“Some creations,” he whispered to himself, “can only be built with two hearts working as one.”

He was called The Gunslinger—a name spoken in fearful whispers.

“I thought I could be a god,” he said, his voice breaking. “But I’m just a man.”

It wasn’t the waters that claimed men. It was the songs—the songs of the forgotten.

The bond was sacred, a melding of spirit and will. Without it, he could never fly among the clouds,

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, though she did not know if she spoke to the beast or herself.

His inspiration, like Seraphine’s wings, would carry him wherever he needed to go.

And so there he was, alone in the skies, with not only his treasure but theirs as well.

“Dad,” she said, her voice breaking. “We have to get out of here.”

“Evening,” she said, her voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “You’ve made a mistake.”

“Forge it anew,” the stranger said, his voice cold as iron in winter. “But be warned, it will bind you.”

“Tell them, child… tell them you have disposed of the night mare. Should they dare return, so shall I.”