The desert didn’t sleep. Even after night fell, the wind kept whispering across the sand, curling around dead branches and old bones under a pitiless moon. Somewhere out there, something howled. Folks liked to say it was a wolf, others weren’t so sure.

They called him the Shadow of the West and Silas hated the name, it stuck, like blood under fingernails. The dry desert air carried the scent of creosote and gunpowder as he dismounted Midnight, his massive black stallion who nickered and stamped impatiently. The horse's warm breath fogged slightly in the cool night air.

“It has flair,” Nyx hummed inside his skull, “you’d rather they call you ‘that miserable bastard who never smiles’?” Silas grunted in his head, ignoring the entity's sardonic tone as he adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, the frayed red band scratching against his calloused fingers.

He reached the edge of the ghost-town, a scrap heap of saloons with shattered windows, collapsed stables, and crooked porches listing precariously. The wooden structures creaked in the wind, their shadows stretching long and menacing under the silver moonlight. A single house stood apart with lamplight flickering inside, casting yellow squares on the dirt and revealing shadows pacing back and forth.

The bastards had picked the wrong person to steal. Not that he cared about the kidnapped man, it was the principle. At least that’s what he told himself as he spat tobacco juice into the dust and reached for his revolver.

He loaded one bullet into the chamber with a metallic click that seemed loud in the silence. One shot. That’s all he’d need. Then he kicked the door open, the wood splintering with a satisfying crack.

Two men shouted, reaching for their own guns, but Silas was faster. He pulled the trigger, the shot echoing through the night as one man fell. The second reached for a knife, but Silas moved like a shadow, disarming him with a swift punch that crunched against bone.

That's when he saw him. Tied to a chair in the corner, shirt torn to reveal pale skin marred with bruises, blood at the corner of his mouth. Bruised but thankfully breathing, and even in this godforsaken hellhole, the man had the nerve to smile – maybe it was an odd way of saying thank you, or perhaps shock.

Silas paused, something tightening in his chest he couldn’t name. Beautiful wasn’t a word he used often, but it fit. Even battered and bound, the man had an elegance to him that seemed out of place in this squalid room.

“Mm. He fits well there,” Nyx said lazily, almost in a low purr that sent an uncomfortable shiver down Silas's spine. He pushed the thought away, crouching to cut the ropes with his knife. The man swayed as the bindings fell away, and before he could collapse, Silas hoisted him up easily and threw him over his shoulder like a bag of grain.

The man was lighter than he looked, warm against Silas's back through his poncho. He felt a faint breath against his neck and tensed, adjusting his grip as he stepped out into the cooling night, the desert wind whipping his braids against his face.