The sun was setting behind the jagged hills, casting long shadows across the plains. Dust swirled in the dry heat, settling over the cracked earth like a shroud. It was the kind of twilight that stirred restlessness in men's hearts, especially those with dark dealings on their minds. And nobody knew that better than Charlie St. Peter.
At just 19, Charlie was already a legend across the frontier. Part outlaw, part sorcerer—though he'd never admit to the latter—he ran with the McMiller Gang, a group of hardened men who trusted in guns, grit, and just a hint of magic. Charlie stood out because he was young, brash, and dangerous. And his name—two first names—added a sense of mystery that followed him like a ghost.
The town of Black Hollow lay ahead, dim lanterns flickering through the haze of evening. It was the sort of place the McMiller Gang frequented: not too big, not too small, and corrupt enough that law and crime mingled freely. As Charlie rode into town, his horse's hooves thudding softly against the dirt, he glanced over his shoulder. Behind him were the core members of the gang.
There was Big Tom McMiller, the leader, a giant of a man with hands like sledgehammers and a temper to match. Beside him rode Saul "Sparks" O'Reilly, a wiry tinkerer whose magic fused with mechanics. He could make a revolver spit fire or a steam engine run with a mere thought. On the other side, Louise "Lynx" Larkin, their sharpshooter, kept her eyes on the rooftops—always prepared for an ambush. And then there was Marcus Boone, or "Boone the Hexer," a man who spoke less and cast more, his talents in spellcraft the darkest in the group.
"Black Hollow looks quieter than I remember," Lynx muttered, brushing a strand of dirty blonde hair from her face. Her rifle was strapped to her back, but her hand hovered near her pistol.
Charlie said nothing, his eyes scanning the town. He felt it too—the calm before a storm. Something wasn't right. The air itself seemed to buzz with anticipation, like static before a lightning strike. It was more than just the usual tension of a job.
Charlie adjusted his coat, the embroidered sigil of the St. Peter family crest catching the dim light. He'd left that life behind long ago—the son of a wealthy rancher turned outlaw, a life of riches traded for danger and infamy. The sigil didn't matter anymore, but he wore it as a reminder. The world had changed, and so had he. Ever since magic and the machines of the industrial revolution collided, nothing had been the same.
"What's the plan?" Sparks asked, pulling a small device from his saddlebag. It hummed and whirred as he twisted its gears, some combination of magic and technology keeping it alive. "This ain't a regular holdup, is it?"
"Nope," Charlie replied, his voice low. "There's somethin' else here tonight. Bigger than the score."
Big Tom grunted. "You've got that look again, Charlie. Like you're seein' things none of us are."
Charlie could feel it—the tug. Some called it magic, others called it a curse. For Charlie, it was both. He had a knack for sensing the invisible threads that connected events and places, a gift passed down through his bloodline. Sometimes it showed him the future; other times, it showed him what lurked in the shadows.
They reached the saloon, a dilapidated wooden structure with flickering lights and a soft piano melody drifting through its swinging doors. Charlie swung off his horse, his boots landing heavily on the ground. The others dismounted too, each one adjusting their gear, but they all watched Charlie, waiting.
"Inside," he said, his tone final. "We're meetin' someone. But don't get comfortable. Things are about to get interesting."
As they stepped through the doors of the saloon, the smoky air enveloped them. Men sat at tables gambling, drinking, and speaking in hushed tones. A bartender with a mechanical arm polished a glass behind the counter. Charlie scanned the room, his eyes locking on a figure in the back corner, cloaked in shadows. The pull in his chest tightened.
The figure stood as they approached, tall and lean, a wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face. His voice was low, barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the noise of the saloon. "Charlie St. Peter."
Charlie tilted his head, his hand resting casually on the grip of his revolver. "That's my name."
"I've been waitin' for you. Word travels fast when the McMiller Gang rides into town."
"And who might you be?" Big Tom asked, his voice a rumble.
The stranger didn't answer directly. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, glowing object—a fragment of something ancient, something powerful. Charlie's pulse quickened. He recognized it instantly.
"You're lookin' for this, aren't you?" the stranger said, his eyes glinting in the dim light.
"Maybe," Charlie replied carefully. "Depends on what it is."
The stranger smirked. "It's a key."
"A key to what?"
"To a future where magic ain't just for the gifted few. A world where men can build their own power."
The McMiller Gang exchanged glances, and the tension thickened.
The stranger stepped closer, his voice dropping even lower. "Interested?"
Charlie didn't flinch, but the feeling inside him—the pull—grew stronger. "I reckon I am. But you better start talkin' fast, or this key might end up in someone else's hands."
The stranger's smile widened. "Oh, you'll want to hear what I have to say, Charlie St. Peter. Because this key... it's the beginning of the end."
Outside, the wind picked up, howling through the streets of Black Hollow. Inside, the McMiller Gang leaned forward, on the verge of something bigger than any heist they'd ever imagined.
And Charlie? He could feel it, deep in his bones. The storm had just begun.
