And that was when she saw it.
A tattoo above his heart.
A crude number surrounded by a cavalry wreath.
7.
Ayana stopped breathing.
The cabin vanished.
She saw flames.
Her father crawling through snow.
Men in blue coats kicking open lodge doors.
A soldier firing into a running horse.
Her mother screaming Nayati’s name.
Ayana’s hand found a metal cup on the bedside table.
She threw it.
The stranger ducked.
“You’re one of them!”
He straightened.
His expression changed.
Not surprise.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
“Yes.”
The word was quiet.
Ayana lunged.
She never reached him.
Her injured shoulder buckled and she struck the floor.
The stranger caught her before her head hit the boards.
She fought him anyway.
“Let me go!”
“Ayana—”
Her body went rigid.
“How do you know my name?”
He released her immediately.
She backed against the bed.
His face had gone pale.
Ayana’s fear sharpened into something worse.
“How do you know my name?”
He looked toward the fire.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he reached into a small wooden box.
He removed a folded scrap of cloth.
Ayana recognized it immediately.
Ka’s turquoise pendant was wrapped inside.
She stopped moving.
The stranger placed it on the table between them.
“I found this near you.”
Ayana snatched it.
Her fingers trembled.
The stone was streaked with dried blood.
“She was my sister.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do not say that.”
He fell silent.
Ayana clutched the pendant.
Then she looked at his tattoo again.
“Black Mesa.”
The man closed his eyes.
“You were there.”
It was not a question.
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
Ayana reached for the fire poker.
He did not move.
Her fingers closed around iron.
“You burned my home.”
“No.”
“You killed my father.”
“No.”
“You rode with them!”
“Yes.”
She stood despite the pain.
“Then you are them.”
Something cracked behind his eyes.
He slowly unbuttoned his shirt.
Ayana tightened her grip on the poker.
Across his chest were scars.
Old bullet wounds.
Knife marks.
Burns.
But she saw something else.
Hanging from a leather cord around his neck was a tiny brass locket.
He opened it.
Inside was a faded portrait of a woman holding a little girl.
“My wife,” he said.
His voice changed.
“And my daughter.”
Ayana said nothing.
“They died six weeks after Black Mesa.”
“Why should I care?”
“You shouldn’t.”
That answer surprised her.
He closed the locket.
“My name is Gideon Thorne.
I rode with the Seventh.
I followed orders I should have refused.
I watched men do things I told myself I couldn’t stop.”
Ayana’s grip tightened.
“I didn’t shoot your people.”
“But you watched.”
“Yes.”
“You wore their coat.”
