Chapter 21

• In the quiet clearing where Trillin’ Jack and Sam Riggs had set their makeshift camp, the night wore on like a slow reckoning. The marshal, having sought refuge in his threadbare blankets, was overcome by a weariness that rendered sleep a distant, elusive dream. But for Jack, sleep was an impossible luxury. With a mind haunted by ceaseless worry and the echoes of past misdeeds, he rose and began to pace the far side of the open space, as if his restless steps might one day outrun the demons within.
• Every step stirred the silent vigil of the night. Two pairs of eyes, burning with a steady, unyielding glow, tracked his every movement. Grim Fang, once a shadowy specter trailing Jack with silent loyalty, now had eased into a watchful repose. Yet even as he settled in the lingering gloom, his gaze followed Jack with a blend of admiration and sorrow, a reminder of shared burdens and unspoken loyalty. At the same time, the black stallion_ more companion than mere beast_ lay sprawled on the arid ground like a loyal hound, ears pricked in anticipation, as if awaiting a command from a master whose soul was ensnared in its own labyrinth of despair. In soft, almost questioning whinnies, the steed spoke in a language older than words, while Jack, overcome by an inward numbness, sank beside him. Leaning his weary shoulders against the sleek, satiny flank, Jack allowed his arms to sprawl along the horse’s back, seeking comfort in the unyielding warmth of the animal.
• It was in this fragile communion that fate interjected its own peculiar design. As the night deepened, and while the steady rhythm of Jack’s pacing filled the space with a quiet, relentless cadence, a cool, insistent touch brushed against his chin. Startled, he looked down to find himself gazing into the yellow-green eyes of Grim Fang, whose panting breath testified to the fervor of his earlier pursuit. From the wolf’s maw, a small object tumbled_ a delicate glove, worn by Ellie Harrington. In that moment, Jack’s long, jittery fingers clasped the tiny relic. Though its size belied its significance, the glove had clearly been molded by a hand both tender and resolute, a hand capable of stirring the very core of a man’s heart.