Two days after the Silver Claw Gang battle, winter stopped being polite about its intentions. Hunter woke to frost patterns on his window that looked like territorial claims written in ice. The message was clear: seven weeks until the real assault begins. Seven weeks to prepare for cold that killed as efficiently as any cultivator.
He stood on the waystation wall watching his breath form clouds. Below, the settlement moved through morning routines with the practiced efficiency of people who'd learned that survival required organization. Forty eight lives. His responsibility. His burden.
His insurance adjuster brain from his past life kept trying to calculate the liability. Forty eight dependents. Zero formal training. One accidental bandit king with imposter syndrome and a cheerful system that thought murder was a personality trait.
