The Cenus Taker

The road gave up before the mountains did.

Jace Rawlins eased his mule to a stop where the wagon ruts thinned into nothing but broken stone and roots. The ridgeline ahead rose like a wall—dark timber, thick as a closed fist, with mist clinging low in the hollows. No fences. No smoke. No sign of welcome.

He checked the leather satchel at his side. Inside were his census sheets, neat and official, stamped with a government seal that meant less out here than a handshake—or a warning.

"Just names ...