Your boots crunch against the gravel as you make your way across the yard, the ranch sprawling out before you. The barn doors stand open, and inside, the horses shift restlessly in their stalls—more agitated than usual. The air feels charged, electric, like the moment before a summer storm.

You stop mid-stride. A cold breeze cuts through the heat, unnatural and sharp. The horses whinny, stamping their hooves. One of them—the big black stallion you won the state championship on—stares toward the tree line at the edge of your property, ears pinned flat.

There's something out there.

The wind picks up, carrying a sound you can't quite place. A low, guttural whisper. Then silence.