A Knife in the Dark

Day 25 – If You Want the Throne, Take It

There were only two ways to kill a man like Cole.

One: Make the people turn on him. Cut out his support, break his grip on the town.

Two: Put a knife in his ribs and hope you live long enough to see morning.

Malcolm had tried the first way.

It wasn’t going to work.

Cole’s men were too loyal. Too afraid of him. They weren’t farmers or shopkeepers. They were killers.

If Malcolm wanted Cole dead, he had to do it himself.

Quick. Quiet.

Before anyone knew what had happened.

And if it cost him his own life?

So be it.

Cole never went anywhere alone.

But he had a habit—one that Malcolm had memorized.

Every night, after the ration counts, Cole would go to the old sheriff’s office, sit at the desk, pour himself a drink, and look at his map.

Planning.

Always planning.

For the next raid, the next execution, the next way to remind Jackson Ridge who was in charge.

Malcolm stood outside the building, heart steady, knife in his sleeve.

He wasn’t going to use a gun. Too loud.

This had to be silent.

Final.

Malcolm pushed the door open, stepping inside.

Cole was exactly where he expected—sitting at the desk, tracing a path across the old map.

The lantern glow flickered against the walls, making the room feel smaller than it was.

Cole didn’t look up.

"That you, Reese?"

Malcolm swallowed. His fingers brushed the knife hilt.

"Yeah," he said. "It’s me."

Cole smirked. "Something on your mind?"

Malcolm took one step forward.

Then another.

He could see it now.

The moment where the knife slid between Cole’s ribs, the way his breath would catch in his throat.

One move. One moment.

Then—

A shadow moved in the corner.

Malcolm’s body locked up.

He wasn’t alone.

And then—

A gun cocked behind him.

"Well," Cole said, leaning back in his chair. "Guess that answers my question."

Malcolm’s blood went cold.

He had been expecting me.

Slowly, Malcolm turned his head.

Standing in the doorway was Grady, one of Cole’s best men.

Shotgun in hand. Finger on the trigger.

Cole chuckled. "You know, I was really hoping you were smarter than this, Reese."

Malcolm clenched his fists. "So what now?"

Cole stood, grabbing the bottle of whiskey off his desk.

"Now?" He took a slow sip. "Now you learn what happens when you try to kill a king."

Then he nodded to Grady.

"Take him to the pit."

Malcolm’s arms ached, his wrists bound as he was dragged through town.

People watched from their windows, silent.

Nobody moved to help him.

Nobody dared.

By the time they reached the old grain storage pit, Malcolm knew he wasn’t getting out of this easy.

Grady yanked him toward the edge, smirking. "Boss says you get to cool off for a while."

Malcolm’s jaw clenched. "Tell Cole I’ll see him real soon."

Grady’s smirk widened. "Oh, I hope so."

Then he shoved him over the edge.

Malcolm’s body slammed against the dirt floor, pain shooting up his side.

Above, Grady laughed, then walked away.

Leaving Malcolm alone.

Alone in the dark.