Chapter 1: Seven Lanterns and Seven Shadows

Caleb Morrison watched the last of the seven porch lanterns flicker out. One by one.

The night air was thick—muddy, rain-soaked, and close. As the last glow faded from those old bulbs, the front porch fell into deep shadow. He gripped the railing, knuckles white. Damn, he was tense. Each light going out felt like another piece of his resolve slipping away, leaving only the distant hum of crickets and the dull ache in his chest.

That fire? Gone. The burning drive in his chest—the fire that had fueled his dreams of restoring the old family name and bringing order back to Maple Heights—was snuffed out too.

He stood there for a long moment, feeling the weight of generations pressing down on his shoulders. The Morrison name had meant something, once. Once. Now, with darkness settling in, it seemed to belong to another time, another man. His breath caught, and for the first time in years, he wondered if he’d ever truly belonged here at all.

He blinked. Had he finally lost it? When he opened his eyes again, he found himself staring at a crowd of strangers who all looked exactly like him…

Maybe it was the porch light messing with him. But no—there they were. A whole crowd, each one a mirror of his own face, standing in the kitchen and spilling into the hallway. It was like stepping into a carnival funhouse, only the mirrors had come to life and were all talking at once.

Different walks of life. Same name: Carter.

Some wore flannel shirts, some business suits, others jeans and work boots caked with red clay. Their accents ranged from clipped city drawls to deep, rolling Southern vowels. A sheriff’s badge? Seriously? One even wore one. But whenever someone called out, “Hey, Carter!” every head turned.

He tried to make sense of it. He really did. The town councilman spent a long time staring, trying to wrap his head around the bizarre scene before him.

He rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on. Was this some kind of fever dream? He’d seen a lot in his years on the council, but nothing like this—a whole kitchen full of Carters, each arguing over the best way to fix a county fair or run a town meeting. Even the coffee pot sounded smug, gurgling in the background, as if mocking his confusion.

It was like Old Man Jenkins’ ghost had wandered in, or maybe Mayor Langley himself. The feeling was uncanny, like the past had looped around to haunt him. Caleb half-expected to see the old mayor’s cane tapping against the floorboards, or to hear Jenkins muttering about the price of corn. Instead, it was just these Carters, all too real. All too familiar.

Same face, same build. Different skills, though. These Carters shared his face and frame, but each had their own unique talents.

One was flipping through zoning maps. “Shortest route through Wolf Creek? Please.” Another scribbled numbers on a napkin, a third argued about the best route through Wolf Creek. Their voices overlapped, a chorus of opinions, each one certain they knew best. Caleb couldn’t help but feel both amused and overwhelmed—like he’d stumbled into a town hall meeting where every speaker was his own stubborn self.

The kitchen turned into a shouting match. The other Carters were bickering, each arguing about who they were and where they came from.

The kitchen echoed with, “I was the one who fixed the water main in ’98!” and “You only think you ran the parade, I did!” A couple even started comparing scars. Caleb leaned against the fridge, watching the circus unfold, wishing he had a cold beer in hand.

But one stood apart. He didn’t join the circus. He picked up the county map from the kitchen table and studied it intently, quiet and deep in thought.

He just traced roads with a finger, calm as a pond. This Carter didn’t join the squabble. Instead, he traced the winding roads with a steady finger, eyes narrowed in concentration. His calm presence cut through the noise—a still lake in the middle of a storm. Caleb found himself drawn to him, sensing a kindred spirit beneath the surface.

Caleb kept his voice low, not wanting to spark another round. “What do you think about the current situation, Carter?”

A heartbeat of quiet. His question hung in the air, the kitchen falling silent for a moment.

That Carter smiled and replied, “I’m the Executive Director of the Northeast District, but you can just call me Quinn Carter.”

There was a quiet confidence in Quinn’s voice—a tone that said he’d seen it all and then some. He tipped his chin, offering Caleb a wry grin, as if to say, ‘We’ve both been around the block, haven’t we?’

Caleb replied, “I just woke up and can’t keep track of all those titles. Quinn Carter it is.”

He managed a tired grin. Maybe they’d get along after all. There was something about the way Quinn shrugged off the formalities that made him instantly likable—someone who’d roll up his sleeves and get to work, no questions asked.

Quinn Carter said seriously, “We’re out. Time to fall back. Give me a solid compound bow, let Will tag along with his knife. The two of us can hold off the whole rival crew and cover the retreat back to Silver Hollow. Then we’ll regroup.”

He spoke with the precision of a man used to making hard calls. The mention of Will Young’s name drew a nod from the crowd—everyone knew Will. If it bled, he could handle it. Quinn’s plan was simple, gutsy, and just crazy enough to work.

Sounded good to Caleb. He nodded at Will.

He clapped Will on the shoulder. “You heard the man. Watch his back.” Will just nodded, jaw set, the kind of silent agreement that meant he was ready for whatever came next.

Quinn Carter, riding shotgun with Will in an old pickup, rolled up to the front of the rival gang’s camp to throw down the gauntlet. The truck rattled, old shocks groaning.

The truck’s engine rattled as they bounced down the dirt road, headlights cutting through the mist. Quinn leaned out the window, bow resting across his lap, while Will checked his knife with practiced hands. Bikes roaring, colors flapping like a dare. The camp ahead was a mess of tents and roaring bikes, the rival gang’s colors fluttering in the night breeze.

Samuel Price, who’d been waiting night and day for news of Caleb’s downfall and itching to take over Maple Heights, suddenly got word from the lookout:

His right-hand man came running, breathless. “Boss, you ain’t gonna believe this—Caleb Morrison’s at the gate. He looks ten years younger.”

No mistake. Caleb, right there on the front lines. Caleb Morrison himself had shown up at the front lines.

Samuel was floored. He hadn’t expected this. He climbed up the old water tower and, sure enough, it was Caleb—only younger.

The wind whipped at his jacket as he peered through binoculars. There, by the bonfire, stood a man with Caleb’s face, but he looked like he’d shaved off a decade. Samuel felt a chill crawl up his spine. Was this some kind of trick?

No way. No damn way!

He muttered it under his breath, his voice barely steady. The men around him looked nervous, glancing at each other for answers. Samuel spat over the side of the tower, trying to steady himself.