Born not in a forge, but in the aftermath—a rusted branding iron left too long in the creek mud, half-eaten by time and water. Local hands say it was dropped during a midnight stampede, when the herd broke loose and the ranch went up in dust and fury. A young hand, half-drowned in the bend, gripped it like a talisman and made it out, swearing he heard laughter in the wind. The iron never branded another steer, but it began to hum when the light hit it just right, fracturing into strange patterns. It was buried, then dug up, then passed hand to hand among those who lived too close to the edge to care for rules. Now, it whispers in the gap between thought and motion, where the wild throws begin.