The fair folk hate Cold Iron, Montana, and not because of its name or the horseshoes over its doors. They hate it because it’s a sore on the world–a pucker in the ley lines. They make war on it.

Roads to Cold Iron erupt with weeds; those who drive them go in circles for hours. Animals yowl and bolt, and mine walls slump to mud. Nearby developments wash away their money. Bloated squirrels clog its wells.

Cold Iron’s empty of people. It has been for a century. The fair folk are still fighting: they can’t see into it to know.