I knew I was bleeding out when the forms appeared.

  Not the light at the end of the tunnel they speak of in the chapel, nor the faces of my ancestors come to welcome me to the hallowed halls beyond.

  No—just Administrator Dunnock from the Royal Veridian Insurance Corps, materializing beside me on the battlefield with his immaculate ledger and three copies of Form C-117: "Injury Sustained During Sanctioned Border Action."

  "Lord Greywers," he said, unfazed by the crossbow bolt protruding from my shoulder or the screams of dying men around us. "If you could just mark your signature—or an X will suffice given your condition—we can begin processing your claim."

  I spat blood onto the churned mud. "Bit busy at the moment."

  A raider charged past, nearly trampling Dunnock, who simply sidestepped without looking up from his paperwork. The man's quill never stopped moving, even as I rolled to avoid an axe that embedded itself where my head had been.

  "Your coverage plan," he continued, "the 'Knight's Modest Protection Package,' includes basic field treatment for one primary wound per quarter. I should note your previous claim from the Thornwood skirmish has put you dangerously close to your annual limit."

  I staggered to my feet, the world tilting at unnatural angles. My sword felt as though it had tripled in weight. "Can this wait until after—"

  "Standard procedure requires immediate documentation to prevent retroactive claim denial," Dunnock said. "Although I should mention your specific policy excludes injuries sustained while protecting non-titled persons."

  The village was burning behind us. Farmers and their families fled between the buildings, desperately seeking safety that didn't exist. A woman carried a child no older than five, her face streaked with soot and terror. The raiders were gaining on them.

  "Excuse me," I said to Dunnock, and launched myself toward them.

  This, as with most decisions in my life, was a mistake.

  ***

  Three hours earlier, I'd been watching dust clouds on the horizon with Captain Eliza Dureforge, trying to look like I understood what they meant.

  "They're probing our western flank," she said, the morning light glinting off the intricate metalwork of her prosthetic hand. "Probably hoping we've left the village exposed."

  I nodded sagely, as though I'd observed the same tactical insight and not just a smudge of brown against the sky. My father always said a lord should look certain even when he isn't. He was terrible at following his own advice, which might explain our family's current circumstances.

  "I want you to take the third company and secure that approach," she continued, giving me a sideways glance that suggested she knew exactly how much experience I didn't have. "Your knights should be sufficient."

  "My knights" consisted of four aging men-at-arms who remembered my grandfather's glory days and two green boys whose families had paid handsomely to attach them to even a declining noble house. Hardly the shining cavalry showcased at tournaments.

  "Of course, Captain," I said with the confidence of someone whose arm wasn't still aching from our last encounter with border raiders.

  Captain Dureforge's gaze lingered on my left shoulder, where I'd been favoring one side. She had the unsettling quality of seeing everything without seeming to look. "Your previous injury—it's fully healed?"

  "Absolutely," I lied. The hasty field treatment I'd received had closed the wound but left a persistent ache that woke me at night. My coverage plan didn't stretch to proper restorative magic, just enough to get me back in the saddle. "The Royal Veridian Corps provides exemplary service."

  "Hmm." Her grunt contained volumes of skepticism. "Try not to die, Greywers. The paperwork's awful."

  As I walked toward my waiting men, a gleaming contingent of knights thundered past, their armor catching the sun like mirrors. At their head rode Captain Rowan Valerius, his tabard crisp and unblemished, the golden insignia of the Immortal Phoenix Insurance Collective embroidered prominently beneath his family crest.

  "Greywers!" he called down from his immaculate warhorse. "Heading out to guard the sheep again? Don't strain yourself!"

  The perfect teeth in his perfect smile made me want to introduce them to my gauntlet.

  We'd trained together as squires, before his family's connections secured him command of the elite cavalry unit while I was assigned to the inglorious task of "territorial integrity maintenance"—a fancy term for keeping bandits from stealing too many peasants.

  "Valerius," I replied with a bow so slight it bordered on insult. "I see your father's annual premium could buy a small village. The Phoenix does remarkable work—you hardly notice the emptiness behind the eyes."

  His smile tightened. "At least I won't be sewn up with pig gut when I take a hit. What does your discount coverage include these days? A drunk with a needle and some whiskey for the pain?"

  Before I could respond, a horn sounded from the eastern watchtower. Rowan's unit wheeled in perfect formation toward the main road.

  "Duty calls, Greywers. Try not to bleed on the commoners—it upsets them." He spurred his horse forward, his knights falling in behind him like a river of steel.

  I watched them go, then turned to my waiting men. Old Willem, my father's last remaining sergeant, raised an eyebrow that spoke paragraphs about nobility and its failings.

  "Impressive formation," I admitted. "Think they practice that in mirrors?"

  Willem snorted. "Wouldn't know, m'lord. Too busy doing the actual fighting to worry about looking pretty while doing it."

  I clapped him on the shoulder—his good one, as the other had never quite healed right after a pike took a chunk out of it fifteen years back. Willem had been offered a decent settlement from the Bronze Shield Collective but had spent it on his daughter's dowry instead of the regenerative treatment he needed. Some priorities run deeper than sinew and bone.

  "Well then," I said, mounting my serviceable but decidedly unimpressive horse. "Let's go guard some sheep."

  ***

  The raiders hit us harder than expected.

  They weren't the usual rabble of desperate men with crude weapons and cruder tactics. These fighters moved with coordination, wielding weapons that seemed too well-crafted for simple bandits. Most troubling were the strange glass vials some carried—filled with a viscous blue liquid that glowed faintly in the shadows.

  I'd dispatched Willem to report back to Captain Dureforge while we tried to hold the western approach to the village. The fighting had started well enough—my small unit formed a tight defensive position at a natural chokepoint on the road. But when the raiders realized they couldn't break through directly, they simply melted back into the forest.

  We'd been congratulating ourselves on repelling them when the screams began from the village behind us.

  They'd circled around—a classic flanking maneuver that I should have anticipated. By the time we'd remounted and raced back, half the village was in flames.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Now I found myself cutting through the chaos, trying to reach the woman and child before the three raiders closing in could catch them. My sword arm moved automatically, muscle memory from thousands of training hours doing what my conscious mind couldn't process fast enough. The first raider fell before he knew I was there, my blade opening his throat in a spray of crimson.

  The second was more prepared, parrying my strike and countering with a wicked curved dagger that slipped past my guard and scraped along my breastplate. I brought my pommel down hard on his wrist, feeling bones crack beneath the metal. As he recoiled, I drove my sword through the gap between his leather cuirass and belt.

  The third man was smarter. He ignored me completely, lunging for the woman instead.

  She stumbled, the child tumbling from her arms with a shriek. I abandoned all technique, throwing myself forward in a desperate dive that caught the raider around the legs. We crashed to the ground together, rolling through the dirt and ash.

  He was stronger than he looked. His elbow caught me in the temple, sending sparks across my vision. I lost my grip on my sword, scrabbling blindly as his weight pinned me down. Then his hands were around my throat, squeezing with surprising power.

  Black spots danced at the edges of my sight. I groped desperately for anything to use as a weapon. My fingers closed around something slick and cold—one of the glass vials that had fallen from his belt.

  Without thinking, I smashed it against the side of his head.

  The glass shattered. Blue liquid splashed across his face and my hand.

  He screamed—not a scream of pain but of pure terror. The raider launched himself away from me, clawing at his face as though trying to tear his own skin off. Where the liquid touched, his flesh began to ripple and shift like wax near a flame.

  I scrambled backward, watching in horror as the man's features melted and reformed, twisted into a grotesque parody of humanity. His screams turned to wet, gurgling sounds before falling silent altogether.

  My hand burned where the blue substance had touched it—not with heat but with a cold so intense it felt like flames. I wiped it frantically against the ground, leaving smears of dirt and blue across my palm.

  "What in all hells..." I muttered, staring at the now-still form of the raider. Whatever had been in that vial, it wasn't any alchemical compound I'd encountered before.

  The woman had gathered her child and was staring at me with equal parts gratitude and horror. I tried to smile reassuringly, but given the circumstances, I probably looked deranged.

  "You should—" I began, but the words died as something punched through my back.

  I looked down absurdly at the crossbow bolt protruding from just below my collarbone, the metal head gleaming wetly through the front of my armor. A curious detachment came over me—I remembered thinking how expensive it would be to repair the hole in my breastplate.

  Then the pain hit, and I fell to my knees.

  The woman fled with her child. I couldn't blame her. Behind me, I heard footsteps approaching—the distinctive sound of soft-soled boots designed for moving quietly. I tried to reach for my sword, but my arm wouldn't obey.

  "This one touched the serum," a voice said, clinical and dispassionate. "He'll need to be examined."

  "Too complicated," another replied. "Clean kill and move on. We're pulling back."

  I slumped forward onto my hands and knees, blood pattering beneath me like rain. The blue stain on my hand seemed to pulse, spreading thin tendrils up my wrist.

  Something cold pressed against the back of my head—the loading end of another crossbow, I assumed. This, then, was how the last scion of House Greywers would meet his end: face down in mud, killed by raiders who wouldn't even remember his name.

  My mother would be furious. She'd spent far too much maintaining the appearance of our family's importance for me to die so ignominiously.

  The crossbow never fired.

  Instead, there was a wet thud and a gurgling sound. The pressure against my head vanished. I turned, movements sluggish, to see my would-be executioner crumpling, an arrow protruding from his eye socket.

  Willem stood twenty paces away, already nocking another arrow.

  The remaining raider fled. Willem let him go, hurrying to my side instead.

  "You look like shit, m'lord," he observed helpfully.

  "Astounding tactical assessment," I managed through gritted teeth. "Should promote you."

  He examined the bolt. "Clean through. That's good."

  "Feels fantastic," I agreed. The world was beginning to swim around me.

  "This needs proper attention," Willem said, his gruff voice failing to hide his concern. "That Phoenix bastard brought their company healer. We could—"

  "No," I said immediately. The thought of Rowan Valerius's smug face watching as I begged for help from his premium healers was worse than the bolt. "My coverage will handle it."

  Which was when Administrator Dunnock materialized with his damnable forms.

  ***

  After I'd dispatched the raider threatening the woman and child, everything became hazy. I remember Willem arguing with Dunnock while helping me onto my horse. I recall Captain Dureforge arriving, her face grim as she surveyed the aftermath.

  "The raiders?" I asked her, struggling to stay upright in the saddle.

  "Routed," she said shortly. "Though they got away with more grain stores than I'd like. Your warning gave us time to prevent worse."

  I nodded, immediately regretting the movement as the world tilted sickeningly.

  "You need treatment," she said, eyeing the bolt still protruding from my shoulder. "That's beyond a field medic."

  "I'll manage," I said, though we both knew I was bleeding too much.

  Captain Dureforge's expression softened marginally. "There's a Royal Corps station two hours' ride."

  I doubted I'd remain conscious that long, but I nodded anyway. I'd seen too many knights bankrupted by out-of-network emergency treatments to risk it. The bolt hadn't hit anything immediately vital—I think I'd have noticed dying faster—and my coverage would deny the claim entirely if I sought unauthorized care.

  As Willem helped me toward the road home, I looked back at the village. Rowan's men were helping extinguish fires and gather the dead. Say what you would about his personality, his unit did good work. Amidst the activity, I caught Rowan watching me, his expression unreadable from this distance.

  I managed a weak salute, which he returned after a moment's hesitation. Some rivalries run deeper than others, but there's a basic understanding among those who've bled on the same ground.

  The journey back to my keep passed in a blur of pain and increasing cold. By the time we arrived, I could barely feel my left arm, and the strange blue stain had spread halfway to my elbow, tracing ethereal patterns beneath my skin.

  As servants helped me dismount, a messenger approached, bearing a letter sealed with the royal crest.

  "Wonderful timing," I muttered, swaying on my feet. "The kingdom requires my urgent attention while I bleed to death."

  Willem took the letter, tucking it into his belt. "It'll wait."

  The castle surgeon—a kindly but limited man whose knowledge extended primarily to setting bones and stitching simple wounds—blanched when he saw the crossbow bolt and the blue corruption spreading up my arm.

  "My lord," he said carefully, "this is beyond my skill to treat properly."

  "Just get the bolt out and stitch it closed," I told him. "I'll visit the Royal Corps office tomorrow."

  He looked doubtful. "This wound... there's something unnatural about it."

  I laughed, though it came out as more of a wheeze. "That makes two of us then."

  As he prepared his instruments, I caught sight of my reflection in a polished metal plate. Pale as death, with blood-matted hair and dirt-streaked face. The once-proud green eyes of House Greywers looked back at me, dulled with pain and something else—the crushing weight of knowing I wasn't equal to the legacy I'd inherited.

  The surgeon offered me a leather strap to bite down on. I accepted it gratefully.

  "The letter, my lord?" Willem asked, perhaps trying to distract me as the surgeon positioned his tools around the bolt.

  "Probably another summons to court to explain why our border patrols require additional funding," I said. "Or complaints about my failure to attend the last three ceremonial functions."

  The surgeon gripped the crossbow bolt firmly. "Ready, my lord?"

  I nodded, biting down on the leather.

  As white-hot pain exploded through my chest, I heard Willem tearing open the royal seal.

  "My lord," he said, his voice suddenly tight. "It's a direct summons from the Lord Chancellor. Your presence is required at court... within two weeks."

  The surgeon extracted the bolt with a sound I hope never to hear again. Fresh blood poured from the wound, alarmingly dark and streaked with blue.

  Two weeks.

  In my current state, I'd barely be able to ride in a month, let alone present myself appropriately at court. The implications were clear—either appear as befitted my station or acknowledge my house's inability to maintain even the basic appearances of nobility.

  "Well," I said, as the world began to darken around the edges, "that complicates matters."

  The last thing I remember before consciousness fled was the surgeon's worried face as he examined the strange blue patterns spreading beneath my skin, and his whispered words:

  "This is no natural wound, my lord. You need more help than I can give."

  More help than I could afford, he meant. Unless...

  I'd heard whispers among the wounded knights. Tales of an alternative when conventional options failed. A name spoken in hushed tones between men desperate enough to risk everything:

  The Twilight Covenant.

  Then, darkness claimed me, and I knew nothing more.