North into Rekinvale Keep, the elevated stronghold stood firm against the alpine chill, its war chamber a stark contrast to the mountain winds outside. Colorful insignias from various houses draped the stone walls, lending a touch of grandeur to the otherwise unadorned space. Lords, seated on rugged wooden chests, spoke over the rhythmic clangs of construction above, their voices weaving through the thick scent of sawdust and damp stone.

  Despite the grim purpose of their gathering, a warm nostalgia lingered in the air—the old guard indulging in tales of past glories, long predating the war with Mansour. Behind them, heirs and squires stood at silent attention, banners in hand, their eyes keen as they absorbed every exchange. Lessons in rank and rivalry, threaded effortlessly into the dance of courtly intrigue—tools they would one day wield in their own ascent to the queen’s court.

  At the far end of the chamber, Sir Bradfrey’s command took prime position, yet all eyes were drawn to the blue-and-white checkered banner of the fort commander—Lord Hendricks. He stood beside an elongated wooden plaque that stretched down the wall, adorned with painted metal crests and the names of those who had once served him. Among the great houses displayed, nestled inconspicuously beneath the split black-and-white crest, were two names: House Bradfrey, Snr and Jnr.

  Stroking his white beard, Lord Hendricks gazed out the open window, his gentlemanly posture refined by the arm clasped behind his back. Below, the fortress took shape—stone walls rising in quiet defiance against the smoke-stalked mountain passes.

  “The queen’s efforts to pacify the north have faltered,” he droned, fighting through a deep resignation. “Our raiding parties suffer more casualties than captures, and we are too few men to control the highlands. Even with your arrival, the north knows no conqueror, and the Greater Northern Steppe remains undefeated.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Amos interjected dryly.

  “A heretical horde confronted us a few days back,” announced a lord clad in gray and green, drawing the room’s attention.

  Lord Hendricks turned, his interest piqued. “Vikings?”

  “More than likely,” the lord replied. “Bjarke was there, aided by a pair of pagan sorcerers.”

  At the opposite end of the chamber, Sir Bradfrey, more preoccupied with the dirt wedged beneath his fingernails than the council’s deliberations, spoke without looking up. “Likely Verivix and his apprentice, Kulum.” His indifference hung in the air, the dismissiveness in his words suggesting a familiarity with the subject he had no desire to revisit.

  “Pragians?” Lord Hendricks inquired.

  “Associated, yes. Aligned? Let’s say it’s been a few years since I’ve engrossed myself in Pragian politics.”

  “Heretics, the lot of them,” a Templar lord growled, rallying cheers and stamping feet from his knights. The clamor sent a wave of interruptions rippling through the lesser nobility.

  “Yet a wizard saved us,” the lord in gray and green countered.

  “A WITCH.”

  “An ANGEL, if you will.”

  “ENOUGH,” Lord Hendricks boomed, silencing the room. He turned to Sir Bradfrey. “Perhaps you could elaborate?”

  Sir Bradfrey finally looked up. “Her name is Anneliese. We were divided, trapped, and about to be overwhelmed by Verivix’s horde. Then some…”

  “Satanic forces,” Amos blurted, unashamed by his insubordination.

  Sir Bradfrey paused, his authority challenged. His sharp gaze swept across the room, silencing every murmur and pinning each man in place. With a deliberate shift in posture, he straightened, but when he spoke, his voice faltered, unable to fully muster the gravitas of command.

  “Some Spiritual, possibly magical intervention,” he declared. “It channelled through her, shifting heaven and earth. The mountain collapsed, consuming the horde and sparing our lives.”

  “Is she with you?” Lord Hendricks asked, his eyes narrowing toward Amos, as though gauging his disapproval more than seeking Sir Bradfrey’s answer.

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  “She is,” Bradfrey confirmed. “An orphan raised under the church. I’ve known her since she was young. She’s developed a talent for the quill and an insatiable appetite for knowledge.”

  “We’ve burned witches for less,” Amos murmured, his words barely audible but sharp enough to send uneasy glances around the room.

  Yet the banner of Duke De La Castell, under which Sir Bradfrey served, spoke louder than dissenting whispers. Rising to his feet, Sir Bradfrey cleared the air. “Bjarke and his war band pillaged her township, slaughtering all but ten women and children, many of whom still scream in their sleep. Anneliese has lived their cruelty, but unlike most of you, she can’t swing a sword.”

  “Hmm,” Lord Hendricks mused, stroking his beard. “By the authority of our sovereign queen, this is my barrack, but this is your army. I was absent from these events, so I will not pass judgment. The decision is yours, Sir Bradfrey. How shall we attend to this girl?”

  The chamber erupted with murmurs of debate, but a sudden blast of warning horns sliced through the din. All eyes snapped to the arched windows behind Sir Bradfrey’s bannermen.

  As the nobility bickered over the approaching threat, Sir Bradfrey was already moving. He left their squabbles behind, striding from the keep without hesitation. His gambeson hung half-fastened, barely secured in his haste, his steps carrying him down into the chaos unfolding in the outer bailey.

  Below, Rekinvale soldiers had overstepped their orders, their aggression simmering just short of open conflict. A cluster had taken to the walls, shouting down at the approaching figures beyond the barricade. Others stood rigid near the gate, hands tightening around their sword hilts, their posture signaling not defense, but a readiness to take no prisoners.

  Beyond the palisade, gypsy-wood folk spilled from the forest’s edge, their movements chaotic yet strangely jubilant. They approached the gate with raised voices and outstretched arms, offering tribute to the garrison that had stood against the horrors in the mountains.

  Bradfrey’s gaze flicked toward the back gate—Templar knights were mounting their horses, a clear sign that ill tidings awaited the gypsy-wood folk.

  The air was combustible—one misstep, one unsheathed blade, and this would become a slaughter.

  Bradfrey had no time for armor. His breastplate lay useless in the barracks, his helm out of reach. Instead, he pressed forward in nothing but a loose gambeson and riding cloak, the only steel on him the longsword at his back.

  At his side, Agrippa followed, his fingers twitching at his belt, where a dagger and short sword rested. Unlike the Rekinvale guards, whose hostility was barely restrained, Agrippa’s excitement hummed beneath his skin—his first taste of real action upon him. He reined in the eager grin threatening to break free, forcing himself to match Bradfrey’s unwavering stride, shoulders squared in imitation.

  Before they reached the gate, a voice from the walls rang out.

  “This is the sovereignty of Queen Marguen! Speak your business or leave!” a guard bellowed.

  “We’ve come to pay homage to the new wizard! Praise be to the defender of the Altimore Ranges!”

  Murmurs rippled through the Rekinvale ranks, confusion and suspicion swirling in equal measure.

  The guard above scoffed. “There are no wizards here. Best you go elsewhere.”

  Laughter rose among the gypsies, unshaken by the dismissal. “But, dear sir, we heard word of the demonic horde crushed beneath the mountain!”

  Bradfrey didn’t wait for another exchange.

  “OPEN THE GATE!”

  The words cracked across the bailey like a whip.

  All eyes turned as Sir Bradfrey stormed toward the barracks’ entrance. His sword was drawn, the blade held in reverse grip, resting against his back shoulder—not a threat, but not a comfort, either. Part defensive. Part ready for anything.

  The Rekinvale guards shifted. The weight of command settled over the field.

  And Sir Bradfrey, clad only in resolve and a loose gambeson, strode forward to shatter the rising tension before it spiraled into needless bloodshed.

  A middle-aged man with carefree braids stepped forward, his sun-darkened face bright with an inebriated grin as Bradfrey crunched under the half-raised portcullis. “Thank you, kind sir. We mean no trouble.”

  The smile vanished the instant Bradfrey’s backhand struck. The man staggered, crashing into the mud. Shock replaced his cheer, his clothes now smeared with filth.

  “This is a barrack town,” Bradfrey declared coldly. “Your presence threatens our safety. Disband, or don’t.”

  The approaching rumble of cavalry sent the woodland folk scattering, their courage broken. Only the swollen-lipped man remained, trembling before Bradfrey’s imposing figure.

  "There is no wizard," Bradfrey pressed through a hushed groan. "Her name is Anneliese. She is a follower of the Cross and of House Castell. Understand?"

  “Yes,” the man whimpered.

  “Good. Speak no word of her in worship. All praise is to Queen Marguen and her brave knights. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then say it. All hail Queen Marguen.”

  “All hail Queen Marguen,” the man stammered, his voice quickly echoed by the knights nearby.

  Bradfrey leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Be gone. Be peaceful, and be safe.”

  As the man stumbled back to the retreating crowd, the cavalry thundered past, kicking up dirt and dust.

  The barracks erupted into raucous cheers, gauntlet fists pounding shields as they chanted, “Sir Bradfrey the Enforcer!”

  But their praise fell on deaf ears.

  Marching back into the keep, Bradfrey loosened the straps of his gambeson with barely concealed fury. Even Lord Hendricks, the seasoned commander, felt a shiver of unease.

  There was a new sheriff in town—Sir Bradfrey. Or his backhand.