As dusk fell, Anneliese, clad in her white religious gown and clutching Father Bellamy’s cross, sat amidst the remnants of his residence. She traced the line of scripture in Bellamy’s footsteps, replicating them word by word with what little light the dying day dared to give. Anneliese penned each word with meticulous care, obsessing over the regularity and depth of her quill’s dip into the inkwell. Until it happened again. The firm pick of the quill pen against the desk. The inkwell vanished from existence, leaving Anneliese frozen, praying that when she lifted her quill, there would be nothing amiss.

  Since her misadventure at the pagan stronghold, a troubling pattern had emerged—objects vanishing without explanation. At first, it was rare and easy to dismiss. But over time, the disappearances became so frequent they frayed her sanity. Whether working in the fields or washing clothes, items that should have been secure in her grasp would simply vanish, only to reappear later in the strangest places. Sometimes, not at all.

  She didn’t fear the loss of the objects as much as the stigma it brought. As an ex-pagan already burdened by suspicion, she knew that every missing item could quickly become another whispered accusation of sticky fingers.

  “My dear Anneliese, we’re almost out of firewood,” came Mother Simonet’s voice, crisp and controlled. Her tone, laced with dry politeness, projected an unassailable sense of moral superiority.

  Her very presence seemed to deepen the shadows in the room, sharpening Anneliese’s senses to the small discomforts around her. The flickering candles cast shifting light across the dull interior, making every corner feel tight and oppressive.

  “Of course. At once, Mother,” Anneliese said quietly, her words clipped by an instinctive, learned obedience. Fear coiled in her chest as though she no longer felt safe in a world beyond her familiar circle.

  “There are inquisitors who would accuse such endeavors as witchery,” said Simonet.

  “Would you defend me if they did?” Anneliese queried. Her question hung in the air, marking a vulnerable moment that bridged her fear and the impending response.

  Simonet’s hand settled firmly on Anneliese’s shoulder. “My efforts won’t be enough to defend you, hence why I’m trying to protect you.”

  Clutching Bellamy’s cross against her chest, Anneliese’s fingers tightened around it. The strength of her tearful conviction held fast—the last defiant part of herself that refused to let go. As she looked up, her words reverberated with nothing less than, “I owe it to him.”

  Hesitated in her response, Simonet gently stepped aside. “Curing mortality won’t bring back the lost; such miracles lie solely with the Almighty.”

  “But we can keep their memory alive through our deeds,” Anneliese countered.

  “Many strive for things they’ll never have. Bellamy was no different. For all his grand pursuits, his true legacy wasn’t in those ambitions. It was in the lives he touched. This community—us—is all we have. Everything else is just passing the time.”

  “Of course, Mother Simonet. I’ll get right on it,” Anneliese said quietly.

  As she turned to leave, Anneliese felt an unexpected weight in her hand. Startled, she glanced down to see the lost inkwell resting in her palm. Her heart skipped. Slowly, she placed it on the table, testing reality, ensuring her senses hadn’t failed her again.

  The inkwell's sudden reappearance made Anneliese’s heartbeat skip. She placed it firmly atop the table, ensuring her senses hadn’t deceived her a second time. Wary of Mother Simonet noticing her odd behavior, she swiftly turned and hurried off to her tasks.

  Her swift steps kept her ahead of the judgmental stares of townsfolk who still doubted her conversion. Each day, reminders of her pagan past gnawed at her, driving her further into isolation. Bellamy’s dormitory became her refuge—a sanctuary of quiet from the world’s relentless scrutiny.

  Plagued by haunting memories, Anneliese found sleep increasingly elusive. Exhaustion became her only respite from the nightly terrors. But tonight, a soft, urgent sound startled her awake—a wolf’s cry, distant and echoing from the lakeside.

  Peering through her window, she spotted a black wolf prowling the silent streets. Its sleek coat shimmered under the moonlight as it moved from hovel to brush, nose low to the ground, hunting for a scent to satisfy its hunger.

  As it ventured deeper into the township, the wolf’s behavior shifted. Its steps grew tense, its movements sharper, as if sensing an unseen presence. Then it froze. Its ears twitched, and its gaze slowly lifted, locking onto Anneliese’s window. Their eyes met and held for a long moment. A chill crept through her as the wolf released a final cry before turning and sprinting toward the lakeside forest.

  Ignoring her instincts, Anneliese tightened her robe and cautiously made her way to the street. Armed only with a long broom, she scanned the darkness for any sign of the creature. But the night gave no answers—only shadows where the wolf had vanished, cloaked in its black coat.

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  “Shadow?” she whispered, her voice barely breaking the stillness. She strained to listen, desperate for a response—hoping these encounters were more than fleeting coincidences. Perhaps this was a connection, something deeper that could explain the strange anomalies haunting her in recent days.

  Silence greeted her. The night swallowed her call, turning her lakeside venture into an hour-long, futile search. The vibrant hum of nature filled the air, disturbingly familiar, echoing the atmosphere of the pagan stronghold. Images of Corvid’s past flooded her mind: a blood-soaked battlefield, thousands driven toward lakeside slaughter by square-shielded oppressors.

  The vision slowly ebbed, and Anneliese’s senses sharpened once more—just in time to notice a new threat. On the distant hillside, a line of torches bobbed in formation, weaving toward her township.

  “Definitely not late-night adventurers,” she thought, a chill coursing through her veins.

  The rustling of nearby bushes jolted Anneliese. A sharp hiss followed as arrows whistled through the air. She ducked instinctively, bracing for impact—but nothing struck her. The shafts thudded into the ground behind her, fanning out like a porcupine’s quills—exactly where her body had been.

  Her mind reeled. How had they missed? She hadn’t moved quickly enough.

  Suppressing the urge to scream, she dropped the broom and bolted toward the reeds. The shallows were close, but the riverbed’s clinging mud and her soaked clothes dragged at her with every step. She clawed at the reeds for support, but they snapped under her weight, leaving her stumbling forward.

  Heavy footsteps splashed through the darkness behind her. A hulking Viking warrior emerged from the shadows—a grotesque figure with leprous patches marring his skin. The eerie green glow of his battle-axe cast light across his misshapen jaw and a checkerboard of missing teeth. He stood like a beast, scanning the reeds and rippling water with cold, calculating eyes.

  His breath came in harsh, steady pumps, his gaze burning with a thirst for blood. For a moment, he focused on the village, but something shifted within him. Slowly, his attention drifted, drawn to the eerie stillness of the water, where unseen currents rippled unnaturally. His posture tensed. Whatever had stirred in the depths, it was not something he wanted to face. Deliberately, like a predator weighing its options, he began to retreat.

  Nearby, a leaner Viking called out, his voice laced with foolish bravado. “You with us Bjarke, or you alone?”

  Bjarke turned to him sharply, seasoned instincts eclipsing any need for showmanship. His grip tightened on the axe. “Aye,” he muttered. “But we’re not alone.”

  Anneliese remained frozen, her body trembling in the frigid waters. She could do nothing but listen to the sounds of screams and fire that swept through the township like a storm.

  Through the chaos, Anneliese's eyes caught a glimmer of hope—Mother Simonet, leading a small group of orphans through the vegetable gardens. Moving with quiet urgency, Simonet guided them from cover to cover, her calm resolve holding the children steady. Each pause was precise, each step measured, as though the weight of their survival rested solely on her unwavering patience.

  Before them sprawled the well-grazed paddocks, whose scattered livestock left nothing in the way of foliage to conceal the harrowing distance that separated them from the safety of the forest.

  Unbeknownst to them, a group of Viking warriors lay concealed nearby, waiting for an exodus that had never come. Anneliese longed to cry out a warning, but the eerie glow of Bjarke’s axe seemed to choke the words in her throat, leaving her voice a strangled whisper that went unheard.

  A burning sensation crawled up her spine, coiling like a serpent and spreading through her bones. Her fingers twitched and grew numb, moving as though no longer under her control.

  Through the distant haze of collapsing buildings, Anneliese saw Simonet urging the children across the dew-slick grass. But something at the forest’s edge stopped her cold—a strange distortion in the air. The sturdy tree trunks along the woodland warped and bent as if strained by an overwhelming presence.

  The distortion suddenly tore open, revealing a dark, semi-transparent orb. A deafening bellow erupted from within, followed by an explosion of fiery straw and shattered stone that scattered debris across the field. The brief flash of light exposed the hidden Vikings—before darkness reclaimed the landscape once more.

  Simonet realized the imminent danger and steered the children away—not back toward the town, but across the daunting distance to the opposite hillside forest. From the burning debris, a braided, blond-haired Viking emerged, his breath ragged and snarling with fury. He surged forward, fueled by hellfire rage, twin axes slashing through the air in pursuit of his prey.

  The less ambitious Vikings lingered on the sidelines, content to spectate. They watched as the lady of the church, her heavy coat weighing her down, struggled to maintain her footing. Her misfortune found Anneliese’s discarded broom, and with a slip and crash, she was sent sprawling across the slick grass, momentum dragging her through the mud. With the guttural grunts of her pursuer closing in, she urged the nearest orphan, “Don’t look back!”

  Simonet twisted and clawed toward her pursuer, tearing through the muddy trench until her fingers found the smooth, worn shaft of the broom handle. With a single motion, she propelled herself into a desperate knee strike, snapping the wood in two. The jagged midsection became her makeshift spear. Breathing hard, she steadied herself, ready for one last act of defiance.

  A flash of bulging neck veins—then Simonet’s eyes closed shut as she drove the spear forward. Nothing. No resistance.

  Anneliese recoiled, bracing for the axe to fall. But the expected clash of steel on flesh never came. The metallic clang faded into a dull thud as boots scraped across stone. The air seemed to implode around her, smothering sound and presence alike. Silence gripped her like a vise, broken only by the Viking’s guttural grunts—his rage echoing through unseen corridors, low and feral like a caged beast.

  She kept her eyes squeezed shut, her senses straining in the unnatural stillness. The air around her felt dead—no wind, no warmth, no life. Yet something about the emptiness nagged at her, stirring a deep and distant memory. Slowly, a grim familiarity crept over her, as though the void itself had shape. Then it came into focus: the shadowed corridors of the old pagan stronghold.

  Above, a dim light flickered as clusters of glow-worms stirred. Their cold, pale radiance revealed warped, twisting walls that constricted the passage ahead. At the far end, the Viking loomed, standing eerily still. Then, with a sudden, furious lunge, he charged forward, his eyes blazing with wild rage.

  The sight startled Anneliese, her eyes wide, frozen in terror as the Viking’s charge consumed her vision. One jarring blink—and the scene evaporated. The stronghold crumbled away, and Anneliese was thrust back into the oppressive, disorienting nothingness.