Sir Bradfrey pushed his knights onward, their march a desperate race against the alpine snow whisking over their heads. The funneling winds of the valley dragged at them, prolonging their exposure as frost seeped through their armaments. Benign sniffles hid the creeping onset of disease, while attrition, like a stalking scavenger, circled their dwindling supply train.

  Windbreak ahead!” a distant scout called, his voice barely audible amidst the howling winds. The words cascaded down the line like an order, igniting a flicker of hope among the battalion.

  The column hastened their pace, trudging through the icy bog that clung to their boots and drained their strength. Dodging the encroaching foliage, the mounted knights pressed forward into the swampy expanse ahead, oblivious to the unseen eyes trailing just beyond their vision.

  Amos, riding near the front, smirked as he leaned toward Sir Bradfrey. “The time we save on distance, we’ll lose through exhaustion,” he remarked

  But his attention quickly shifted. A flock of birds burst from the distant treeline, their panicked flight breaking the monotony of the snowbound landscape. Amos’s sharp eyes flicked to a nearby templar, and with the smallest motion of his brow, their silent code passed through the knights of the white and red cross. Suspicion stirred, yet Amos maintained his outward composure—a seasoned hunter attuned to the faintest signs, able to distinguish the skittering antelope from a prowling lynx.

  Sir Bradfrey, cheeks flushed from the biting cold, seemed oblivious to both the gathering storm and Amos’s subtle cues. Determined, he urged his men forward, undeterred by the cutting headwinds. “Weary men can still hold Rekinvale, while the local garrison gives chase with fresh legs. If nothing else, we’ll give the impression of overwhelming force.”

  Amos gave a sardonic chuckle. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that pagans are like vermin—they’ll scatter at the first sign of trouble. But Vikings?” His grin widened, wolfish. “They live for the fight. Either way, it’ll be sport or slaughter, and I’m just happy to do my part.”

  “I was once told, if all you seek is all you’ll find, then you’ll never know when you’re wrong. And by that same reason, you’ll never know when you’re right.”

  “That’s why I listen to God,” Amos replied with unwavering confidence. “And He hasn’t found me wrong yet.”

  “Sir Bradfrey,” the scout called again, his voice sharper now, “the clearing is less than half a day’s march.

  “Not short enough, if you ask me,” Amos muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on the reins. The urgency in his movements belied his calm demeanor, his eyes constantly darting to the treetops, scanning for another disruption.

  “Then make it so,” Bradfrey commanded, as he spurred his mount forward, the pace quickening under his leadership.

  “Double time!” The call echoed down the line, urgency rippling through the ranks as the knights and their followers pushed themselves harder.

  Snow continued to swirl around them, thickening into a veil, while the forest ahead seemed to darken with every step. Though they pressed onward, a sense of unease hung in the air, invisible but undeniable—a predator’s patience waiting just beyond the edge of sight.

  Meanwhile, Anneliese sat cocooned in blankets beside the lumbering supply train, the cold breeze sweeping past her as she huddled for warmth. Despite her relative comfort, surrounded by templars, the monotony of endless drudgery dulled her senses. The jostling of her wagon broke her reverie, drawing her gaze from the snow-laden horizon.

  “Best you keep yourself busy,” called Agrippa, riding up beside her with an easy grin. “Talk for the sake of talking. Count for the sake of counting. Curse for the sake of cursing.”

  He toyed absentmindedly with knots, his thick fingers moving with practiced ease. The habit was so ingrained it bordered on instinct, and he seemed all too eager to showcase his skill to anyone idle enough to notice. A few years her junior, Agrippa was all towering physique and easy confidence—the kind that carried no regard for the exhaustion of others.

  “It’s hard to read when I can barely keep warm,” Anneliese muttered, pulling her blankets tighter.

  “Why not stretch your legs? Join me on Sicilia,” Agrippa suggested with a casual shrug.

  “But Sicilia’s a stallion,” she replied.

  “Ah, but she’s got the spirit of a mare,” he quipped, puffing out his chest like a storybook prince offering an enchanted ride. His grin was all bravado—the playful confidence of someone utterly convinced of his own charm.

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  Anneliese leaned back against the wagon, rolling her head toward the heavens in mild exasperation. She resisted the urge to match his smugness with an eye-roll, maintaining a faint trace of politeness as was expected of her. "Tempting, but I wouldn’t want to upset Sicilia’s sense of exclusivity."

  “Ha! Have it your way, then,” Agrippa replied with a laugh, unfazed by her rejection. “Just so you know, Sicilia isn’t picky.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” she said dryly.

  As Agrippa rode ahead, disappearing into the column, Anneliese allowed herself a small, private smile. She would never admit it, but the exchange had been a welcome distraction. For a moment, the cold felt a little less biting, the journey a little less endless.

  Her fleeting escape shattered as an invisible chill brushed against her skin, a phantom touch tracing the line of her jaw, tilting her head ever so slightly toward the shifting shadows beyond the treeline.

  Something was watching.

  A sharp tension gripped her as she locked onto the hulking figure of a giant black wolf. The beast prowled along its perch, its glowing eyes sweeping over the tangled mass of men and wagons—searching. Then, with chilling certainty, its stare fixed on a single, unremarkable supply wagon. Hers.

  Anneliese stiffened, locked in its unrelenting stare. But before she could blink, movement flickered through the distant trees—a ripple in the darkness. Her pulse quickened.

  When she turned back, the wolf was gone.

  Suddenly, birds erupted from the treeline in a chaotic flutter. Steel hissed as a templar knight drew his sword. Anneliese’s heart pounded as an overwhelming tingling sensation coursed through her, drawing her mind’s eye to the distant mountain. A piercing green light stabbed through the storm clouds above, a beacon cutting through the chaos like a lighthouse in rough seas.

  “Agrippa!” she called through the growing commotion. Her cry sent ripples through the templars, their heads snapping toward the distant storm.

  But her warning came too late.

  A searing stream of flame tore through the supply train, splitting it in two. Knights were wrenched apart from their foot soldiers, command from their supply wagons, Agrippa from Anneliese. Fireballs exploded overhead, raining sparks and plunging the regiments into chaos. Trapped between a fiery barricade and the swamp’s cold embrace, the soldiers and knights faced an impossible choice.

  Out of the distant mountain storm came a deafening rumble. Dark, deformed creatures surged down the slopes, their guttural roars echoing like a prelude to doom.

  “BRACE FOR IMPACT!” The cry rang out—a desperate command as the first wave of three-legged runners tore into the fray. Their elongated limbs drove them forward with terrifying speed, predators unleashed upon hastily-formed lines of sword and spear.

  Behind the front lines, Sir Bradfrey moved through his knights as though the seasoned commander within had reared its unconditional head.

  “We do not falter! We do not look back! By the love of God, hold your brothers—hold the line!”

  On the flanks, Amos and his knights of the white and red cross stood firm, their whispered prayers transforming into a resounding chant. “Blessed is the Lord, my God, who prepares my hands for battle and my fingers for war!” Their eyes shone with fanaticism, their zeal sharpening their resolve as they awaited the charge. They longed for this confrontation, to prove their worth against the horrors of the underworld.

  The first wave crashed against them. Bulkier, canine-like creatures funneled into the peasant foot soldiers, their sheer mass driving spears through their own bodies as they slammed against shields with devastating force. Shield walls splintered, spears shattered, and men fell under the weight of the assault. Despite the chaos, the soldiers fought desperately, clinging to survival as they hacked and stabbed against the tide of beasts.

  But even as the first wave began to wane, hope dwindled.

  The second wave brought no such chance of reprieve.

  The ominous roar of lumbering beasts announced their arrival before they were seen. Trees snapped like twigs beneath the trampling feet of monstrous ogres and undead, their approach shaking the very earth. The stampede’s rhythm sent vibrations rippling through the ground, fraying the steely-eyed resolve of Amos’s knights. Slowly, the weak began to desert their posts, their courage broken by the oncoming tide.

  As the hulking monstrosities neared, the wind shifted. A sudden calm swept over the battlefield. The inferno extinguished itself as if by divine command, its embers spiraling downward onto the beasts like a fiery judgment. Then, with thunderous finality, an avalanche of rocks and debris cascaded down the mountainside. The avalanche obliterated everything in its path—ogres, undead, and beasts alike—leaving a barren swath of earth as it stopped just short of the iron-clad knight.

  Confusion reigned. The battlefield, moments before an inferno of chaos, was now eerily silent. No third wave came. Only the winter wrens returned, flitting through the decimated woodlands as if reclaiming the dead earth.

  Exhausted, many of Sir Bradfrey’s soldiers collapsed to their knees, tears streaming down their faces as they muttered prayers of gratitude. Others, overcome with adrenaline, charged the mountain in search of heroics, but no glory remained to be seized. The few who remained upright scanned their surroundings for answers, their eyes inevitably drawn to the half-bogged supply wagons.

  There, standing atop her wagon’s shotgun seat, was Anneliese.

  She was unrecognizable. Her smoky eyes radiated with an otherworldly glow, her outstretched arm emanating a black, discolored aura. Her body, seemingly untouched by the physical world, shimmered with a magical resonance that consumed her entirely. The moment lingered, equal parts awe and terror, until her strength gave out. Pale and trembling, she fell limp, collapsing like a rag doll into Agrippa’s waiting arms.

  The sight struck the soldiers like a divine revelation. Kneeling where they stood, they blessed the ground and whispered prayers of thanks, hailing Anneliese as a gift from the Almighty.

  Amos, twiddling his cross between his fingers, broke the silence. “Doesn’t that girl serve your house?”

  “Only through quill and parchment,” Sir Bradfrey replied, his voice low, tinged with both fear and realization. She was no angel, nor born of God-fearing parents, yet there she lay, draped in Castell’s colors, nestled between his squire’s arms—his paradoxical savior.