Shrouded in the hush of early morning fog, Sir Bradfrey led his knights away from the main army, winding through hidden mountain passes toward the alpine plateau. Snow blanketed the ferns, and the trees blurred into the frost-bitten horizon. They pressed onward, chasing the fleeting break between storms, toward jagged outcrops where winter never loosened its grip. Their pace quickened—round the peaks before their adversaries could sense the trap.

  From atop her horse, Anneliese observed the valley below. Elk and deer pawed through the snow, foraging for the last stubborn scraps of vegetation. Their heads snapped up, ears flicking at the thunder of approaching hooves. From alpha to alpha, bellowing calls echoed across the plateau, warnings rippling through the herd like an unseen chain.

  “Hold,” commanded the lead knight as white wolves emerged from the tree line, crossing their path. Their descent from the heights felt deliberate—more than chance, a divine sign urging them onward in their hunt for Bjarke’s Viking warband.

  “By my bloody rudder. Look at that one,” a knight muttered.

  Perched atop a rocky ledge was a colossal black wolf, its silhouette framed against a frozen waterfall. The beast stood watchful, unmoving, surveying the caravan like a silent guardian.

  Far beyond the icy enclave, obscured in the barren lands, a strange line of flame shimmered. It snaked upward, illuminating a corkscrew staircase carved into a distant, cone-shaped mountain. As the clouds parted, they revealed a gothic monastery clinging precariously to the peak, its shattered spires clawing at the heavens like the bones of a dead civilization.

  “What in God’s name is that?” Agrippa asked, awed.

  “It’s the Temple of the Last,” Sir Bradfrey said, his voice laced with both dismissal and something harder to name. He urged his horse along the column, unwilling to let distractions slow their march to Keesh.

  “What’s the Temple of the Last?” Anneliese asked.

  Agrippa only shrugged, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t look at me. I’m a hammer, not a map.”

  Still within earshot, Bradfrey rolled his neck, trying to shake the phantom knot pulling him back. "Pagan lore says their souls pass through here before the afterlife—a final chance to embrace their loved ones before they’re lost forever."

  “I didn’t know pagans had an afterlife,” Agrippa mused.

  “What are they, druids?” Anneliese asked, her curiosity betraying a deeper thought.

  Agrippa frowned. “What’s a druid?”

  "They're like exorcists," she said, but hesitation crept into her voice, as if speaking the words had opened a door she wasn’t ready to step through. Her gaze lingered on the distant monastery.

  Sensing where her thoughts were leading, Sir Bradfrey cut in. “No. They’re Mystics. They talk to dead spirits—nothing more.” A pause, then a pointed order. “Now keep up. We’ve wasted enough time.”.

  Agrippa smirked, leaning toward Anneliese. “See? You don’t know everything.”

  Anneliese let out a frustrated sigh, tugging her hood tighter as she shot him a glare before turning away.

  The knights slept in tight formation, forgoing the comfort of a fire to avoid detection. By dawn, a thick overcast smothered the early morning sun, casting a pale, ghostly light over the silver-saddled warriors as they prepared for their final descent toward Keesh. Their banners unfurled—bold streaks of color against the ashen sky—while the light cavalry pushed ahead, sweeping the last passages clear.

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  They secured the main bridge crossings with ease, the outpost horn sounding too late to stop them. Fortune favored Sir Bradfrey; the roads ahead lay open, the enemy conspicuously absent. Abandoned outposts granted his knights unchallenged passage, yet the unnatural emptiness beyond Keesh’s walls urged caution.

  The city of Keesh, once a testament to Rowan ingenuity, now stood as a scarred remnant of its former glory. Nestled at the crossroads of converging Y-shaped river systems, its crumbling walls—weathered by time and neglect—gave way to a labyrinth of artificial islands and towering turrets, their foundations impervious to the river’s relentless current. Once the gatekeeper of the northern frontier, Keesh had fallen to warlords, its splendor dimmed by decades of tribal conflict.

  Yet at the city’s edge, Sir Bradfrey’s fortune met its limit.

  A lone figure stood atop the arched bridge leading into the heart of Keesh—a warrior with braids the color of embers, his dented chest plate and inked arms marking a life carved from battle. Mist curled from his breath as he tightened his grip on the worn hilt of his sword. His stance spoke not of desperation, but defiance.

  The first wave of knights faltered, instincts bristling with the certainty of a trap. Scouts fanned out through the countryside, searching for the unseen threat, while Bradfrey’s full contingent pressed forward in measured silence.

  Sir Bradfrey rode ahead of his men, every inch the conqueror. His polished plate armor gleamed beneath the sun, the insignia of House Castell emblazoned across his chest. He reined in his steed at a measured distance, radiating silent authority, waiting for the warrior to yield.

  But the Keeshian warrior did not kneel. Instead, his gaze drifted past Bradfrey, settling on the plain-clothed figure at the rear. His stoic mask wavered—a flicker of awe breaking through.

  He gestured to the gatehouse, a metallic clang ringing out before his servants emerged. Between them, they dragged forth a bound figure wrapped in a tattered rug. The captive tumbled down the bridge’s incline, coming to a jarring halt at Bradfrey’s feet

  With a swift tug of his dagger, Bradfrey sliced through the bindings, revealing the battered face of Bjarke, the infamous demon slayer. His jaw hung at an unnatural angle, his breath shallow. Bradfrey seized a fistful of his collar and shook him back to consciousness. “Can he talk?”

  “He has no tongue,” the Keeshian warrior replied.

  Bradfrey pressed the dagger to Bjarke’s gumline and pried his mouth open. Inside, a gnarled stump remained where his tongue had once been. It bore no fresh scars—no sign of torture—only a grim permanence.

  “And his friends?” he asked.

  “Gone,” the Keeshian warrior said. “Verivix and the Vikings betrayed him for safe passage. I now offer him to you in the same condition, with one request.”

  “What request?” Bradfrey asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

  The warrior turned his gaze to Anneliese. “Is that the girl?”

  Without a word, he unbuckled his sword and let it drop. Piece by piece, his armor followed, clattering to the ground until only his iron boots remained. With reverent determination, he strode forward, unchallenged, through the corridor of spears.

  Anneliese shrank into her saddle, gripping the reins so tightly her knuckles whitened. She willed Agrippa to act, to intervene, but the warhorse stood still.

  The warrior knelt before her.

  My lady Anneliese," he said, his voice low with quiet devotion. “Great wizard of the north. I offer you my lands, my sword, and my people, if you will be our protector.”

  Anneliese’s voice quivered, but her resolve held. “What is your name?”

  “Gulgamore, my lady.”

  She lifted Bellamy’s cross, its weight steady in her grasp. “Well, Gulgamore, I am not your wizard. I am a child of the One True God. Will you follow my lord and bare his cross as I do now?”

  Gulgamore bowed his head. “Whatever you ask, my lady. I will commit wholeheartedly—if only you will save us from this fate.”

  “Sir Bradfrey!” Anneliese called.

  Bradfrey approached, helmet tucked under his arm, his face a mask of disbelief as the pagan warrior pledged himself to the least of his ranks.

  “My lord of Castell,” she said, steadying her voice. “Will you grant these people clemency?”

  Bradfrey’s gaze hardened. “Do you shelter Bjarke’s warband?”

  “None remain,” Gulgamore replied. “They fled north. If you wish to find them, you’ll need to conquer the entire steppe.”

  The rumble of approaching hooves signaled Amos’s army closing in. Bradfrey stood rigid, his mind grinding through every possibility. The city of Keesh lay vulnerable before him, its fate teetering on the edge of his next decision.

  “Very well. Your city will disarm and submit to unconditional surrender. Only then will I consider keeping my templars at the river’s junction.” Bradfrey paused, savoring this unexpected moment of superiority. “Refuse…” His gaze lingered, letting the threat settle. “And we will bury you beneath the cross.”