The victors’ feast stretched late into the night, a cacophony of drunken laughter, clinking goblets, and greasy fingers tearing into fresh-cut boar. Yet for Amos, the hollow victory of Keesh left him with a sickness deeper than starvation. Within the cotton-draped barracks bearing his faction’s insignia, he hunched over an untouched goblet. His appetite soured as he stared down rows of feasting templars, to a rather famished Sir Bradfrey, who mirrored his restraint.

  “What if it’s poison? A finely brewed sedative, meant to take us in our sleep,” Amos muttered.

  “Cheer up, my lord. Plenty of plunder awaits with Keesh out of the way,” rumbled Boris “the Bear.”

  Shirtless despite the winter chill, the unkempt templar radiated barbaric pride. Gravy and crumbs clung to his broad chest and tangled beard like war trophies. Towering over the tightly bound Bjarke, he spat bits of gristle, triggering a frenzy of snapping hounds, their hungry jaws vying for the scraps flung carelessly onto the demon slayer’s slumped form.

  For Bjarke, each moment was another step into despair, his dignity stripped away beneath the leering eyes of his captors.

  “Where’s that mythical axe of yours?” slurred Jeremiah, with a disoriented sideway sway that spoke of too much too fast.

  “I heard it could slay a dragon with a single strike,” chimed in Jarabis, Jeremiah’s younger brother, stroking his fiery red beard. “Steal the soul of a serpent, they say, or down the devil in his own domain.”

  Jeremiah sneered, doubling over with laughter. “Aye—but don’t worry, Bjarke. By the time we’re done with you, the devil will be the least of your worries.”

  Meanwhile, Anneliese sat alone in Sir Bradfrey’s tent, recounting the day’s events. The spontaneous disappearance of her quiver was a minor inconvenience compared to the reflexive twitch of magical intuition returning the object before obstructing her cursive flow.

  No longer restrained by secrecy, she wove small bits of magic into her daily routine, testing its edges with careful intent. The once-mundane act of dipping her quill into the inkwell became unnecessary—now, she teleported the black liquid from her fingertip to the quiver, ensuring not a single drop stained her skin.

  Each small success carried a bitter chill, a tainted pride soured by the unshakable image of the pagan stronghold burned into her visions. Father Bellamy’s cross, still pressed against her chest, was a silent reminder of the Ghost King’s unseen presence and the peril such magic invited.

  The unsettling quiet was broken by Agrippa, whose boisterous entrance shattered her concentration. Stumbling in with a drunken grin and a sack of rations, he flung the bundle toward her desk, only for it to miss and crash into the tent wall.

  “Not to worry!” he laughed, slouching over Sir Bradfrey’s chair, his wide eyes fixed on the sack as it blinked into Anneliese’s hand. “That’s… that’s not natural,” he slurred.

  “Neither is that poison ruining your aim,” Anneliese shot back, amusement flickering in her eyes.

  He waved a lazy hand. “There are… there are things that shouldn’t be. I mean—hff—conjuring fire, talking to spirits, I… I get that. But—but summoning the underworld? Bending the world like it’s nothing? That kinda magic… it’s…”

  “Almost godly.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, but after today, you’ve got people talking.”

  “I know. Try growing up in the church’s orphanage and being literate enough to know what they’ve done to witches.”

  “You’re not a witch, are you?”

  “Do I look like I ride broomsticks and steal children?” she snapped, but her forced humor failed to mask the unease creeping into her voice.

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  Spurred by thoughts of the forbidden, Agrippa leaned forward, grinning through his drunken haze, a wayward finger jabbing the air. “No, but… now you’ve got me wanting to ask Mother Simonet about any missing children.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Anneliese said, her sudden seriousness bound to provoke further inquiry.

  “Oh? A bit of truth to this?” Agrippa asked, his posh tone dripping with playful elitism.

  “He was a bully, so I trapped him in a well to teach him a lesson.”

  “Wait… WHAT?” The words barely left his mouth before he choked, liquor burning up his nostrils in a sudden, painful regurgitation.

  “I am not a witch.”

  “Not anymore, you’re not. That is… WOW. God must have had a bad day when he made you.”

  “You’re terrible,” Anneliese said, hurling the rest of the food sack at his head. It struck the backrest with a dull thud, bursting open in a spray of breadcrumbs that exploded across Agrippa’s face.

  “Terrible? By the sound of things, I’m the angel. In fact, I’m going to commit such debauchery that maybe, just maybe, God overlooks the sinners like you,” he declared, laughing until he wheezed. With a limp wave of his hand, he tipped his drink, sending liquor spilling across Sir Bradfrey’s floor.

  “Stop it,” Anneliese said, her ears perked and senses blaring towards the sound of an argument between the guards and stragglers outside her tent.

  “Sorry, Anneliese, but I think we need to…”

  “No, stop it,” Anneliese said again, then summoned a dagger into existence.

  Their tranquil night, previously broken by distant sounds of revelry and clinking armor, suddenly transitioned to a far more ominous symphony. The hiss of steel slicing through the air mingled with the muffled screams of unsuspecting guards. Each thud reverberated through the air, a somber reminder of the imminent peril that sought her company.

  Beyond the threat of assassins’ daggers, Sir Bradfrey wandered the fort’s perimeter, his breath curling in the biting air. A contingent of armed guards shadowed his every step as he traded the drunken revelry for the quiet of early winter snow.

  “You really think this peace is genuine?” Amos’s voice cut through the stillness.

  Leaning against the wall supports, he gazed toward the templar-flagged bridge. Lightly clothed, he made no effort to shield himself from the cold, letting it seep into his skin.

  “I think fear makes subjects of men but cowards of allies,” Sir Bradfrey replied, frost settling in the fur-lined collar of his cape.

  “Sounds wise. Who told you that?”

  “One of the half-dozen mentors I’ve had the privilege of serving under.”

  “Must be nice,” Amos muttered. “Having all the answers handed to you, never needing to figure it out the hard way.”

  The vagueness of their exchange tugged at Sir Bradfrey’s patience. “Is there a point to this, Amos?”

  “Not really,” Amos admitted. “Just thinking things through, trying to understand what Anneliese is.”

  “A devoted child of the Almighty?”

  “Such strides take longer to make, but I’m coming around. It’s hard when you’re a soldier for the church. Things appear black and white. But then… sometimes I struggle to reconcile these inconsistencies with my belief. Is this really God’s purpose? Was she sent here to convert the north to the cross?”

  “And if she delivers that without a drop of bloodshed?”

  “Then I will cease to be needed—at least in Keesh.”

  Amos reflected in silence, watching as Sir Bradfrey strode past, his preeminence unquestioned. When the knights were gone, all that remained was a fading trail of footprints, the only evidence that their paths had ever crossed.

  But the night was young…

  Suddenly, the horns gave a sobering warning through the camp. Calls brought Sir Bradfrey and his finest to witness weighty smoke permeating from his tent entrance. A rancid smell choked the air, far worse than any belch of fire. The stench lingered like a net holding back their advance until the initiative of a few cut open the rear skirting to release the bulging gas upon the greater surrounds.

  “Verivix?” questioned one knight.

  All eyes were on their beloved leader, but Sir Bradfrey remained unmoved, withholding judgment until the billowing black smoke dispersed, revealing the guards’ scattered bodies and the ransacked remains of his tent.

  No sign of Anneliese. No sign of an intruder. Only Agrippa’s lifeless body, slumped across Bradfrey’s overturned chair.

  The shock flickered across Bradfrey’s face, but only for a moment. Then he turned—to his knights, to the hunger burning in their eyes. A hunger for the hunt. Their gazes locked onto him with canine ferocity.

  “My lord, it need not be said—but we are without orders. Give the word, and it shall be done.”

  The sight hollowed him out. A cold rush gripped his spine, his hold on the sword tightening as he crushed the gnawing insecurities coiling in his chest. He drew a breath, filling his lungs with thunder and brimstone.

  “Bring me Gulgamore,” he snarled. “Tell him this—friend or foe, if we don’t find Anneliese alive and well by sunset tomorrow, the city burns.”

  As his knights scattered to fulfill his orders, a young foot soldier stumbled forward, his face pale with fear.

  “My lord,” he stammered. “It’s Bjarke… he’s escaped.”

  “Then find him,” Bradfrey barked, his gaze sweeping the encampment for any able-bodied man not yet spurred into action. “Find them both.”