As Bjarke’s final words faded into the last autumn air, the forest’s eerie silence shattered under the rising clamor of chaos. At first, it was a faint murmur—the distant tremor of hooves and the strained cries of scouts. But it grew rapidly, swelling into a cacophony of frantic screams tearing through the serenity of the snow-covered woods.

  Scouts bolted past, their urgency leaving trails of disturbed frost in their wake, as the thundering mass of Templar knights followed in their path, their crimson-crossed banners whipping against the prevailing winds.

  Above them, staggered archers emerged along the high ridges, loosing arrows through gaps in the dense canopy. But the gale winds howled against them, scattering their shots into wild, erratic arcs.

  Coordination faltered, yet the Templars pressed on, their nostrils flaring with the thrill of the hunt. Their sheer numbers tightened the noose around Bjarke, leaving him no other escape than the unforgiving ledge that loomed over the raging canyon river.

  Breaking free of the tangled bushland, Bjarke sprinted across the open highland grass, where the Templar knights gained speed on the flatter terrain. The thunder of hooves grew louder, and the archers adjusted their aim, their arrows flying truer in the clearer air.

  Then the wind howled.

  A wall of snow swept from the overburdened branches, cascading down in a blinding veil. Bjarke seized the moment, veering sharply left, his instincts carrying him to a raised embankment where the wind’s fury lessened. Behind him, reckless knights plunged headlong into the swirling haze, their pursuit thrown into disarray.

  But as the storm settled and the fog of snow thinned, the archers atop the ridge regained sight of their quarry.

  Bjarke, his glowing axe betraying him in the open, was exposed.

  A final volley rained down. One arrow struck true, driving deep just above his shoulder blade. He staggered but did not fall, his teeth clenched against the searing pain. It was a cruel consolation for the Templars, whose mounted knights closed in, spears poised for the kill.

  Then, without hesitation, Bjarke leapt. The precipice vanished beneath his feet as he plunged into the merciless rapids below.

  The icy currents swallowed him whole, dragging him into the river’s depths. The roar of rushing water smothered the shouts of his pursuers as the knights reined in their horses at the canyons edge, their faces tight with frustration.

  Their prey had escaped—but the hunt was far from over.

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  Their attention turned elsewhere. The hounds, trained to pick up the faintest scent, led the Templars back into the forest. Noses to the ground, they wove through the underbrush until they reached the gaping maw of a cave.

  There, in the damp shadows of the cavern, they found Anneliese.

  She sat cross-legged on the mossy floor, slouched beneath soaked clothes. She did not flinch at their approach nor meet their eyes. The knights kissed the ground before her, praising the Lord for returning their saint, oblivious to the burden she carried—or the enemy she had let slip through their fingers.

  She raised her hands, not in defiance but quiet surrender, and to her rescuers, she was divine—a wounded goddess lifted gently from the filth upon which she sat.

  Shredded banners and donated cloaks replaced her drenched rags, but no fabric could shield her from the burden she bore. She was bound, not by chains, but by the deception that had become her prison.

  And so, on the knife’s edge of fate, she waited—for the veil to be lifted, for the truth to be known, and for their judgment to bind her to the fate of witches.

  Her return to Keesh was met with jubilation. Cheers rippled through the camp as Anneliese, flanked by armed guards, stepped through the gates—whole, unscathed. No one questioned how or why. No one dared ask what price had been paid for her return. For now, they reveled in their miracle, blind to the dark forces gathering just beyond their sight.

  Above the revelry, Amos watched from the scaffolding of the church bell tower, arms folded against the cold. From here, he could see everything—the knights raising their goblets, the men kneeling in prayer, the weary lifting their voices in song. Yet his gaze remained fixed on the girl below, the one who had vanished into darkness and returned without explanation.

  A figure broke away from the celebrations, boots scuffing against the wooden beams as he climbed to join him.

  “Was she harmed?” Amos asked without looking away.

  “Barely a scratch,” Boris replied. “More shaken than anything.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  Boris shrugged. “Only that she wanted to know if we killed him. And that she wished to return to Sir Bradfrey.”

  “Him?”

  “Oh, yes. Bjarke.” Boris exhaled, shaking his head. “Took an arrow to the back, but he escaped—lost to the river rapids. Personally, I’d rather him dead than captured.”

  “That’s Sir Bradfrey’s problem.” Amos finally turned, his voice dropping to a hush. “Ours is the night of her disappearance. Did her rescue uncover anything out of place?”

  For once, Boris hesitated. His usual bravado wavered. “Two bodies. Deep in the cave where we found her.”

  Amos’s jaw tensed. “And?”

  Boris swallowed hard. “Like the others.”

  “Blackened faces?” Amos pressed. “Disjointed limbs? The life drained out of them?”

  Boris gave a slow, grim nod. “Aye. This isn’t new to you?”

  Amos ran a gloved hand over his mouth, old horrors clawing their way back into his mind. “During the crusades, talk of divine riches lured some of my men astray—only for them to be found like this.” His voice hardened. “And now Jarabis and Jeremiah are missing. Could her hands are dirty?”

  Boris shook his head. “I don’t know. But a demon slayer vanishes, someone kills everyone but the miracle girl, and now this? It could go either way.”

  A muscle in Amos’s jaw twitched. He dragged a hand across his forehead, as if trying to wipe the thought away.

  “Rearrange the ranks. Send out raiding parties to cover the gaps. And pray no one else succumbs to this sickness.”

  Boris hesitated. “And if they do?”

  Amos’s gaze turned cold, hard as the iron cross against his chest.

  “Then I’ll handle it myself.”