Weddle’s journey was not one of urgency. Sir Bradfrey had ordered only the delivery of a message, leaving the friar free to meander through the kingdom with a vagrant’s curiosity. He embraced detours and scenic routes, weaving through towns, outcrops, and quiet hamlets. It was the way of a born-again student of the cross: to walk among the people, to see the world as it truly was—at its roots.

  Wherever the Lord’s word carried him, Weddle lingered, unraveling the hidden truths of insular communities. The mundane lives of the peasantry, though individually unremarkable, formed a greater tale when woven together. In one village, hope blossomed; in another, treachery thrived. The rhythm of life changed with each mile—wealth, profession, even faith shifting with the landscape. Yet one pattern stood out above all: a narrowing of thought.

  Where once villagers spoke freely, now silence reigned over certain subjects. The language of the cross—repetitive, strangely hollow—spread like smoke, thick with fear. The symbols of faith had grown louder, more conspicuous, rising in direct proportion to the size and influence of the local priesthood. These priests did not merely guide; they dictated. Their rhetoric, once rooted in scripture, had become a tool of suspicion and paranoia. Whispers of pagan threats merged with tales of “undesirables,” until truth and myth blurred into one convenient narrative.

  News of Sir Tristan’s defeat had traveled swiftly, carried on anxious tongues. Fear coiled tightly around the people’s hearts, shaking their faith in the queen’s authority. Many now clamored for the church to act decisively, for a cleansing of the old ways they blamed for the Pragian rebellion. From unrest in the west to Viking raids choking the northern trade routes, the kingdom’s people clung to a singular belief: evil was pressing in from all sides.

  It was not Weddle’s place to dissuade them or to correct their misconceptions. His was a fact-finding mission, one that led him ever closer to the dangerous fringes of the kingdom. This time, it carried him north to Rekinvale, through lawless lands where even Lord Hendricks could not guarantee safe passage. Most would have traveled these roads with armed escorts. Weddle rode alone.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The path wound through icy rivers and glacial passes, each crossing colder and more treacherous than the last. At one such desolate bridge, a wiry figure stepped forward, rusted spear in hand. His eyes gleamed with delight at the sight of an unassuming traveler.

  “Might you spare a coin for the weary, kind sir?” the bandit asked, his tone slick with false courtesy. His posture was casual, but the trampled, muddy grass betrayed a history of ambushes. He was not alone.

  “I am not much for gold,” Weddle replied. The breeze carried his words like a melancholy hymn, casting a weightless feeling upon his stout figure. “But follow me, and I will lead you to a treasure far greater.”

  The bandit's lip curled. “Aye? And where’s that?”

  Weddle pointed skyward. “A treasure you can’t weigh in gold or honey, but one that will fill you with richness no mortal man has ever known.”

  Suspicion crept into the bandit's voice. “You call yourself a joker, then?”

  “Hardly,” Weddle said, dismounting his horse with all the grace of a limping antelope. “I am Weddle, son of Burtrew, and a servant of the Lord. And you, friend—what is your name?”

  The bandit's hand wavered on his weapon, his lip trembling with something far more fragile than anger. “What would you know of Husah?”

  “I am the son of Burtrew,” Weddle said, stepping closer with arms wide in peace. “And I carry this cross not as a priest, teaching faith to those who want it, but as a friar, searching for the outcasts who need it. Salvation is real. Perhaps you’ll let me prove it?”

  The bandit leaned in, lowering his voice. “This path is no good.”

  “More bandits?” Weddle asked.

  “No... Kulum owns the north.”

  Weddle’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened. “Kulum,” he murmured, the name settling on his tongue like a forgotten song. “I haven’t met him in years. How is he? A wizard yet?”

  The bandit’s eyes flicked to the horizon, as though the name itself could summon retribution. “Umm, no. You don’t want to cross him. Not now.”

  “And why is that?”

  The bandit’s jaw tightened. His voice dropped to a somber whisper.

  “Rekinvale.”

  A chill swept through the air. The emptiness in the bandit's eyes told Weddle all he needed to know. This was a man who had long since abandoned hope.

  Yet Weddle simply laid a hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke softly, his words warm with conviction.

  “All can be forgiven.”