The horns carried the news before any messenger could—a deep, resonant bellow rolling from Rekinvale to Keesh like an avalanche heralding doom. By dawn, Sir Bradfrey’s retinue woke to the sight of black smoke clawing toward the heavens. The knights shook off their winter lethargy with grim purpose, fastening polished armor that gleamed in the pale morning light. The banners of Duke De La Castell snapped in the wind, a stark contrast to the ash-choked sky.

  Eager for the first campaign of early spring, they rode swiftly toward the source of the calamity, driven by duty and an unspoken dread.

  The stench met them first—rot, charred wood, and something more acrid, more unnatural. It was the smell of desecration. The land was eerily silent, absent of cries for aid, filled only with the guttural growls of scavengers feasting on the ruin. Rekinvale’s fortress loomed ahead, its once-proud walls reduced to a smoldering carcass of stone and ash.

  The knights advanced cautiously, their gazes sweeping the desolation. Then came the call.

  “Clear!”

  Sir Bradfrey spurred his steed forward.

  No longer the stoic commander, he rode like a man staring down his worst fears. The thunder of his horse’s hooves churned the soot-stained ground, and as he entered the fortress’s lower bailey, the sight stole the breath from his chest.

  The earth lay scarred and barren, soaked with the remains of its defenders—bodies blackened and contorted, fused with the churned mud. At the heart of it, the keep had collapsed, its very foundation melted as if by infernal fire.

  “Over here, my lord.”

  A knight beckoned him toward the barracks.

  Bradfrey dismounted, following the outstretched arm until he saw them—a cluster of gypsy woodfolk kneeling at the forest’s edge. They murmured softly, gathered around a frail figure lying among them. As Bradfrey approached, they parted without a word, blending into the trees like ghosts.

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  And there he laid. Lord Hendricks, his old mentor.

  A frail, broken shell of the indomitable man who had once guided him through the gauntlet of war and politics.

  Bradfrey knelt, gathering him into his arms.

  “We don’t always choose our battles,” Hendricks murmured, a weathered cross clutched in his only functioning hand. His grip weakened with each breath. “But we choose how we confront them.”

  Bradfrey held him tightly, his throat closing. He had never truly crossed the river of death alone before—Hendricks was one of many who had always been there to guide him. Now, the river lay ahead, dark and endless, and for the first time, he had no one to follow.

  “WHO DID THIS?”

  His voice shattered the stillness, raw with fury. His grief burned like fire, turning his gaze to the woodfolk who remained.

  A man hesitated, then stepped forward, bowing his head.

  “The bandits of Husah,” he said. “Led by Kulum—the Phoenix of Fire and Destruction.”

  ““Kulum.” The name rolled from Sir Bradfrey’s lips like an old omen. “Where do I find him?”

  “They hold the highlands,” the gypsy warned, his voice carrying the weight of a cautionary tale. “Ranges so high you reach out but grasp only air. They’re there… and they’re growing.”

  Bradfrey rose, grief calcifying into something colder. Beside him, Amos approached, his surcoat—once white—now smeared black with the ash of the dead. Even he hesitated at the inferno smoldering in Bradfrey’s eyes.

  “Your orders?”

  Bradfrey exhaled slowly. “I thought the walls would deter them. I thought Keesh and Bjarke’s death would end it. But the north remains unconquered.” He paused, unspoken thoughts pressing against his tongue. “They are like sand in the desert. Crush them underfoot, and the moment the wind stirs, they rise to blind the sky.”

  Amos nodded, seeing his own fury reflected in Bradfrey’s. “Then we make a desert.”

  Bradfrey’s lips twisted into a grim whisper—a promise he had once made to Anneliese. “And call it peace.”

  Then, louder, sharper: “Find your most trusted men. Be swift. Be thorough. Take no prisoners. I want scorched earth and cold bodies.”

  “It will be done,” Amos replied, rolling his shoulders, the weight of war settling in. With a crack of his neck, he signaled to his Templars. The hunt had begun.

  A knight, bearing the crest of Castell, stepped forward. “And us, my lord?”

  Bradfrey’s answer came without hesitation. “We ride to Vasier. I have demands for Draconian… and need the queen’s blessing to secure them.”