Author: Sepharian

The mud was warm as it slowly soaked through his trousers. The last heat of summer was fading to the early chill of autumn. Every face was etched with the stark marks of starvation; cheeks hollow and eyes sunken. There was worry and misery in the crease of every brow. The whole town was like getting stung by a million bees; the marks of joy and levity were now the extremely rare moments amid a sea of growing contention. All the while, the feeling was growing. His dread Purpose approached. Ever closer, dying by degrees. It didn’t fill the poor friar with fear, precisely, but rather a sensation closer to burning. The warm light with its yellow and red tinges that pulsed with the dawn grew ever hotter. Closer, maybe. More aware.

“Almighty God,” the friar muttered with his muddy knees and eyes pinched shut, focusing on that brilliance just behind him that he could never quite see. “I feel my Purpose approaching. Please grant me the strength to see yer designs through. Please give me the patience ta understand. Please grant my friends the resilience they need to walk the path you laid out fer em. I done my best to show em. I done all I ken to prepare em for what’s next. Please dun let the hard won truths we found here die in an inkysihun fire.”

He gave a moment’s pause before settling his mind for the wisdom he sought.

“What must I do ta see your will done?” he asked quietly, hands clasped tight enough for his knuckles to show white.

YOU WILL KNOW.

Henri wasn’t sure that when he prayed, the voice that answered him was God’s, but it seemed as close a label for it as any. Whatever it was, so much stronger than he, if not God had to be one of its agents. The voice had always been circumspect, though. Never speaking so directly, so certainly. It had always favored riddles or questions of its own. The final sign that whatever had been destined for him was soon to pass.

The friar sighs and pushes himself to his feet.

********
It took a moment for the graying priest to blink back to reality and see what was before him.

“Beg pardon?” he asks, trying to focus on what was before him.

“What are we to do about the Inquisition?” the hushed tone of Sophie was urgent.

“They won’t be no bother,” he reassured distractedly.

***********

The face of Teller-man was more worn than he had ever seen it, but his eyes were bright and clear. Nearly fevered, the priest notes distantly. The dark haired woman beside him wore a face that was vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t be sure.

“My soul is burdened,” the priest thinks he heard Teller-man say. He tries to focus again.

“With what?” he asks, his eyes flitting to the couple’s clasped hands. In his heart, he already knew. The long sleeves of her dress not quite hiding the slight difference between her hand and forearm.

The tale was a gristly one, but the priest wouldn’t let it go. Tellerman wanted to be atoned for the thefts of bodies used to cobble together his bride. He wanted his soul to be cleansed of the mark of leveraging dark and forbidden magics to lure the supposed soul of his wife from the Thicket to occupy the stolen flesh of those he’d sworn to protect. The priest prided himself on being an open minded sort, but this business was foul beyond measure. Of all the months that he had spent praying on the nature of sin, and what was actually bad versus potentially bad, turning to the Triumvirate was always bad. No good could come from such foul magics.

“I can’t give an atonement fer something yer not actually sad a bout,” the priest said finally. The corpse-bride had tried her best to reassure him that she was who she claimed to be, but he had no certainty of it. Even if she was what she claimed, he had no certainty whatsoever that she was alone in that flesh. It felt like trying to wash your dishes with an oily cloth- at best it was moving through the motions and making his soul-crushing pain worse. “Are ya sorry?”

Tellerman was quiet for a moment.

“I am sorry for what was done, but I would do it again,” he said fiercely. The priest nodded sadly and pushed himself to his feet. Something dark was coming, and he wished more than anything to soothe the hurt of his friend. But there were some things that couldn’t be compromised on.

“I wish I could help you, Tellerman. I hope she is who you think she is. I hope that this doesn’t cause you more pain in the end,” he says and turns to go.

**********

The elf moved as if it had no bones whatsoever. It didn’t matter how hard the priest swung his fists, or how many times he chased the irritating creature to a corner. For the life of him, he couldn’t land a single blow against the guy. All he could do was tie up his attention. Time and again he moved bonelessly away. And when he was cornered by Milo or Theo, a brilliant flash of moonlight would manifest between his skin and the small weapons.

The threat of the non-human was beyond measure, and yet it paled in comparison to the thing rousing under the mountain.

*********

The faces of the Inquisition and their prosecutors stared at him balefully. All but one, who seemed almost… sad. The priest blinks slowly and tries to focus on where he was. Convocation. Right.

“I won’t let these people burn,” he said firmly. “If a pyre is ta be built, it starts with me. My flock is safe from that.”

They bristled. All but the sad one who just stared unblinking and sighed. The sad one was the key.

The faces behind the Inquisitors relaxed a bit. Most smiled and seemed a bit relieved. He opened his mouth to speak again.

*************

“I need you not to interfere,” Cadence was saying. Where was he? It was warm and bright as the priest looked around. What was she talking about?

“Is this about the inksishun?” he asked. She just looked at him.

“This will make you real sad, but you need to trust me,” she repeated. The priest stared at her a moment. They were going to burn someone. They wanted him to let them burn someone. He frowned, his stomach flipping and the urge to vomit rather suddenly upon him. And he might, if he’d eaten anything in the last month. Finally, he nods.

“I trust you, Cadence,” he said sadly. And he did.

Hours, days, or weeks later, the Priest’s connection to time was slowly unraveling, she gripped his hand reassuringly as the flames leapt up to eat the flesh of the drunken physiquer. The stench of burning boots, flesh, bones, and offal was like some horrid meal gone wrong. A quiet prayer is offered for the soul of their collective victim, and a second prayer is offered that none were so starved they might crave this poor soul’s flesh.
***********

“I need to atone,” Marinette said. Her eyes were red rimmed as if she’d been crying. The priest blinked and looked around. He was sitting on a porch. Pascal was sitting next to him, and someone might have been behind them, he couldn’t be sure. So the priest gestures to the empty seat behind her.

“I’m listenin’,” he said, trying to focus on this precise moment and listen.

The story that she told was unpleasant. She had gone with the Vecatrians to protect their grove. They’d occupied the bodies of beasts and monsters to drive out the inkisishun troops. She’d tried to prevent them from dying, but her orders had led to the death of several before she was able to clarify her orders and stop the slaughter.

“How many did ya kill?” he asked slowly.

“I’m not sure. Somewhere between five and eight, I think?” she said, the words clearly weighing on her. The priest nods.

A clear moment stretched on before him. Marinette was little more than a child, really. The strain of recent years had aged her more than one might expect, but he’d be shocked if she was much over twenty. Time was having less and less meaning to him. The smooth, shining face of the youth would become strained. Her eyes would harden to glittering gemstones. Her hands, already calloused from working the land, would grow bloody with the work they would ask of her. The soft, sweet heart would grow leathery and resistant to the needs of others. But in her wake, the dread purpose would be tempered. The lessons learned here, so hard fought, so costly, would be safeguarded.

All he had to do was sacrifice all of the special things that made her her.

“I have an atonement fer ya,” he said finally. “But I dun think ya want it. Ya should go ask another priest.”

But she hadn’t left. He’d warned her again. And a third time. And yet, she persisted. Each warning seemed to settle her deeper in the rightness of his decision. A weight that he hadn’t always borne, this sacred duty of caretaking the souls of others. The hopeless trust so many had planted into him, like spears in some boar that refused to die. They cut, each one, cut with a love so pure he could barely stand it.

“Ya took eight souls from the inkisishun,” he said finally. “It falls ta you to replace em.”

A look of confusion crossed her features, “You want me to recruit for the Inquisition?”

“None others ken carry ta water,” he said quietly. “You took the souls, you gotta fill their spots. Their duty is yers now.”

She looked as if he’d struck her. Eyes wide as understanding slowly filtered in. She just nodded, said she understood, and left sadly. That urge to vomit returned. He was becoming distant from his flock. Willing to sacrifice one of the best of them for the good of all of them. This was how darkness started. But at least in this, his soul was settled- this was the most correct path.

*********

The High Inquisitor was staring at him, unblinking. An idle part of the priest’s mind notes that he rarely blinked. Something to unsettle people, no doubt. But Henri had come to grips on the fact that he wasn’t human and such low tactics would be ineffective on him.

“I spent a lot of time praying,” he said. They had been talking about his speech at Convocation. The Inquisitor had said something about having heard other Melandahim sermons, and at least in this, Henri felt like he was living up to his covenant, speaking truth to power. “On the nature of sin.”

The Inquisitor stared at him blankly, but the slightest shift of the man’s shoulders told him that they had come to the thrust of it. The Inquisitor held the lives of his parish in his hand, and now was the moment. This would decide the matter. They would die, or be allowed to live; the priest held his undivided attention.

“See, the things that we have said are sins aren’t always sin,” he began. Were he capable of fear, he would be cowering. This sort of talk would promise him to the fire, he was certain. But his Purpose wasn’t to burn, so he spoke on. “Some of it is, sure, but not all. Maybe not even most. There’s a nuance to it, see? Killing is a sin, but not always. Self-defense. Slavers. In-human things. But we draw a line to make things easier for everyone. We draw a line and say all of this is sinful, and we let the nuance live in the atonement. But we are missin’ the point. See, it’s expedient to say all of this over here is sinful. Like heresy. All sinful. But it ain’t, not even half. What’s sinful is ta abandon yer humanity. Worshiping spirits ain’t sinful, though some might demand sinful stuff. Bein’ a priest for the vecatrians ain’t a sin. I prayed on the worship of spirits, and God told me that it makes spirits more like God, and how could that be a sin? Crones, they abandon what makes em human, that’s sinful. But most of the rest?”

He shrugged, and the Inquisitor frowned a bit. The man was difficult to read, but Henri felt like he’d struck a heavy blow. And realization dawned on the priest- HE KNEW. This High Inquisitor KNEW. This wasn’t a great secret that was being revealed, but more rather, Henri was speaking truths to someone already educated in them, and further realization dawned on the priest. The Church had suppressed these truths. Part of his order was granted this knowledge and they held it in trust until such time as the world was ready to hear it. Finally, he understood.

“How many Charismata are in yer Order?” the priest asked.

“Not many,” the Inquisitor said, sensing the trap.

“Why?” the priest asked.

“It is dangerous for them. When they sin, they can grow dark,” the Inquisitor said.

“So what ya do is sinful,” the priest concluded. It wasn’t a question. The Inquisitor opened his mouth to speak, and Henri raised his hand to stop him. The gesture was absurd; who in their right mind would dare tell an Inquisitor to be quiet while they spoke? But Fire wasn’t His Purpose. “What I want from ya, what I demand, is that ya don’t do what’s expedient. Don’t just look at us and say ‘the rules say ya burn’ and go an light the fires. This place learned something hard ta learn and its a sacred truth. It needs ta be protected. And you know it. I need ya ta live in the nuance. If the whole rest of the Church is allowed to draw hard lines, it must be the purpose of your order specifically to understand the nuance and make rulings on those facts. That’s all I want.”

*********

Suzette had been saying something. The massive skull of the deer had ribbons hanging from its antlers, and the priest blinked in some confusion. They were saying nice things about those that they had had conflict with. What a good idea. He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the skull. He had few regrets, really, having turned away from violence and greed long ago. But one had settled in his gut and had refused to leave.

“I once said that Cole wasn’t a good person,” he said, wrapping a ribbon around an antler. “I was wrong and I’m very sorry. She’s a goodun.”

As he moved to settle back in his chair, Suzette called to him.

“Maybe tell people why she’s a good person?” she asked.

“It’s self evident,” he said, slumping down. Then softer. “Plain as the nose on her face.”

A few days later, still sitting in the tavern, still tying ribbons to the skull, Marinette was standing before him.

“I want you to know, Henri, I’ve never felt farther from God than I do now,” she said softly. The priest sighed and nodded.

“I’m very sorry,” he answered. There wasn’t another answer; this was the first of her sacrifices.

Weeks later, and Lysenna was standing before him. What had she been saying? Something… a question?”

“What?” he asks, confused.

“How could you do this! Send Marinette to the Inquisition?! I’ll never forgive you,” she fumed at him. Exhaustion threatened to sweep over him and the weary start of despair was growing.

“I think ya want to be somewhere else now,” he said. There was nothing else to be done. If she stayed, he would speak, and the fragile unity of the community would be threatened. Now they needed to stand together more than ever they had before. She stormed away, and he hear her swearing at the other end of the tavern and staring daggers at him.

Pascal reached out and patted his leg.

“I was there, and you were right,” he said, and that sweet balm was better than the finest wine.

Months later and yesterday when they stood outside the tavern, preparing to march to their destiny, Tellerman was saying something, and the sadness oozed from him.

“I don’t think I’m very good at atonements. Everyone’s mad at me,” he said and remembered the half-dozen faces, their eyes filled with betrayal, despair and rage. He blinked them away as his vision was consumed with the fiery eyes of the Tellerman, and he was certain he was about to be chastised again. And from one so dear; his heart would surely break.

“You saved us all,” Tellerman said. “That atonement saved us all.”

**********

He was fighting. The elf was moving away bonelessly and casually throwing beams of light at him. The glowing light behind his vision kept away the exhaustion, and the priest leapt out of the light’s path, only to launch himself back at the elf. No amount of swinging could land a blow. But he knew that if he could just consume the elf’s attention with his presence, Theo and Milo could sneak behind. The mighty ax of lil Hughie. Anyone who was an actual fighter could put this beast down. Again and again, he engaged, clashed, and retreated.

“You are too weak. You will fail,” the elf’s voice echoed in his ears.

“Yeah, but they ain’t,” the priest retorted and launched himself into the mouth of some great beast, his sword seeking the unprotected insides of the creature’s throat once more.

***********

The riddles had been complicated and hard for the wary priest to follow. But Tellerman and Sebastion were clever and had spoken soothing words and finally the skull had been unchained and lifted. It spoke, and the priest fell to his knees to pray. He knew what was to come. This was the precipice. All he needed was to be brave.
YOU MUST PLACE YOUR GIFT INTO THE CANON. THEN ANY MAY REMAIN AND FIRE IT UPON HIS BLACK HEART.

The priest would tell none of this. If one was to be sacrificed, it would be him. He was the last one out. That was his Purpose.

He stood, and held out his hand to Isabell.

“Its time,” he said. And Milo was there, touching the barrel and demanding that everyone bless him. Not the weapon, but him. Milo, who had been his brother; the old priest could have kissed him.

The runes flared on weapon, and he felt a fundamental part of himself infuse the metal. The heart was a bloody, beating mess. Nodding to his friends, the priest forced a smile.

“Get em out,” he said to whomever had been close enough to hear. Then he crawled through the gore to the pulsing flesh within. The noise was deafening. The pressure was unreal. It tried desperately to push the air from his lungs, but he didn’t need to breathe. It tried to crush him, but his bones would not break. He sat in the chamber of the mighty muscle and waited. He counted slowly. Enough for his friends to get clear of the blast. Then he lifted the weapon.

The moment he raised it with intent, he felt the sweeping tides of Destiny. He had never felt such a thing. Something so much greater than himself. It was his Purpose HIS PURPOSE HIS PURPOSE HIS PURPOSE.

The world exploded in brilliant light, so loud and searing that nothing could exist in the same space as that flash. And then there was nothing. He sat in blackness. The only point of light for eternity was himself. Black, blankness, forever. For forever. No Lurian. No brilliance to join. Just empty blackness. And a sad, fat old man.

“So. This is it then,” the man said sadly. And in that moment, the priest understood. He had misunderstood. His Purpose hadn’t been to kill the Witch-King. Any could have done that. His Purpose was to save him.

“I would like ta take your atonement, now,” Henri said, renewed vigor filling him.

They spoke. The old man had been bleak with despair. The Conquerer, he claimed, couldn’t have atoned him. He was dead. There could be no forgiveness. But the Priest knew better. And he had reassured the man of the same. The Purpose of the Conquerer had been different from his own. Chiropoler had him. He was not alone in this blackness. Here, in this eternity where time didn’t exist as a concept, he was not alone. And the one that sat before him would not leave until the Witchking knew the love of God once more.

“At least,” the man said as the smallest smile rested on his lips. “At least I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Let us start there, then,” the priest said, smiling.

**********

Eternity has no meaning here. They had spoken of each of his millions of victims. His rage. His disappointment. His greed. His avarice. His pride, that crippling pride. They had been here for longer than Creation had existed. And only for a second. There was no concept of time, and without that concept, nothing could really happen.

In the darkness, demons had come to listen, the only point of light they had seen in eternal darkness. They came and listened. And would flit away bored. But there was nothing here, nothing, except a point of light that whispered to them of the warmth of God. Of the love they could know if they just looked inward.

They spoke, and prayed, and spoke, and prayed. They would dart off in rage, but there was nothing to do here, and the isolation was maddening. Even if the most bitter of them would return and listen simply to have something different, anything different, than this empty blackness.

And there, in that eternal sermon, a voice whispered to Henri. A single voice that caused him to be silent a moment that wasn’t a moment. It had the concept of time, and it grounded the priest in the present which had a present now.

“Please help papa understand the Discord he brings,” the voice said. It was a girl, a child. Far way and in his heart all at once. “Please, Henri, guide him.”

There was confusion. He was… there was worship. Prayers. They would silence and time dissolved and for eternity he would preach. Then the concept of time would exist and someone would be asking for guidance. And he found, once his mind was constrained by worldly concerns, that if he concentrated, he could reach within himself to find the prayers and whisper back. Words of encouragement. Words of love. Words of devotion.

We are stronger together. The Purpose of Humanity is to unite. The voices grew and grew until eternity couldn’t exist alongside them. The black emptiness wasn’t empty at all. He was… at long last, united with his family. With Humanity.

They were saved. They would be forever saved. And the darkness that stretched on was the warmest of places.

The market had been a bit chaotic. So many new faces. So many expressions of fear on the familiar ones. A general feeling of a noose tightening. Disquieting rumors of things done in the woods. Unfortunate tales of monstrosities awakening, and then being put once more to slumber. There had been a teen girl filled with bees that had said lil Hughie an’ Lou-net had done it. There had been a vision of the future, old cycles starting again. Of pain and death. A bespeckled gal who had wanted to teach one of the chillins how to be a lady. Giant flesh tentacles, like leeches the size of buildings.

Chaotic. All over the place, really. But the stand out had been the effect of the inkysishun coming to the valley.

For years, they’d been a boogey man of sorts. ‘Don’t snitch on your neighbors, or the inkysishun will come and burn everyone alive’. It had been the chief concern of his flock when considering properly joining the children of the forest with the children of the lion. It hadn’t seemed real, so many figments of the night proved to be just that.

But they were here now. And they seemed to come to purge this place with fire. Many of the most stalwart of his friends, those he looked up to and admired, were making terrible choices in the wake of this news. Many planned to leave as fast as they could. Some planned to hide. Some planned to plead innocent. For the Friar’s plan, he intended to climb the burning pyre himself before anyone in his community was lit aflame.

It all seemed so dreamlike and… meaningless. Why were humans lining up to butcher one another over petty differences when anyone with eyes to see could clearly tell the dangers that surrounded them? Did they not hear the voice of God soothing them? Whispering that we were all once cut from the same cloth, and it was to that cloth we must return? That these sorts of fears and disputes and conflicts drove a greater wedge between humans, when the whole purpose of humanity was to unite?

The preacher sighed to himself and began his long walk once more. The great beast had been put to sleep once more; they had bought some time. Time for him to travel. To… see his beloved home, very likely for the last time. He could feel his Purpose fast approaching, and while it should be terrifying, he was frankly elated. Henri only had a murky idea of what was to be expected of him, and he was just terribly relieved that it had fallen to him rather than his loved ones.

Soon it would be time to see this thing through.

It was a strange thing, to largely being able to ignore pain, but keenly aware of an irritation. It was the same with being afraid. He didn’t really get afraid anymore, but he felt concerns and worries. Those feelings were like cousins, or seemed rooted in the same bucket of… stuff.

The Friar hadn’t slept in months. Instead, he walked and prayed. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with someone wandering the countryside. Sometime with a family that he just happened upon. It didn’t really matter. He just walked and walked and walked. He was supposed to tend to the fringe anyway, so he did just that. All the while, the back of his mind replayed the last market over and over. It shouldn’t hurt, this feeling of being alone again. But it did smart a bit.

Dwelling on it wasn’t something the preacher could afford, so he just keeps walking.

The old knight sat in the cold, wrapped in his thick black coat and waited for the sun to rise.

The Spring war season had been shockingly quiet. The Doghearts had disbanded rather than face him on the field. Guthar had been crushed over the winter. The Dwarves had been sequestered in their home, though no word on the progress of the Fafnir forces had reached his ears. The settlement of Runeheim was reasonably secure. The banner of the black fort flew over the cursed Fort that had caused the knight no end of trouble since its discovery more than a year ago now. All and all, the immediate surroundings seemed to be in a good place. So he had taken his forces East through the woods his men referred to as ‘Murder Alley’. The name was only partially in jest; most of the casualties of war had taken place in those woods.

While his troops has passed through without issue, Sven wouldn’t be willing to swear there weren’t still enemies laying in wait there somewhere. It had been a troubling stretch of land since his arrival in the Theater. However, with his fighting men and women successfully on the other side, the land bridge was finally in his sights. That humble muddy stretch of river was the key to this entire campaign. It was the lifeblood of commerce. It hid the dreaded serpents. It was an open gate between the Njordr and the Rime. If they could control the land bridge and build his chains on the river, the knight was confident that they could bring some security to The Throne.

The only real hiccup with his Spring had been the unpleasantness in the tavern surrounded the Lady Dressler and certain members of The Grey Company. He sighed at the recollection of it. The knight had been charged with prosecuting the war in the north. He was at war with literal gods, and every small victory came with a similar loss somewhere else. Truly, it was exhausting. Things would be what they would be, however, and he would accomplish little by worrying about it now. Things outside his sphere of influence was, by definition, something he couldn’t impact. Therefore, it stood to reason that devoting thought and worry towards it would accomplish little. In that vein, he elected not to worry about it now. Honey had a hard time going back in the comb, and this situation seemed to be one of those. At the very least, immediate violence had been avoided.

As the light of the sun starts to color the sky in the grey of pre-dawn, the knight sighed. In less than an hour now, his staff would rouse themselves from slumber. He would instruct his horse to be saddled, and the knight would journey back towards Runeheim to assist in the moving of materials from the outskirts to the farms for build projects. A truly spellbinding waste of his talents, but it was, he had been told, important to be at least seen attempting a penance for his violence in war. His niece had been clear with him; some people were unhappy with the good works he did for The Throne. The knight understood the troubles; the North hadn’t ever accepted a doctrine of total war. They were slowly learning his lessons. Eventually, he was certain, they would understand. Until then, he would strive to enlighten the populace, at the bloody tip of a sword if need be. And in the meantime, he would haul wood from one corner of the Theater to the other. Because that was the best use of a high born general’s time.

Warfare is about resolve, deception, and a willingness to do whatever your enemy doesn’t think you’re willing to do. It wasn’t complicated. Certainly, some formations were tricky. Some of the histories were tricky. But when one considered it at its root, it was all about control. In war you needed to control information. You needed to control terrain. You needed to control timing. You needed to control your troops. You needed to control the enemies troops. A whirlwind of things that needed to be controlled all crystalized into a single experience, manifesting itself at the tip of a spear.

And, at the end of the day, control every possible variable, and you still needed a monumental amount of luck.

“Intel checks out, sir,” Troels said, looking over the same documents that Sven had been pouring over for the better part of an hour. “What’s the plan?”

Sven was looming over two maps, one fine sewn leather, another ink blotted and occupying paper that had once held a letter of some sort. The knight was silent for a moment.

“If Sister Solace is willing, we have a chance,” the knight mused. “This village the Stormhammers are looking to raid is a problem. They will be able to freely attack Runeheim from that position. Bolstered by fresh Thralls, and the advantage their cavalry will have on the plains of Greywater…”

The knight closed his eyes, envisioning the slaughter that would come with the spring thaw. No. That must be avoided at all cost. The Citizens were vulnerable, and that would not be allowed to stand.

“But, it is well outside their surveillance range. They know we are too far away to easily defend it, not with half our force being Gothic,” the knight mused. “They will expect an easy push of it. In fact…”

He sketched a line from the mountain fort they had taken last Forum to the wooded village in question.

“They can move here and be largely unseen by our forces at all,” he said, finally. “If Gottfried hadn’t seen scouts here, and Siggy not collected the reports… I think its safe to say, this would have taken us entirely by surprise. I would have taken our force South to the Fort and found it empty. The only word we would have had of their movement would have been the fires of Runeheim as it burned to the ground the first weeks of Spring.”

Troels nods.

“With the snows, we still cannot get to the village,” his commander commented.

“We can get close enough,” he said. “If my niece is willing to bless our troops, I think their flesh won’t faulter before we secure it.”

The grizzled old commander looked up confused.

“Why wouldn’t she bless us?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

“I threatened to kill her,” the knight said without looking up from the map. Troel’s eyes grew to the size of small saucers. If rumors were to be believed, Sven was overly fond of his niece. Doting, one might say. But, he’d served the knight for close to two decades and had never known him to make a casual threat. If whatever had been their argument was enough to warrant a threat to Solace, further inquiry might just be enough to earn him an early death. Wisely, he lets the matter drop.

“Your orders?” he asks instead. The knight looks at the smaller map.

“Break camp and mobilize. We’ll march through the fields here and land in the woods along this vector,” he says, drawing a line on the large map, then marking the smaller. “Station our dragoons here. Our archers here. Flamberges and Armsmen here. We can use the terrain as cover. Last count of the Stormhammers had ten or eleven units of Karls. They’ll have some Thralls from their taking of the Saenger fort. Let us assume twelve units in their force. Their previous disposition was a very long, single line.”

The knight begins to set up small mock-ups of the units in the battle.

“If we’re lucky, we can obliterate their center before they even know they’re in a battle. A long single line marching through the woods this way is very vulnerable to attack,” he concluded. “Let us make all due haste. We’ve no time to waste if we’re to get these Southerners to the woods through this ice and snow.”

******************************************************

The battle had been glorious. He called it a battle because two armies had fought together, so it was technically correct. However, anyone that had witnessed it wouldn’t have used that word.

It had been coming on to evening with the Stormhammers had surrounded the village. It had been their hope to move their forces orderly onto the village, enslave all the peoples there, and then set up a camp for some carousing. With the fading light, they never saw the flamberges, the most well equipped, seasoned of the vanguard forces carve into their lines. There had been no trumpets. No war cries to signify that battle had been joined, Just quiet soldiers moving about their bloody business. Hundreds had been slain before Guthar had even had a chance to react.

By the time Guthar had drawn up his cavalry for a retaliatory attack, the green dragoons of the Krigare force had been mid unruly assault, drunk on the rush of battle, unlike their seasoned linemen. But it had been effective. The light dragoons and archers, even hampered by the winter and wood were brutal in their efficacy against the slower, heavily armored troops they fought. The Stormhammers counter attack hadn’t even pierced the heavily armored lines of Sven’s forces; their cavalry not even having a chance to encircle their enemy. Guthar’s forces had been reenforced with archers, and had been three hundred larger than expected. But it had amounted to very little difference.

The battle was over in a few hours. Then the slaughter began.

Traditionally, when an army was routed, it was given some latitude to regroup. Wounded were collected. Missing comrades were given fall back points. Standing orders for where to go and who to answer to were standard faire. But not when the Fenris were involved.

Part of the fearsome reputation of the Imperials came from their unwillingness to allow these polite niceties. Their doctrine was more… brutal. Those who felt were run down like dogs.

********************************************

Sven clamored off his massive warhorse, well adapted to the cold and large enough to draw a wagon on its own, the beast was nearly as fearsome as the man. His muscles were fatigued and blood marked his face, along with the rest of him. He’d spent hours with his men riding down the retreating Stormhammers.

Battles in the ice were beautiful. The crimson gouts of blood steaming in the air, splashing against trampled or pristine snow, melting towards the earth until the heat of life faded and the crystals reformed. The snow started white. Then splashed with red. By the end it resembled black mud, such was the slaughter. The canopy of the wood was thick with crows and ravens in the fading light and growing dark, hungry for the feast below them. A handful of survivors had been pulled to a small cordoned area. The fifteen hundred men and women of the Stormhammers had been reduced to a few dozen. Their eyes were blank and glassy. That distant look that Sven understood so well. His own men had stared at the ground with that look as they’d marched away from their bout with the Hollow Song. When his enemies wore that look, it was much more pleasing to him.

“Is this all of them?” he asked, settling his cloak about his shoulders after getting jostled about on the saddle. The officer standing watch over them put fist to breast before executing a sharp salute.

“Yessir,” he said in a clipped, professional tone. “The Devourer himself made it away, though. We counted less than ten with him.”

Sven nodded and approached the line of loosely bunched Karls. He looped his thumbs into his sword belt and glowered down at them. He would have taken a knee, but he was sore from the saddle and his armor granted little latitude with moving.

“Stormhammers,” he said in a booming voice designed to carry. “We have come to an unfortunate crossroads. The Branded whom you have elected to follow was arrogant and foolhardy. I believe he boasted that he would raise a flag over our fort. And then did no end of crowing that he did that very thing.”

The knight bends slightly for dramatic effect.

“He raised many Karls to come fight for him, using that victory as a springboard for his recruitment. Some of you, perhaps. Now all dead,” Sven said. “I am Sven álfrblóð. For all of the Devourer’s faults, he is a man of singular purpose. That purpose can be of use to me. Because of that, one of you will be given clemency to carry a message to him. Are there any volunteers?”

One of the glassy eyed men, a fellow with a beard and long golden locks struggled to his feet. Sven thought he might have recognized the figure, perhaps he was one of the Stormhammers who had interrupted the warfare planning meeting.

“Imperial dog,” he said in a shaky voice that grew in confidence as he continued to speak. “None of us will serve you.”

The knight nodded slowly.

“I wasn’t looking for a servant, just a messenger. Does this… fool speak for the rest of you?” he asked. A younger man, scarcely more than a boy, looked up through his blood spattered and snowflake marked hair.

“No sir,” he said. “Please let me go and I will deliver your message.”

The knight smiled as genuine and kind a smile as his armored, blood smeared visage could muster.

“Excellent. What is your name?” he asked.

“Leif, sir,” he said shakily.

“Leif. What a charming young man you are. Step over here to the edge,” he said. “The message is simple. The álfrblóð has defeated his force, slaughtered his men, and knows precisely where the Devourer has fled to. I only don’t chase him now as a kindness. I wish to offer him the same deal that I have offered to all of the Branded that I have bested in warfare: he needn’t die with his men. He can work for me, and I will show him mercy. Tell him that if he is willing to be baptized and offer me his oath, he can live. I will even grant him glory against the Ironbloods and Doghearts. This needn’t be where his saga ends.”

The knight waited a moment to see if the youth understood. Then he reaches out and placed a mailed hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Look at me, son,” he said softly, waiting until the boy looked up, eyes betraying tears wishing to well up. “Can you remember all of that, Leif?”

The boy nodded twice before his head drooped towards the ground again. Sometimes watching the iron melt out of a man was exhilarating. It had a fragrance to it, like arousal on the wind. It stirred something within the iron clad figure. Were there time to experience this youth in a different way, it wouldn’t take much to make him appealing.

The knight smiles.

“Good lad. Stand here on the edge, away from your fellows,” then he gestures to Troels from the side. “Commander, this is Leif. He is to be given fresh travel clothes, a warm cloak, and enough trail provisions for three days. He is to be taken to the edge of our encampment, told where Guthar the Devourer has fled, and allowed to leave to deliver my message, escorted of course. Once the message is delivered, he will be free to go about his business.”

Troels nodded, “Of course, sire. And the others?”

Sven smiled, never looking away from Leif, refusing to release the boy’s gaze, even as his head drooped and hair began to obscure his eyes.

“Crucify them. Start with the large one that has called me an Imperial dog twice now. See that Leif watches. I want the full gravity of the message intact when it is delivered,” he said, his tone soft, nearly gentle. A giant about to step on something insignificant in a way that would crush it utterly, forever.

“Goodbye Leif,” the knight says, giving the youth’s shoulder another squeeze before releasing it. “Should I see your pretty visage again, I shan’t be so gentle with you a second time.”

The black cloak swirls around the figure as he turns to walk off into the darkness, sparking a chorus of warnings from the crows at his passage.

This world could be a paradise.

If not for the wretched influence of the demons worshipped as the Old Gods.

They offer up to us, and we protect them. United under the light of Benalus.

Much weighted on his mind. The North was an unforgiving place. For every boon it granted, it took something away. It was the way of things here. For the last fifteen years, he had yearned to found an Imperial Order dedicated to the pacification of the North. His home had a stark beauty, but it was fractured. Corrupted. Perverted by the worship of these demonic things.

Solace had had a theory. Prove their false gods powerless and they will turn away.
Ingvar had a different theory. Kill them. They weren’t God. They could die.

Sven liked the knight’s approach better.

Before him lay the corpse of a horned figure. It had been a man once. The muscled bulged grotesquely. One eye was red, the other yellow. Sigils and runes were carved into its flesh. Even dead it seemed fearsome.

One hundred of the Sons had repelled four-hundred of his men in Spring. He had returned with seven hundred this time. There had been no quarter.

“My Lord,” Troels said, rousing the highborn from his gazing. “We have received word the Saenger fort is about to be raided.”

Sven nods. “Right on time.”

“Shall we engage?” his right hand asked.

“They are too far,” the knight replied absently. “We evacuated as much of the populous as we were able. The Saengers are aware of the hopelessness of their remaining position.”

Troels clears his throat and nods, waiting for orders.

“Crucify the survivors,” he said after a long moment. “String these twisted remains up for the world to see. Cut off each one of these fucking runes.”

“That will take time, my Lord,” he answered.

“Have the bulk of our Force erect the palisades and set a parameter,” the knight continued, wondering if the unnatural rage that had infected his soldiers from the Hollow Song had lingered in him. Even crucifixion felt… too kind. “I want to see this done properly. In a few weeks we will ride South and engage the Doghearts. Cowards that they are.”

Troels gave a confused look, “Not the Stormhammers? Won’t they fortify through the winter? And in striking distance of the settlement?”

Sven shrugged. “Can’t be helped. We might be able to push them out. But not before the first winter snow.”

The knight looked up once again, “These Southerners are good at killing, but soft as cheese. How many would we lose to the ice of the mountains?”

Realization dawned on Troels, who struck a sharp salute and nodded before turning and going to issue orders. Lord Sven álfrblóð Brynjar turned and strode towards the men collecting the carving knives and rope. The long nails forged for a single purpose and the long handled hammers to swing them properly. Standing stock still, cloak flapping slightly in the wind, he watched as the men started collecting the brand of the Ulfrandr. As a small collection started to pool at his feet, the rest of the last market filtered through his mind.

A letter from the King saying the very thing Sven had dedicated his life to was about to come to fruition.
A very dear friend called away forever.
A charming walk with pleasant company.
One of the most trustworthy warriors tossed dead at their feet.
Stealing something back from under the nose of the Sons.
An unfortunate series of murders.
This glorious slaughter of the Sons of Ulfrandr.

It was enough to give a person motion sickness. The hammering of vulgar iron through flesh, bone and bark sounded in its oddly muted way through the trees in flapping fading echoes. Further south, he could hear the phantom cracks of cannon, and a part of him wondered how Markus Fafnir was faring against the dwarves on their third front.

“My Lord,” Troels said, holding up a note. “Word from the East. Ragnar Stoneskin’s forces were decimated.”

“Does Stoneskin live?” Sven asked.

“No word, sire.”

“Fuck.”

The runner had approached the mobile camp in a huff. Still pleased with their victories through the Spring, his men were eager for anything resembling action. Blood was in the air. They’d heard rumors of Storm Hammers to the East and Dwarves to the West. More foolhardy than wise, the fighting men and woman of the Obesegrade Krigare were eager for either. But then, that was often the raw vibrancy of youth and a siloed experience. Most had never faced down a line of riflemen, or seen the small metal punching through line and armor like a knife through cheese. The scent of sulfur paired… poorly with the offal of the slaughter it inspired.

“My Lord,” he began having jumped off his horse in short order and performed a sharp salute. Sven turned to the voice, registering the face. Emil. One of the scouts attached to his vanguard, the much vaulted Flamberges, the pride of the Krigare.

“Emil,” he said. “Report.”

“Sir Ingvar rallies for aid,” he said. “Storm Hammers. A thousand or more with cavalry. He’s outnumbered, sir.”

“Well,” the older knight said, pushing himself to his feet from the camp chair. “We must indulge him, mustn’t we?”

Then to the rest of camp.

“Break camp! Sir Ingvar and his men are outnumbered by the Storm Hammer Clan here to make war. There is no malice here. They have invited us to play. Are we to sit back and let the Ice Fangs have all the fun?” his voice boomed across the encampment. His beloved Karls had died some months ago to the Hollow Song. But his levies, the soldiers he had acquired when he first entered the theater, along with a hundred or so fresh men, they had fought and bled with him for well over a year. They were as fine soldiers as he’d ever had the pleasure to serve with.

Freshly rallied, Sven gestured to Troels Hadvarson to oversee the breaking of camp. Another gesture summoned his horse. Hadvar had served his uncle for years, and his son hadn’t left his side for decades. The ease of the military routine settled well on his shoulders, and it was with a happy step that Sven and sundry wheeled their force South, marching threw the woods east of Runeheim. A stretch of trees that had affectionately been dubbed ‘murder alley’ for its tendency to host and hide enemy forces.

Unfortunately for the Krigare, the woods lived to its name.

A few days from Runeheim, as they trekked through the woods, calls and screams started to sound from deeper in the woods. Confusion yielded to an ambush. From the darkness leapt dozens of figures. They had horns and spikes and their flesh was adorned with horrid jewelry and scars. They fought savagely.

At first, Sven thought the Hollow Song had returned, such was their ferocity. But as they fought a hurried retreat, the sigils adorning the flesh of their foes was more abundantly clear. These were the Sons of Ulfrandr.

Amid the chaos, they were pushed back and well and truly routed. Four hundred veterans repelled by a hundred or so enemies. Ingvar’s attack when unaided. He was likewise repulsed. A flurry of letters back and forth to coordinate another attack on the Stormhammers, but by then they had bunkered down and were able to repel the combined forces of the Knights Fenris.

Retreating together, a dark glow settled on the pair of knight’s shoulders.

“I am going to kill every one of these pieces of shit, and anyone that has given them aid,” Ingvar fumed. To which the older knight simply nodded.

“No quarter,” he agreed. No quarter.

The swamp was always a strange place when the seasons changed. It was never quite as cold as the rest of the region. Pa had said it was related to all of the stuff rotting beneath the water. Corpses had their own heat, he used to say. Something his pappy and his grandpappy had said before them. Corpses had their own heat. Their own life. They moved through the motions, the same as the rest of us. Just usually less talkative. Idly, the old friar wondered if their swamp being so close to the kruzy-more swamp had caused some of them Gothics to rub off on his own little tribe. Maybe. Pa had a morbid streak, no denying that.

It hadn’t been until they were gone that the friar had given consideration to the nature of his parents. When they had been alive, they’d been towering figures. And when he’d been small, they might as well have been gods. Powerful, wise, patient, fearsome. That’s probably a very… human thought, the preacher reflects. Exalting one’s parents. When you’re small, they are your whole entire world. Then as you turn from them, you see more that surrounds them and they become smaller. Eventually, he reasons, there comes a time when you can look back and see your parents as human. Hopefully kind and well meaning, but human regardless.

His father had been a brave man, though his mother was the fearless one. The preacher remembering his father well, though if he was being honest, the father he remembered was the one of his youth, not what he’d been at the end. Not that he’d been wretched or anything, just that when the preacher closed his eyes and thought on his pa, his hair was chestnuty, his beard thick, and his back unbent. In his mind, he could remember the old man’s smile, or how he smelled on the hunt. He could remember with startling clarity, his pa’s hands. Their myriad of little scars, and the strange hash pattern skin makes when it gets all crinkly. The cleverness of the fingers as they tied a knot, or the way they could just scoop him up like he weighted nothing at all. They were good thoughts. But of all the things he remembered about his father, the thing that kept coming back to him was how his eyes, blue as a clear sky, would seem to flex when he was afraid, and pushing that fear away. When the food stores were slow in winter. Or when one of the highborn had a demand of the house. Or when his uncles were fighting over petty things. Those blue-blue eyes would turn from joyous to concerned. Nothing else would change, just the eyes.

Henri wondered the last time he’d felt afraid. Or hurt. Or weak. Or frail. There were… so few clear recollections of those moments. Perhaps the Mists had taken them. Or perhaps they’d never been. Its not like he could ask those that had known him best; they were all dead and buried (now).

A sigh escapes the lips of the fellow, and he resumes his work. A series of leather thongs that he was braiding into long strands. Something to keep his hands active while his mind processed the events from earlier that day.

Cole had come down in a lather. She’d been frantic, saying the guards were slaughtering Theo and Alphonse. The preacher made a mental note to discuss her habit of fibbing with her later. Regardless, she’d been quite upset. And, likewise regardless, his personal feelings on Theo or Alphonse was immaterial. They were a part of the Community. His Community. For all their flaws, they didn’t deserve to be killed in such an ignoble fashion. Though… part of him wouldn’t be surprised if Theo did die eventually to some overly zealous guard.

So up the hill he’d huffed and puffed. There’d been others that had answered the call, but they’d been slow, or wanted to gather something up first, and he hadn’t waited. If Cole had been right, they’d be dead when he got there, but maybe he could drag them back to Sophie for stitching…. actually… best not to dwell on that. When he’d crested the hill and seen them, there were no corpses, just two figures shouting at each other while two other figures sort of watched. The guard had a gun leveled at Theo, who was holding a dagger of some sort. The grip was odd, it was hard to say if it was a brandish of the dagger or just holding it, but neither individuals seemed peaceful.

As he’d gotten closer, the heated argument became clear. Theo was demanded that those two guards return with him to Delphine. Lately folks had taken to listening to Delphine more and doing what she said. Which, the preacher supposed, was all well and good. Though part of him kept circling back to the nagging argument of Friar Bullet. Why did we even have nobles if their sole purpose was to protect folk from other nobles? It did sort of seem like hiring bandits to protect you from bandits without really addressing the bandit problem.

A thought to pursue in another moment.

The preacher had slowed to catch his breath and his bearings as he’d approached. The guards were refusing to come, stating something about the Owl’s Nest needing to remain guarded. Which on its surface seemed reasonable. But honestly, it seemed like the crux of it was that Theo was Theo and the guard didn’t seem to care for poor folk. The priest had inserted himself into the conflict, hoping to buy time for the rest of the supporters to land on the scene. And perhaps to defuse the situation.

The guard had shifted his pistol from Theo to himself. Holding out his palms to show he was no threat, but also clearly stating he wasn’t leaving had gotten him nowhere. The guard was incandescent and indignant.

“Look, I can’t leave, you need to come with us,” was the last thing he’d been able to say before the pistol fired. The force of it was the most surprising thing. It had caused him to take a step back, but just a flesh wound wasn’t going to slow him up much. Which… the guard also seemed to immediately assess. Moving faster than the preacher would have thought possible, the gun was reloaded and fired a second time. This bullet lodged lower and forced the air from him.

‘Well. I guess this is happening,’ was all that he’d been able to think before Henri reached for the gun, causally tossing it over his shoulder. He’d expected it to end there, but the second guard that had been observing swung his sword, slamming into the preacher’s gut. ‘Still happening.’

It had taken a bit longer to disarm the second guard. By the time the preacher could return his focus to the first, he’d been shot and was on the ground bleeding out. Henri moved to put hands on the guard before his own blood loss caused him to nearly keel over. Alex had been handy with the bandages, and Sophie the needle.

There was a stillness that had fallen over their little group. The guard was ranting about scum this or scum that, folks were arguing back, but the preacher just leaned against a log and looked up at the sky as Sophie stitched him back together.

He hadn’t been afraid. Not when the gun had been leveled against him. Not when it had fired. Not when it had torn through him a second time. No fear. He remembered the glowing eyes of Primus and how so many had stepped back in fear. Or the spiders and their harmless webs. Or the ghouls that would lunge out of the woods. When was the last time he had felt fear?

The needle worked through his flesh. He was aware of it. More the tugging than anything else. The way his skin sort of clung to the needle and thread as it was pulled through him. When was the last time pain had motivated him? Or hunger? Or sex?

It had been a perfectly crystal moment. That guard could have killed him. Probably would have. But he’d not been afraid. He hadn’t felt much of anything, really. A mild irritation that Convocation was delayed. Nothing else.

How much of the human experience was motivated by these basic urges? These… ‘low’ urges? He saw it. It saw it running through his Community every day. Fear was rampant here. Fear of the outside. Fear of the kruzy-mores. Fear of the inkqisishon. Fear of the vecatrians. Fear of the benalians. Fear of the elf. Fear of the mines. Fear of the feasting king. Fear of his child. Fear enough that were it a rising tide, the whole of the community would be swept away and drowned by it.

Yet he felt nothing.

When he’d seen Isabel’s hand mangled, the preacher had taken her hurt onto him. Yet that hadn’t really hurt either. He’d exclaimed more from the surprise of feeling anything than for feeling something bad.

Another braid was done, and he went down the length tying knots at regular intervals.

It was so hard to pick apart what made a person a person. Animals felt pain, but they weren’t people. Maelific felt emotions. But they weren’t people. The elf had all the right cosmetic parts, and yet was also distinctly not human. And the more the old preacher reflected on the essential parts that made a person a person, the more he realized that he lacked them in some raw, fundamental way. It simply wasn’t what he was anymore. Maybe he never had been.

For all the flaws he saw in his Community, he loved them. God help him, he loved each one of them. Even the guard that had shot him. Even his fellow that had stabbed him over and over. Even those in his Community that he knew were quietly betraying their fellows. He loved them all. Which is why the guilt, one of the things that he felt most clearly, was always so telling. He knew, or thought he knew, that what he had done wasn’t a bad thing. And yet, the guilt of it gnawed at him. Like some beetle, burrowing into a tree to consume it from the inside. It gnawed and gnawed and gnawed.

The preacher undid his belt. He lifted his frock over his head. He shrugged out of his jacket. And he discarded his shirt. There was a chill on the breeze, his flesh puckered in gooseflesh immediately. The leather he’d been braiding was added to the others, and the preacher gripped the lot of them, a dozen in all, in his dominant hand. Kneeling on his discarded clothes, he swung the braided leather into his back, as hard as he could. His flesh felt warm. A sensation that might have been pain erupted across him. It did nothing to slow the second blow. Or the third. By the dozenth stroke, the skin had worn away. By the hundredth, thin droplets had arced from the trailing leather, painting patterns of his own blood across the sagging room.

Eventually, the preacher collapsed in a bloody heap, unconscious from his own efforts. It hadn’t been the pain that had stopped him, but rather the maims, in the end.

If the old swamp priest was being honest with himself, it had started with Friar Bullet. He knew that wasn’t his name, but couldn’t seem to remember names of late. The old priest had asked him about his conviction, and questioned why he had wanted to give up his things (such as they were) and walk the path of the penitent. Henri hadn’t had a good answer then, it had just felt right. There had been a light, just behind his eyes. A light he could only really *see* when it was dark and he shut his eyes. A warmth that he’d always known but never been aware of. It had warmed him and comforted him, and he’d known that it was the right path for him. Not many had understood it, but it had been more than a year now, and ole Henri, Friar Henri now, wouldn’t undo that decision for all the gold in all the world.

The sun had finally burned away the clouds, lifting the oppressive muggy feel and replacing it with the dry feel of a drafty oven. The sky had been a dazzlingly pure blue. The trees a crisp vibrant green that struck awe into him each time he saw them. A lone butterfly beat its seemingly too big wings and floated in an exaggerated up-down of their bobbing stride. In the distance, melodious windchimes danced in the breeze, their clanging bodies creating wordless music that delighted the senses.

It was a fine day, indeed. His ears still rang from the whispers of divinity that had occupied his evening. He often prayed at night, finding the solitude of slumbering bodies comforting. While others slept, he’d prayed. With all his might, he’d prayed. On the nature of sin, of spirits, of God and gods, on the Forest Folk and their Circle, on Primus the weeping god of the feast, on the nature of choice within sin, and on the truth of Heresy. The humble priest had been brought up in a dilapidated moss covered home in the woods, with its slanting floors and leaking roof. Grand questions weren’t ever anything he’d had to struggle with before. He’d listened to his priest, and prayed, and done as he was told. But the truth of the matter was more complicated. In his heart, he knew that the Church of Mankind had formed a sort of shorthand code for sin, making a complicated, nuanced problem into a stark black and white issue. It was simple and straightforward, something a child could easily understand. But the trouble with childish morality is that it stunted the growth of those that cleaved to it. As a people matured, they found the world full of fine colors, not just this or that. It was better to not live in ignorance, and that choice, of all the choices he had ever made in his life had been the most dangerous by far.

As the ringing in his ears had faded, and the colors and sensations of town swirled around him, Nadja Kroozie-more had leapt into his view. She had seemed frantic, hurt maybe? Her words had come tumbling out. At first, they’d made no sense. The forest hated her because she was a Kroozie-more? That didn’t make any sense. They wanted her blood, or Kroozie-more blood, or noble blood? It hadn’t made sense to him, but it seemed genuine to her.

“How can I help?” he’d asked, once he realized that understanding the actual problem was well beyond him. She had blinked at him and said:
“Can I be a Chasseur?” she asks, reaching out to hold his forearm with both of hers. There had been a genuine pleading in her gaze. She’d come to ask honestly. And how could he say no?

And just like that, he wasn’t the only Chasseur anymore. And then Cadence. And then Milo. He’d been alone, and now he wasn’t, and the world was a brighter place for it. It felt right to be a part of a family and watch it grow. It lightened his heart, as if lead had been pumping through his veins and it had been purged from him. He wasn’t certain how his feet remained planted on the ground.

The peace had stayed with him. As he’d ran through the woods to head-off the red-hued huntsman. As folks had argued about the proper course. When the community marched into the mines, shoulder to shoulder. That peace had stayed like a great fluffy cloak wrapped about him. The blood that had trickled down his leg and palm, the fearsome face of the monster that tossed folk around like so much kindling. The poison spewing tree. The bloody visage of Gabriella. The glowing skull of Primus, sad and rejected, speaking in images and feelings. All the while, calm.

Fortified by family, community, and love, the Friar was centered and the light was pure. The faint red that he knew waited for him there was distant again. Like the layered light of a sunset, the dangerous color was just one of the symphonic voices calling him, the others so sweet.

He walked without fear through the night, though he thought that if he wished it hard enough, he could have flown.