“You contrivable, double-faced deviant,” Davos bellowed, storming unannounced through Sir Bradfrey’s manor like a merchant cheated out of his wares. His tirades had become a monthly routine, a nuisance that echoed from wall to ceiling despite the servants’ futile attempts to quiet him.

  Bradfrey sighed, the weight of familiarity heavy on his shoulders. “What now?” he asked, greeting Davos’s arrival with forced courtesy. “Still vexed, my dear Davos? Have we not exhausted every effort—short of setting the mangy dogs loose—on your relentless demands?”

  In the corner, Amos scratched away at a spare desk, writing condolences to the families of fallen men. He barely looked up, grateful that Davos was Bradfrey’s problem, not his.

  But this time, the commotion carried something unexpected. Davos flung a damp, muddied banner bearing a red cross onto Bradfrey’s decadent woolen rug. The filth seeped into the fine threads as he fixed them both with a glare.

  “We know,” Amos said, running a hand through his blond hair—a small gesture in the face of so much loss.

  “And do you know how this came about?” Davos demanded.

  “We’ve already sent word to the queen and the bishop,” Bradfrey said, standing by the windowsill. He mimicked Lord Hendricks’s poised stance, gazing over his lands as if it might mask his unease.

  “And your plan for capturing this wayward witch, Anneliese?” Davos pressed, inching closer to the truth neither man dared to speak aloud. “Or have neither of you figured it out yet?”

  Amos set his quill down, his patience thinning. “Right now, we’re trying to figure out how a few thousand men were expected to hold off an army of battle mages, Davos. Or are you a couple of weeks behind the next catastrophe?”

  Davos’s head snapped toward him, disbelief twisting his face. “What? Battle mages? They disappeared years ago!”

  “It seems not,” Amos said, leaning forward. “And now we’re in a bind. My eastern scouts have reported unnatural disturbances—purple rain under clear skies, lightning-born wind devils the size of mountains.”

  Bradfrey stepped in, gripping the edge of the desk. “A wandering friar of ex-pagan heritage disappeared en route to Vasier. That is, until Amos’s spies found him at a pagan bandit camp, tracking the dissident Kulum.”

  “And stranger still,” Amos added, “they spotted a giant wolf escorting a figure who may have been Anneliese.”

  “It’s a conspiracy,” Davos muttered, his mind racing to connect the threads.

  “Perhaps,” Bradfrey said. “But the friar… he’s Burtrew’s son.”

  “The wizard?” Davos’s eyes widened. “My God, he’s out to avenge Pragian.”

  Bradfrey, trying to temper his panic, shook his head. “I doubt it. He’s given us this information freely, without ill intent. That said, I still don’t know how Anneliese fits into any of this.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Davos scoffed. “You’ve always had an affinity for the old pagan ways. Don’t think I haven’t asked about Anneliese—Coble’s apprentice.”

  He moved to the bookcase, trailing his fingers across the spines of dusty hardcovers until they snagged on titles of contentious topics. With a few deliberate taps, he knocked them from their perfect alignment.

  “Rekinvale, Keesh, Pragian… All bloodless victories,” he murmured, then turned, eyes gleaming with suspicion.

  “Or were they?”

  Before Bradfrey could respond, his squire entered—a silent cue for Davos to leave. The priest stormed out, leaving Amos to retrieve the Templar banner from the floor. Mud ran through his fingers as his gaze flicked to the dislodged books Davos had disturbed. Something unspoken passed between him and Bradfrey, a rift widening with suspicion. Amos returned to his desk, pretending to focus on his letters while the tension burned against his back.

  Unable to remain, Bradfrey left the room, his steps heavy as he sought solitude in the castle outskirts. Commoners bowed and scurried from his path, their respect tinged with fear. He crossed into the adjoining orphanage, where Mother Simonet stood among her young disciples, guiding their hands as they kneaded dough.

  Her eldest took over as she stepped aside to greet him. “You seem less yourself today.”

  “A word in private,” Bradfrey replied.

  He led her to the secluded bell tower, where their conversation would carry no further than the brick walls.

  “We’ve located Anneliese,” he said.

  Simonet folded her arms. “And that’s a problem?”

  Bradfrey exhaled, frustration tightening his posture. “She’s with Kulum’s pagan outlaws. This also coincides with the disappearance of a local search party sent to retrieve Gideon.”

  “Hard to believe,” Simonet said.

  Bradfrey’s eyes narrowed. “What did you tell her?”

  “That if she wanted to find her purpose, she needed to leave this place and reconnect with her roots,” Simonet said, matter-of-fact.

  “You what?” Bradfrey’s head spun with sudden betrayal.

  “If only you had taken the time to listen—to truly hear her. To understand the torment she carries, the need for a trusted voice to tell her what should have been blindingly obvious.”

  “And she doesn’t trust me?” he snapped.

  Simonet didn’t flinch. “She’s fought for you, turned defeats into victories, and you’ve treated her like a pawn. She looked to you for protection, and you threw her into a gauntlet.”

  Bradfrey’s jaw tightened. “And what would you have me do? Let her toil in the fields, scraping by under some derelict lord? I gave her the chance to rise above squalor, but with that comes duty—just as mine is to the queen, and yours is to the church.”

  “She is young and afraid. Not every choice is about crown or coin,” Simonet said. “Sometimes, you stand for what is right. Did Castell not teach you that?”

  “You know how this looks, don’t you?” Bradfrey said, raising his fist—but lacking the resolve to strike. “Like I’m complicit.”

  The gesture shattered an unspoken boundary. Simonet stepped back, her shoulders pressing against the rough mortar of the wall.

  “What of Pragian?” she asked—not in anger, but with the quiet ache of her own betrayal.

  Bradfrey exhaled sharply. “The city was abandoned. Draconian and Maneesh were the only casualties.”

  He retreated to the opposite wall, twisting his clenched fist down to his hip, forcing himself to rein in his emotions.

  “I dare not say what you would choose,” Simonet said softly, a single tear streaking her cheek, “if it came down to the people, the queen… or yourself.”

  She hesitated, then stepped forward, resting the end of her amputated forearm firmly on Bradfrey’s shoulder.

  “You do what you must. I’ll go find her.”

  “Alone? The bandits will kill you—”

  “That is my problem, not yours.”

  She briefly clasped his hand with her one remaining before turning to leave.

  Bradfrey dared not see her off, his eyes unfocused on the brickwork. Lightheaded, he felt as though he stood at the edge of a cliff, the void below pulling at him, holding him frozen in place.