The next day’s travels blessed them with fine weather and roads clear of treachery. Spirits were high as the company covered the stretch to Rekinvale with ease. The alpine pass gradually gave way to a sea of tree stumps and open clearings, where churned earth and scattered woodchips converged toward the jagged carpentry encircling Rekinvale’s stone works.

  The remote military outpost loomed before them like a two-headed beast. The massive lower bailey housed everything from industry and armories to cramped living quarters. Rising above it on a neighboring man-made hill, accessible only by a solitary drawbridge, masons and scaffolding labored tirelessly to complete the keep. The castle, resembling the chess piece it aspired to emulate, reached skyward—a testament to Vaserian ambition. To paint the northern border in full Vaserian purple. Or, if fate demanded it, in deep, bloody red.

  Cheers of relief rippled through the company as they entered the bailey. Within the spiked walls, Sir Bradfrey rode into a hive of industry. Everywhere, hands toiled to strengthen the outpost’s defenses. Even the wounded busied themselves, carving scraps of wood into whatever was needed—tent pegs, weapon handles, and the ever-present burial cross.

  No warmth greeted the newcomers. From the parapets to the living quarters, they were met with snickers of “Same old, same old.” Exhausted soldiers barely glanced up from their meager suppers, chewing mechanically, too drained by the day’s labors to muster curiosity.

  From a white canvas tent emerged a friar, his joy undimmed by the hardships woven into his patchwork tunic and the limp that spoke of past trials. Though his frame was cumbersome, there was an ease to his steps, a natural warmth that softened the otherwise cold reception. Each movement seemed to weave a thread of hope among the weary newcomers.

  “Oh, what great blessings the Lord has brought us this day!” Weddle proclaimed. Around his neck hung a simple cross, and in his hands were pitchers of steaming mulled wine, which he graciously distributed to the new arrivals.

  “What a surprise,” Weddle exclaimed as his eyes landed on Sir Bradfrey.

  “Should I be suspicious? Weddle the friar, out here of all places?” Sir Bradfrey teased, handing his reins to Agrippa before pulling Weddle into a hearty embrace.

  “They say suspicion is a sign of alertness,” Weddle said with a smile that didn’t falter, even as Sir Bradfrey’s grip tightened.

  Lowering his voice, Sir Bradfrey steered them out of earshot. “And left unchecked, it becomes paranoia.”

  “I’ve never known you to be paranoid.”

  “I’ve had no reason to be. Not until yesterday.” Sir Bradfrey’s gaze drifted toward the barracks gates, where a particular wagon was rolling in.

  “What’s changed in all these years?” Weddle asked.

  “See that girl over there?” Bradfrey nodded toward the wagon.

  Weddle squinted. “Ah, yes. She looks familiar.”

  Sir Bradfrey’s grip tightened further, pulling Weddle closer until his breath brushed the friar’s ear. “That she should be. And you’d best find out who else might find her familiar.”

  The sudden tension sent a ripple of goosebumps down Weddle’s spine. His limp leg twitched involuntarily, leaving him briefly unbalanced and leaning heavily against Sir Bradfrey’s shoulder. “I thought you were too honest for such secrecy,” he muttered, grimacing as he steadied himself.

  Adjusting his grip, Sir Bradfrey slung Weddle’s arm over his shoulder, helping him hobble to the nearest post that could bear his weight. No apology followed—Sir Bradfrey’s mind was elsewhere, his thoughts visibly churning. “Perhaps it’s the paranoia… or perhaps you should serve up more wine. Enough to keep those red-crossed knights occupied until morning.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Weddle stammered, though his attention lingered on the girl. “But who is she?”

  “The lady of the rainy cave,” Bradfrey replied.

  The name struck Weddle like a thunderclap. “Oh no,” he breathed, his expression crumbling as memories from his pagan past came rushing back. His eyes darted toward the templars—knights of the white and red cross, milling about the bailey. The scale of the danger became painfully clear. His hands grew clammy as he wiped them nervously on his dirty leggings.

  “That she is,” Weddle said at last, his voice quivering as he nodded. “And that I will do.”

  Intent on keeping their conversation short, Sir Bradfrey tapped Weddle’s shoulder with a firm fist. “I’ll find you,” he said before departing, his stride quick, his expression grim.

  The cabin, dimly lit with the fireplace reduced to a faint whisper of warmth, became the stage for Anneliese’s surreal ordeal. Though Agrippa had tucked her beneath blankets in an attempt to create comfort, her consciousness remained untethered, drifting like a phantom as she observed her own still form from afar. This liminal space, caught between the physical and the ethereal, underscored the lack of control that separated her from the demon that lurked within.

  In the room’s flickering glow, the ghost-king’s visage wavered like a flame caught between two worlds. His royal attire was a fragmented tapestry of bygone eras, blending regal splendor with the slow decay of forgotten time. “It’s not so simple,” he said, his voice rich with the vigor of a wise elder—one who, with every encounter, seemed to inch closer to his lost youth.

  “You’ve had your fun. Now let me go,” Anneliese demanded.

  “Why?” The ghost-king tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “I have a vested interest in your survival. I even saved your friends—twice.” His tone dripped with mock generosity, his focus intent on keeping her agitation fixed on him rather than herself.

  “I don’t have friends,” she shot back. “They tend to disappear—as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  The ghost-king chuckled, a sound both ancient and cruel. “Then next time, we’ll just disappear into our cave and let the real world play out as it should.”

  He floated above her cataleptic body, his spectral presence fixed at an unnatural angle, staring toward the doorway just as Weddle shuffled in, his limp leg dragging behind him.

  The friar knelt awkwardly at her bedside, balancing towels and a basin of warm water. He dabbed at her clammy forehead with shaky hands, his efforts underscored by quiet murmurs of concern. Each attempt—smelling salts, murmured invocations, and even a regrettable slap—failed to rouse her. Her stillness bordered on the unnatural, deepening his unease.

  Weddle paused, his resolve unraveling as he took a gulp of mulled wine to steady himself. With a sigh of self-loathing, he reached for Anneliese’s hand and, after a hesitant glance around the room, began whispering old pagan prayers under his breath. His voice faltered at first, but within a few verses, instinct overtook him, guiding his words toward the heretical.

  As the final syllables left his lips, Weddle froze. A shiver ran through him as his gaze instinctively lifted. Though his eyes saw only air, his instincts bore witness to the ghost-king standing before him.

  Weddle’s breath caught. His right hand rose, coconsciously tracing the sign of the cross from head to heart. With his left, he fumbled beneath his tunic, grasping the low-hanging silver cross hidden there.

  “By the love of God,” he whispered, trembling with both fear and defiance, “release this girl, or I will release you into oblivion.”

  The ghost-king studied Weddle with a faint, amused smile. “Hmm. You have interesting friends, girl. You should be thankful for that.”

  With a single clap of his spectral hands, the ghost-king vanished, his presence flashed from existence.

  Anneliese awoke with a startled gasp. Her body jerked upright, clutching at the bedframe as cold sweat ran down her forehead. Her breaths came in short, sharp bursts as her wide eyes locked onto Weddle.

  What did you do?” she demanded, her voice thick with confusion and panic.

  Weddle, still trembling, leaned forward and gripped her shoulders firmly, steadying her. “That which should not be spoken.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What is not to be spoken?”

  The friar’s voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes flicking toward the dim corners of the room. “Anneliese, danger now knows your name. Your face. Those knights of the red cross—they’re zealots. They’ve hung innocents for heresy on nothing but suspicion. And you…” His voice broke for a moment. “You are far from innocent.”

  Her heart pounded in her chest. “What am I guilty of?”

  Weddle’s gaze fell to the cross around her neck. “Is this your cross?”

  She clutched the pendant. “It belonged to a dear friend of mine, so… yes.”

  “Good,” he said, softening his tone. “This is your armor. It is your sword. Your past is poison. When in doubt, you are a child of the Lord. You live by His mercy and no one else’s.”