Burdened by rawhide and stubborn legs, Weddle pushed toward the gates of Vasier Castle. The standing guards, their watchful eyes betraying no leniency, controlled all who came and went. A checkpoint. A chokepoint. An obstacle to his urgency.

  He wove through the early morning queue, scanning uniforms for the most senior officers. Yet, where once intricate heraldry adorned their attire, only bland reiterations of white and gold remained—overlaid with patchwork purple crosses, the royal insignia now bent in devotion to the Church of the One True God.

  “State your business—and make it quick, friar,” the head guard’s voice boomed from above.

  “I have a message for the queen’s mother. News from Sir Bradfrey’s campaign.”

  “All royal correspondence goes through the quartermaster. No exceptions.” The guard took a casual bite of fruit, speaking through the chew. “Jamison will guide you.”

  With a dismissive wave, he gestured Weddle past the backlog and into the care of a junior guard—a lanky youth still growing into his ill-fitting uniform.

  “Do not leave his side. Do not engage with others. Do nothing until the quartermaster gives his blessing. Good day, sir, and good luck.”

  “Of course, and blessings upon you,” Weddle replied, bowing his head.

  They moved in fits and starts, Weddle’s breath laboring as he struggled to match the younger man’s stride. As his legs faltered, his mind latched onto the unsettling order around him: eerily spotless streets, forced pleasantries, nervous smiles from those who dared not offend the prevailing sensibilities.

  Only one place broke the forced peace.

  A raised platform stood just outside the inner walls. Atop it, a white-robed preacher thundered against the perils of false truths. Below, the jeering crowd fixed its wrath upon a lone prisoner—a slender, light-skinned man trapped within a wooden pillory. He bore his fate in silence as the preacher fanned the flames of judgment.

  “This man is no fool,” the preacher roared. “He wields the devil’s tongue with a wicked man’s wit! He whispered lies to our queen, led her from the righteous path, and into the hands of heathens!”

  Rotten fruit and stones pelted the prisoner. The crowd’s jeers swelled, their fury unrestrained.

  But Weddle felt the deeper silence beneath it—the quiet, uneasy tension among those who did not partake. Those who saw themselves in the condemned.

  The guards, stationed nearby under the bishop’s orders, stood as still as statues. Unmoving. Unwilling. Religious justice was not theirs to interfere with.

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  The scene gnawed at Weddle’s kind-hearted nature, but there was nothing to be done. He fixed his eyes ahead and quickened his pace toward the old Domus-style house where the quartermaster resided.

  The quartermaster’s residence opened into a central garden of thorns and red earth. Weddle was led through narrow halls into a confined chamber, sparsely furnished—a single long firepit dividing two bare wooden stools. Two guards flanked the walls, their presence cutting off the only exit, boxing Weddle in with the empty chair awaiting him.

  The tense silence was broken as Crestmir entered, a balding, hard-nosed man whose bent horse whip rested in his grip like a fulcrum for his inner turmoil. Without a word, he took his seat opposite Weddle, his sharp eyes scanning the friar with impatient disdain.

  “Why are you here?” Crestmir’s voice cracked like a snapped twig.

  “Messages for the queen’s mother,” Weddle answered, his voice faltering beneath the quartermaster’s withering gaze.

  “You are?”

  “Weddle. A traveling friar from the north. I’ve recently come into the service of Sir Bradfrey.”

  “Fine. Give me the messages.” Crestmir snapped his fingers at a guard, extending his palm expectantly.

  “They are for her eyes only.” Weddle’s grip tightened around the satchel’s strap. “Sir Bradfrey’s seal should suffice.”

  “No. Give them here.” Crestmir repeated, the rapid-fire clicks of his fingers prompting the guard to step forward, wordlessly reinforcing the inevitability of his demand.

  A flicker of resistance—then, Weddle exhaled through his nose and surrendered the satchel.

  Crestmir wasted no time. The wax seal cracked under his thumb, and the parchments unfurled. His eyes flicked over the lines, irritation mounting with every word. His leg began to tap—a steady, impatient rhythm against the floorboards. Half-formed curses slipped from his lips, bitter and low.

  Finally, he exhaled sharply. "Guards. Leave us."

  The room fell still as the soldiers obeyed, their departure sealing Weddle in with the quartermaster.

  Crestmir leaned forward, parchment still in hand. "What do you know of this?"

  Weddle’s throat tightened. "Nothing directly," he said, careful with his words. "But I can infer the substance of Sir Bradfrey’s messages."

  “In that case, I’ve just saved your life.”

  Weddle swallowed. "And I’ll thank the Lord for it. But… what comes next?"

  Crestmir's grip tightened on the parchment. "This Anneliese. Is she real?"

  "Most certainly," Weddle answered quickly. "And she is a faithful follower of the Cross."

  A sneer flickered across Crestmir’s face as he leaned back, weighing his next move. "Go back to Sir Bradfrey. Tell him the messages weren’t well received. Say nothing of this meeting. Simply inform him that the Church will not tolerate such… miracles." He set the parchment aside, folding his hands. "If he knows what’s best, he’ll rid himself of this girl before she brings ruin to us all."

  Weddle hesitated. "And you, Quartermaster? Surely you fear the same dangers you warn him against?"

  Crestmir’s face darkened, his anger masked only by rigid control. "I have my duties. My burdens. The queen’s mother will hear what she needs to hear. But if—by some unfortunate circumstance—word of this witchery reaches her ears, Sir Bradfrey had best bring more than triumphs to his name." His gaze locked onto Weddle. "For both our sakes."

  Without another word, he cast the parchments into the firepit. The flames curled around them hungrily, reducing their contents to nothing. Only when the last ember flickered out did Crestmir exhale—just once, barely audible—but Weddle caught it.

  Fear.