The bells of the Monastery of the Silent Saint tolled softly in the misty dawn, their low iron voices rolling over frost-kissed hills like a funeral hymn not yet earned. The monastery stood alone upon its rise of pale granite and scrub pine, overlooking the distant road that curved toward the inner city of Witchrum below. Its narrow windows glowed faintly with candlelight that had never fully gone dark in generations. Frost clung to the herb gardens. Smoke from the evening's kitchen fires rose in thin, obedient columns.
The brother's believed silence was a form of prayer.
They would learn that night that silence could also be a grave.
Brother Mikhal sat in his study overlooking the courtyard, fingers stained with ink, his brow creased from three nights without proper sleep. Scrolls lay open before him, their edges weighed down by smooth river stones. A brazier burned low at his feet, casting amber light across the cramped chamber. Across from him stood Brother Jarmon, younger by nearly twenty years, thinner, restless. Between them lay a narrow leather scroll case sealed in cracked red wax bearing the unmistakable imprint of Vrorn’s Hammer.
“He should have arrived three days ago,” Jarmon said quietly. “Draumbean’s messenger named the hour and the road. He described it down to the smallest detail in his letter.”
Mikhal nodded. “Imperial couriers do not wander.”
"No."
Mikhal's gaze shifted toward the narrow-slit window. The sky beyond it was pale gray, the last star fading.
“And if he was delayed?”
“There has been no storm.”
Jarmon’s throat tightened. “Then someone intercepted him.”
Silence settled between them.
"If any others beyond Draumbean know of this scroll." He left the rest unsaid.
Mikhal's jaw tightened. "We do not yet know who, if any, know about it or that we have it.'
The bells began their first low peal of dawn.
“This cannot be coincidence,” Jarmon pressed. “Not with what this scroll contains.”
Mikhal’s eyes drifted to the window. Below, novices crossed the courtyard carrying buckets of well water.
“I do not believe in coincidence when ancient things begin to stir,” he said.
Then came the sound.
Hooves.
Not one.
Many.
Disciplined. Measured. Unified.
Jarmon’s face drained of color. "That is not one rider."
"No," Mikhal agreed.
A novice burst through the study door, breathless and pale. “Brother Mikhal—black armor—crimson crosses.”
Templars.
Mikhal rose without hesitation. He seized the scroll case and thrust it into Jarmon’s hands.
“Take it.”
Jarmon blinked. “What?”
“To the lower stacks. The hidden alcove behind the scriptorium shelves. Stay out of sight until we know their intentions.”
“Their intentions?” Jarmon whispered.
“Templars do not ride this far for courtesy.”
Jarmon swallowed and clutched the case tight to his chest.
“You believe this is about the scroll.”
“I believe,” Mikhal said softly, “that men who claim to guard faith often fear what they cannot control.”
The bells tolled again.
“Go.”
Jarmon vanished through the rear passage as Mikhal straightened his robes and descended toward the gate.
Black-armored riders crested the hill as dawn bled into the sky. Their formation was flawless. Their silence absolute. At their head rode Lord Chronos, cloak snapping like a funeral banner, helm crowned with forged iron thorns. His pale eyes surveyed the monastery not as sanctuary—but as terrain.
Beside him rode a thinner figure robed in dark layered cloth beneath light steel—arcane sigils etched into his vambraces in silver thread. His hair was drawn back tight. His eyes burned faintly violet.
Malcurr.
Templar wizard.
“Form ranks,” Chronos said quietly.
They were already doing so.
The monastery gates creaked opened.
Brother Mikhal stood waiting, flanked by two trembling novices.
He bowed. “Peace be upon you.”
Chronos dismounted in one fluid motion.
“Food and drink," he said.
Not a request.
A command.
Malcurr’s gaze lingered on the upper tower windows. His fingers flexed faintly, as though brushing currents unseen.
Inside the refectory, long wooden tables groaned beneath fresh bread, lentils, goat cheese, and steaming bowls of stew, hastily prepared. The brothers served in silence.
Chronos took the central seat. Sergeant Hrulk stood at his right shoulder, scar bisecting his brow like a permanent frown.
Malcurr remained standing near the wall, eyes half-lidded.
Brother Mikhal sat opposite Chronos, his hands folded too tightly within his sleeves.
Chronos lifted a spoon, blew across the steam, and tasted.
“A fine meal,” he said pleasantly. “You honor us.”
“We serve all who come in peace,” Mikhal replied.
Chronos smiled faintly. “Peace is often the refuge of those who hide strength.”
He took another spoonful.
“The Imperium trembles,” Chronos continued conversationally. “Orcs gather. Old enemies stir. And in quiet hills, forgotten relics surface.”
“We copy scripture,” Mikhal said calmly. “We tend gardens. We bury our dead.”
“And you receive imperial correspondence.”
Mikhal did not blink.
Malcurr inhaled slowly.
“There is a resonance,” the wizard murmured. “Faint. Disturbed.”
Chronos dabbed his mouth with a cloth. “You see, brother, I do not ride blindly.”
Mikhal’s voice remained even. “Resonance can be many things. Fear resonates. Suspicion resonates. So does pride.”
Malcurr’s eyes opened fully. The violet glow intensified.
“No,” he said softly. “This is older.”
He lifted his hand slightly. The candles flickered.
A low vibration thrummed through the beams of the ceiling.
Some of the younger monks glanced upward in alarm.
Malcurr closed his eyes and spoke in a language older than the Empire.
The air grew heavy.
The surface of the stew in Chronos’s bowl rippled as though disturbed by wind.
Mikhal felt it too—a faint hum beneath his ribs.
“The parchment was unsealed,” Malcurr said quietly. “Read. Rewrapped imperfectly. Ink disturbed. Memory displaced.”
Chronos leaned back.
“You received a scroll sealed with Vrorn’s Hammer.”
“We receive many texts,” Mikhal answered.
“Not this one,” Malcurr said.
He took one slow step forward.
“There is a thread of power descending beneath this chamber. Concealment. Panic.”
Mikhal met his gaze.
“You speak of faith as though it were contraband.”
Chronos smiled faintly.
“Faith without oversight becomes rebellion.”
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“Faith is conviction,” Mikhal said. “Conviction is not rebellion.”
“It is when conviction challenges authority.”
Mikhal leaned forward slightly. “Authority that fears conviction is not authority. It is insecurity.”
Silence fell like a blade.
Chronos set down his spoon.
"Tell me, brother. Is it true what I've heard?"
"That depends upon what you have heard."
Chronos's eyes sharpened. "That a certain scroll has found its way into your monastery."
Mikhal's pulse thundered.
"No such thing exists within these walls."
Chronos chuckled softly.
"I cannot tell you how often I hear those words."
He leaned back.
"Bound in faded vellum. Sealed with Vrorn's Hammer. Dangerous."
Silence.
“Do you know why we Templars employ inquisitors?” he asked quietly.
Mikhal did not respond.
“Because they discern the difference between liars and fools.”
He leaned forward. His eyes never leaving Mikhal's.
“I am neither.”
The air tightened.
Malcurr’s hand lifted again.
The vibration intensified.
Wooden beams groaned.
Somewhere below, a hidden door trembled.
Mikhal felt sweat gather beneath his collar.
“You mistake guardianship for control,” Mikhal said. “The Empire cannot own every whisper of the divine.”
Chronos’s expression hardened slightly.
“The Empire owns stability.”
“And you believe this scroll threatens it?”
“I believe unchecked power always does.”
Malcurr’s voice cut softly through the air.
“It moves.”
Chronos’s eyes sharpened.
“Seal the doors.”
The slaughter began with the precision of ritual.
Hrulk moved first. Two strides. A mailed hand seized Brother Talen by the collar. "What are you-?" Steel flashed. The sound was wet and immediate.
Talen's throat opened beneath the blade.
Blood poured across the table.
The refectory erupted.
Chairs overturned. Bowls shattered.
Templars rose as one.
Blades fell with the rhythm of harvest.
Malcurr extended his hand and whispered. An invisible force slammed two fleeing novices backward into the wall. Their skulls cracked against stone. They fell still.
Brother Mikhal surged to his feet. “Stop this! In Vrorn’s name—!”
A mailed fist struck his temple. He collapsed as darkness swallowed him.
Chronos stepped over him calmly.
“Search every chamber.”
The courtyard became a killing ground. Monks fled only to be cut down. Some knelt in prayer. They were not spared. Blood streaked frost-covered stone. The well ran red.
Malcurr moved through the chaos, murmuring incantations that forced doors open without touch. Bookshelves splintered inward. Hidden hinges snapped.
“Lower levels,” he said. “There.”
Brother Jarmon heard the first scream from beneath the scriptorium floor.
He had been kneeling in the hidden alcove, clutching the scroll case.
The scream was brief.
Then another.
Then many.
He crept toward the vent overlooking the courtyard.
What he saw shattered him.
Templars butchered unarmed men with mechanical efficiency. One novice attempted to shield another. Both were cut down. The herb garden burned. Flames licked at the cloister arches.
Lord Chronos walked calmly through the carnage, hands clasped behind his back, observing.
“This is not faith,” Jarmon whispered.
A crash above.
Bootsteps thundered on the lower stairs.
They were searching.
Jarmon fled.
He slipped through the scriptorium and into the cloister hall. Bodies already lay scattered. Brother Ansel stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
Jarmon nearly slipped in blood.
If he could reach the north wall... the drainage tunnel....
He turned a corner—
—and collided with iron.
A Templar blocked the archway.
“Another rat,' the knight said calmly.
Jarmon shoved forward.
Steel flashed.
Pain tore through his side as a blade sliced beneath his ribs.
He gasped but pushed past in blind desperation.
Boots thundered behind him.
He burst into the outer yard.
An arrow whistled.
Impact.
White fire exploded in his back.
He fell hard. The scroll case tumbled from his grasp.
“No—”
He crawled toward it.
Another arrow struck stone inches from his hand.
He forced himself up, blood soaking his robes.
He reached the low stone wall and tumbled down the hillside.
Branches tore at him.
The world spun.
He did not know how long he fell.
Only that when he stopped, the monastery burned above him.
And the bells had fallen silent.
Malcurr’s voice carried faintly behind him.
“Alive if possible.”
Witchrum's inner city lay before him—a river city of crowded alleys and smoke-choked markets.
If he could reach it, he could vanish.
He half-fell, half-ran down the frost-slick cobbles. The arrow remained lodged in his back. Every step was agony.
Behind him, horns sounded.
Templars pursued.
The monastery burned above.
Smoke twisted into the pale sky.
Jarmon reached the merchant district and staggered toward the bright lights of the Prancing Pony just as the markets began to grow quiet.
Merchants shouted.
Carts creaked.
No one noticed the blood at first.
Then someone screamed.
Jarmon stumbled into the crowd.
He vanished into the chaos of Witchrum.
Above the hill, the bells had fallen silent.
And Lord Chronos watched the smoke rise.
Malcurr stood beside him, violet eyes dimming.
“He lives,” the wizard said quietly.
Chronos did not look away from the burning tower.
“That is unacceptable.”
Malcurr’s lips curved faintly.
“Understood," he murmured.
The fire in the backroom of the Prancing Pony guttered low, licking at charred logs in a crooked hearth that had seen too many winters and too many confessions. Smoke clung to the beams like cobwebs, mingling with the sour tang of old ale, damp wool, and the faint metallic scent of spilled blood that never truly left such places. Laughter drifted in from the front room—dice clattering, a bard missing notes with heroic confidence—but here it was quieter.
This was where blood-soaked stories were told in low voices.
This was where alliances were forged more often than friendships.
Bourin Kinslayer sat nearest the hearth, boots planted wide, shoulders like quarried stone. His beard was braided with copper rings blackened by soot, and his heavy axe leaned against the wall within easy reach. He wiped froth from his mustache with the back of his hand and grunted.
“I’m telling you." He said, voice thick as gravel, “an axe’ll outlive your dancing elf-blades five times over. A real weapon doesn’t need finesse. It needs weight.”
Across from him lounged Aremis of the Silver Vales, long legs crossed at the ankle, boots propped on a broken stool as though the tavern had been built solely for her comfort. Her hair, the dark brown of moonlit wheat, spilled over one shoulder in a loose braid. Her fingers drummed idly on the hilt of her curved dagger, though her bow rested within arm’s reach behind her chair.
“Axes are for men who can’t count past ten without removing a boot,” she said dryly. “An elf’s blade never shatters, never rusts, and doesn’t get lodged in bone like your oversized cleavers.”
Bourin’s eyes narrowed, but there was a spark of humor beneath the irritation.
“Bone’s where it belongs when I’m done.”
“Only because you’re too stubborn to pull it back out cleanly.”
He leaned forward. “I’ve split ogres in half with that blade.”
“And I’ve put arrows through their eyes before they knew you were still climbing over the first one.”
They glared at each other for a heartbeat.
Then both took a drink.
Before the banter could spiral into insult-laced escalation, the backroom door creaked open and Turmonge entered like a gust of trouble wrapped in leather and arrogance.
The hulking elf filled the doorway, long coat damp with mist from the street, silver hair slicked back from sharp features. A grin was already carved across his face as though the world had tried and failed to break him that day.
He carried five mugs of ale, each sloshing dangerously.
Trailing behind him came a shadow of a man—Scrinivaan Ravanyan. Cloak dragging. Boots silent. Hood drawn low. If Turmonge was a storm rolling in, Scrinivaan was the knife someone forgot they were holding.
“Look what I fished out of the alleys,” Turmonge announced.
He distributed the mugs, then reached into his coat with theatrical casualness and tossed two small leather purses—one to Aremis, the other to Bourin.
The soft clink of coin was audible before they even landed.
“That’s your share from the bandit job,” Turmonge said. “Not a fortune, but enough to keep us fed and drinking until something worse finds us.”
Aremis caught hers with practiced ease and loosened the string. Her eyes flicked across the contents. “Didn’t think that pompous bastard was worth quite so much.”
“He wasn’t,” Turmonge replied, dropping into his chair. “But one of the victims turned out to be the mayor’s nephew. Coin followed blood.”
Bourin bounced his pouch once in his palm, weighing it with approval. “Nice weight,” he said. “And here I thought you’d gamble it away before you made it back.”
Turmonge placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “I’m offended. I only gamble after I’ve had two drinks.”
Scrinivaan pulled back his hood, revealing a lean face and eyes too sharp for comfort. “And lose after your third. How delightful.”
“Scrinivaan,” Aremis said, arching a brow. “I thought the city had finally put a rope around your neck.”
“They tried,” he said, easing into a chair. “Knotted it wrong. Happens.”
“You always were a slippery bastard,” Bourin muttered.
“I cultivate it.”
Scrinivaan’s gaze drifted around the backroom, taking in exits, beams, shadows. He never stopped counting.
“So this is your merry little band now?” he asked.
“You sound disappointed,” Aremis replied.
“Not at all,” he said, sipping the ale Turmonge slid to him. “I was simply expecting more blood when I walked in.”
Almost as if summoned by the remark......
The tavern door burst open.
The laughter from the front room died as if strangled.
A robed man staggered across the threshold, face ashen beneath streaks of blood. Two arrows jutted grotesquely from his shoulder and side; a third had been snapped off, the broken shaft wobbling with each desperate breath.
The room froze.
The monk’s eyes searched wildly—and finally settled on Turmonge in the back room.
Jarmon gathered his last remaining strength and propelled himself forward bumping into patrons, who shoved him this way and that.
He stumbled forward, collapsing against the elf with surprising strength.
“Please…” he rasped.
Turmonge caught him reflexively. “Easy—easy—”
“Take this…”
With trembling hands, the monk shoved a scroll case into Turmonge’s grasp.
It was smeared in blood. Probably the monks thought Turmonge.
“The realm…” the monk choked. “Take it… to Struttsburg… to Draumbean…”
At the name, Scrinivaan’s expression shifted.
“The realms… depend on…”
His body slackened.
Turmonge stared down at him.
“‘The realms depend on it,’” muttered Scrinivaan. “I don't like the sound of that."
"Nor do I," agreed Aremis, now standing beside Turmonge and looking down at the dead monk upon the floor.
"What do you suppose is the meaning of all this," asked Turmonge. A puzzled look upon his face.
The answer to that plea came with the second slam of the door.
Six men entered.
Not locals.
Not guards.
Templars.
Their armor was darkened steel etched with severe lines. Cloaks hung heavy and unadorned. Blades were already bare. They moved with the precision of men who did not waste motion—or mercy.
Silence followed them in.
A drunk near the door staggered upright. “What in the blazes do you think you’re—”
The nearest Templar struck him across the jaw with a mailed fist. He fell without finishing the sentence.
Another Templar stepped over him.
Their leader removed his helm slowly.
Hard eyes scanned the room.
He saw the dead monk.
He saw Turmonge.
And he saw the scroll case.
“Downstairs,” Aremis hissed.
Scrinivaan’s eyes never left the Templars. “This isn’t some love letter, is it?”
Turmonge was already sliding the scroll into his jerkin.
“I think,” he said quietly, “it’s the kind of trouble we will never walk away from.”
“You say that like we don't have a choice,” Bourin growled, reaching for his axe.
“You don’t,” Scrinivaan muttered. “But I might.”
A Templar took one deliberate step forward.
“Bring us the scroll,” the leader said calmly.
Turmonge smiled thinly. “What scroll?”
The first sword came down.
Aremis flipped the table before it struck.
Ale and splintered wood exploded into the air. Bourin surged forward like a thrown boulder, axe sweeping low. Steel met steel in a shower of sparks.
Scrinivaan vanished sideways into shadow.
Turmonge drew twin blades in a fluid motion and met the Templar leader head-on.
The backroom erupted into violence.
Chairs shattered. Men screamed. Aremis loosed a dagger that struck one Templar in the throat seam between helm and gorget. He staggered but did not fall immediately.
“Hardy bastards,” she muttered.
Bourin roared and drove his axe into another’s shield, splintering wood and bone alike.
“Out the rear!” Turmonge shouted.
Scrinivaan reappeared long enough to slam a latch open.
They moved as one, with the practiced ease of those who had survived these kinds of scenarios many times before.
They burst into the alley behind the tavern just as more Templars forced their way through the back door.
Mist hung low in the narrow lane.
Boots pounded behind them.
“The city gates?” Aremis asked.
“Too obvious,” Scrinivaan replied.
“River?” Bourin growled.
“Too slow,” Turmonge said.
Another shout echoed behind them.
Steel rang against brick as a blade glanced off stone inches from Scrinivaan’s shoulder.
“The rooftops,” Turmonge decided.
Bourin swore in dwarvish.
They hit a stack of crates. Aremis scaled them effortlessly, pulling Turmonge up. Scrinivaan was already above them.
Bourin needed two attempts, spurred on by the sound of approaching armored boots.
“Move, you stubborn rock,” Aremis snapped, hauling on his arm.
He grunted and heaved himself upward just as a Templar rounded the corner.
They climbed.
Tiles cracked underfoot as they leapt from rooftop to rooftop. Below, Templars spread through the alleys with disciplined precision.
“They won’t stop,” Aremis said.
“No,” Turmonge replied. “They won’t.”
Scrinivaan glanced sideways at him. “So, what exactly did we just inherit?”
Turmonge felt the weight of the scroll beneath his coat.
Something felt wrong.
Something that felt heavy upon the soul.
“I think,” he said, breath misting in the night air, “we inherited the kind of secret that burns monasteries.”
Below them, Witchrum stirred with shouts and steel.
Behind them, the hunt tightened.
Ahead of them—
Struttsburg.
And Draumbean.
And whatever prophecy had just decided they were part of it.
Scrinivaan exhaled slowly. “Every time I see you,” he muttered to Turmonge, “it’s a different version of suicide.”
Turmonge flashed him a grin as they leapt across another narrow gap between buildings.
“Still better odds,” he said, “than your marriage to that assassin in Daervin.”
Aremis barked a short laugh.
Bourin growled.
And behind them, armored boots thundered across tile.
The hunt had begun.
