Gideon blinks—no, winks himself awake. He feels the right half of his face, the bloodstained cloth dressing his lack of an eye. Through his left, he sees a grassy, wooded dell; past it, conifer trees; and past them, the burning remnants of Aninstadt.

  Canaan tore down its walls with white flags—and gunpowder.

  Deep pawprints trot behind Jericho as he barely comes to a halt. He lends a hand and, with little effort, rouses Gideon to his feet.

  “Welcome back, Brother. Here, have a bowl of assuaging tea.”

  SLURP. It tastes like fallen leaves, and since the Border Collie rested in a leaf pile, it likely is.

  “I didn’t know if you would live through—well, this.” Jericho hands him a misshapen ball of lead.

  Gideon holds it before his missing eye. “Not all of me did.”

  “I’m sorry, Gideon. I am not as good a healer as I thought I was.”

  “Jericho, I couldn’t, nor would I, ask for a better healer than you.”

  As Gideon rakes the leaves out of his pied fur, a bush RUSTLES. Jericho draws both of the shields from his back; Gideon would draw his sword, too—if he had more than his underclothes. The bush stills… then Naomi lunges at them, felling both into the leaf pit.

  Gideon struggles to free himself from the flora’s grasp. Naomi’s snout meets with his ear—SHH. He stills, and through the foliage, he sees Dachheim warriors crossing a dirt path. Behind them are the bitches, whelps, and a few broken dogs of Hundberg: as prisoners.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  His eyes weep and bleed, respectively, for one prisoner: Ezekiel. He remembers seeing his mother die from a wardrobe’s interior—this isn’t too different.

  They pass, and a long, quiet moment follows them before Gideon, Jericho, and Naomi rise from the leaves.

  Naomi takes off her gauntlet and, with a naked hand, SMACKS Gideon across the face. “Run to your death again and I’ll kill you.”

  Were they still in Aninstadt, drinking, he’d risk another smack and say to her, “I knew you loved me.” But they’re not in Aninstadt, and he’s sober—unfortunately.

  From morning till noon, Gideon struggles into his beaten armor.

  Naomi offers him the souvenir of his failure: a pierced helmet. “So, from here?”

  “We free them.” He refuses to wear it; to him, he’s not worthy.

  “The three of us? Against Dachheim!” Jericho breaks a stick in half—incense smoking from both ends—and quotes the Wulfen scripture, Canis.

  SCRAPE. Gideon draws his sword. “You’d rather they die?”

  “We’d rather you live!” says Naomi. “You’re no good to them, or us, if you’re dead.”

  He cannot align it with his lone eye. “… Fair enough.”

  Lightheaded and weak in the knees, he clambers out of the dell.

  “And where are you off to?” Jericho asks.

  “The nearest town. Who’s up for a walk?”

  And so, the three head for Canewald, a farming village nestled deep into the conifer woods, hoping to rest, mend, and plan.

  But a dog—half Greyhound, half Pit Bull, fully Dachheim—stalks them from the trees, pawing at a pair of daggers sheathed to his metal leg.