The city of Struttsburg lay beneath a sky the color of bruised steel, its cathedral spires like blackened fingers clawing at a god that no longer listened. Smoke from a hundred hearths mingled with the river-fog, smothering the streets in a dim half-light that made every shadow suspect.

  Sir Tristram stumbled into the alley behind the old copper foundry, boots skidding on wet stone. His breath came ragged, a wheezing rasp that tasted of iron. Blood seeped from a dozen shallow cuts where thorned vines had torn through his hauberk during his desperate fall from the cloister wall. His right shoulder hung stiff; his ribs burned with every breath.

  His sword was still in his hand.

  He leaned against the stone, pressing a trembling palm to his side. He forced himself still.

  Boots on stone.

  Distant. Measured.

  Two sets. No—three.

  He closed his eyes, and the sounds of the alley faded beneath the memory of the chamber he had fled.

  The wet tearing.

  The choking prayers.

  The way Euogold had looked at him.

  Sir Euogold—broad-shouldered, patient, with the laugh of a man who had buried too many comrades and learned to smile anyway—had not screamed when the thing slid into him. He had clenched his jaw until it cracked.

  “Warn them,” Euogold had rasped through blood-flecked lips. “Run.”

  Tristram had run.

  Gods forgive him.

  He pushed himself upright. He could not die here in filth and rot. The knowledge in his skull was more dangerous than any blade. High Cleric Zentich had turned the altar of the faith into a breeding pit. Lord Chronos had stood by and watched. Parasites—ancient, blue-veined horrors—were being pressed into men like communion wafers.

  If he fell, the truth fell with him.

  He staggered into the slums, dragging a beggar’s moth-eaten cloak from a cart and wrapping it over his armor. The beggar did not stir.

  The city did not care who hunted whom.

  He had one place left.

  The Red Chapel.

  Beneath the Templar Citadel, far from the slums and rot, High Cleric Zentich stood before the altar, hands damp and red.

  Candles guttered in iron sconces. Incense burned thick and sweet, failing to mask the copper tang in the air.

  Sir Euogold lay strapped upon the stone slab, his body quivering in uneven spasms. Veins like faint lines of frost had begun to branch beneath his skin, glowing faintly blue.

  Zentich leaned close, voice gentle.

  “Does it hurt, brother?”

  Euogold’s jaw worked. A broken sound slipped from his throat.

  “Good,” Zentich whispered. “Pain is the herald of rebirth.”

  Lord Chronos Chessire stood near the rear pillars, cloak of dark gray silk pooling about him like stormwater. His face was carved from granite, unreadable. Beside him, his son Marduke watched in silence, hands clasped behind his back.

  “This will not remain contained,” Chronos said quietly. “Tristram escaped.”

  Zentich’s lips curved.

  “One man.”

  “One man with a conscience,” Chronos replied. “Those are the most troublesome.”

  Marduke’s gaze flicked to the writhing knight. “What if he reaches the Imperial Wizard?”

  Zentich’s smile sharpened. “Then we will see how mighty Draumbean truly is.”

  Chronos stepped closer to the altar, eyes narrowing at Euogold’s trembling form. “You are replacing knights of the Order with… these things.”

  “We are elevating them,” Zentich corrected.

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  “And if the Emperor learns of it?”

  Zentich turned slowly. “Then he will be dealt with.”

  There was a pause.

  Marduke spoke softly. “And if this fails?”

  Zentich placed a hand over Euogold’s chest. The knights back arched violently.

  “It will not fail.”

  Chronos studied him a long moment. “You tread the edge of madness.”

  “Madness,” Zentich said, “is merely clarity unshared.”

  The Red Chapel sagged at the edge of the sanctum district, its once-bright windows now jagged mouths of broken glass. Moss devoured the stone. The doors groaned when Tristram pushed them open.

  Below, in the crypt, steel rasped against steel.

  Lady Lysane the Hollow did not look up at first. She was seated upon a crate, methodically sharpening her longsword. Nine men and women lingered in shadow—mercenaries of the Black Company, each scarred, each armed.

  “Footsteps,” one of them muttered.

  Lysane’s blade stilled.

  Tristram descended into the candlelight.

  Her eyes widened slightly.

  “Tristram.”

  He pushed back his hood.

  “I need help.”

  No questions. No laughter. No suspicion.

  She rose and stepped forward.

  “You look like hell.”

  “It’s worse than that.”

  He swayed, and two of her men caught him before he fell. They sat him at the long stone table where they once played dice between contracts.

  “They’ve taken the Order,” he said hoarsely. “Zentich. Chronos knew. They’re implanting things—parasites. Euogold—”

  His voice broke.

  Lysane’s jaw tightened. “Start at the beginning.”

  He told them.

  The chanting. The jar. The way the thing pulsed like a heart made of sapphire rot. The way it slid into Euogold’s open wound as priests held him down.

  Silence followed.

  One of the mercenaries spat. “That’s sorcery.”

  “That’s heresy,” another muttered.

  “It’s invasion,” Tristram said.

  Lysane paced once around the table.

  “Who else knows?”

  “Just me.”

  Her expression hardened.

  “Then you cannot stay in this city.”

  He looked up sharply. “No.”

  “You’re marked.”

  “I won’t run again.”

  “This isn’t about pride.”

  “It’s about duty!”

  Lysane slammed her palm onto the table. “Your duty is to survive long enough to speak!”

  The room stilled.

  “You die here,” she continued, “and Zentich wins.”

  Tristram shook his head. “I won’t abandon the order.”

  “You won’t be abandoning it,” she said. “You’ll be saving it.”

  He stood abruptly, pain flaring across his ribs. “Euogold died so I could warn them. Not so I could hide.”

  Lysane stepped close enough that he could see the old scar along her jaw.

  “And how will you warn anyone,” she asked quietly, “when Zentich’s men drag your corpse through the square and call you traitor?”

  The words struck deeper than any blade.

  One of her captains cleared his throat. “There’s more.”

  Lysane turned.

  He hesitated. “We’ve already lost two couriers this week.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Lost?”

  “Bodies found in the canal. Marked.”

  “Marked how?”

  “Templar sigil. Burned into the chest.”

  Tristram went cold.

  “They’re already hunting anyone who speaks,” Lysane said softly.

  A second mercenary shifted uneasily. “And there’s rumor… that someone within our ranks sold information last month.”

  Silence.

  All eyes drifted—subtle, suspicious.

  Lysane’s voice turned to ice. “Who?”

  No one answered.

  Tristram felt the walls closing in. “You think Zentich has eyes here?”

  “He has eyes everywhere,” Lysane replied.

  She looked at him again.

  “You leave tonight.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You will.”

  He met her stare.

  She lowered her voice. “We smuggle you out through the river tunnels. You ride north. We will get word to Draumbean. Or the Emperor. But you do not stay.”

  He shook his head stubbornly.

  “I am not a coward.”

  She grabbed him by the collar and shoved him back against the table.

  “You think courage is dying in the gutter?” she hissed. “Courage is living long enough to see the end.”

  For a heartbeat, he thought she might strike him.

  Instead, she released him.

  A voice from the shadows spoke.

  “And what if the Templars are already at the tunnels?”

  Every head turned.

  It was Garrick—one of Lysane’s oldest blades.

  His expression was unreadable.

  Tristram’s stomach tightened.

  Lysane studied Garrick a long moment.

  “Are they?” she asked quietly.

  He met her gaze without blinking.

  “I don’t know.”

  The lie hung in the air like smoke.

  Steel rasped as two of the Company drew blades.

  Garrick’s hand drifted toward his dagger.

  “Don’t,” Lysane warned.

  The door above the crypt slammed open.

  Boots thundered on stone.

  Tristram’s heart dropped.

  “Templars!” someone shouted.

  Garrick moved.

  He lunged—not at the intruders—but at Tristram.

  Lysane’s sword flashed.

  Steel rang.

  Garrick’s dagger clattered across the floor.

  “Traitor,” Lysane whispered.

  He smiled faintly. “Gold spends the same.”

  A crossbow bolt from the stairs struck him through the throat.

  Chaos erupted.

  Templars flooded the crypt—helmets gleaming, tabards dark.

  Tristram seized his sword.

  He would not run again.

  Lysane shoved him toward the rear tunnel.

  “Go!”

  He hesitated.

  “Go!”

  Steel met steel.

  Blood sprayed the old chapel stones.

  One by one, the Company fell back, forming a wall between Tristram and the stair.

  Lysane fought like a storm given flesh.

  “North tunnel!” she shouted.

  Tristram finally turned and ran.

  Behind him, the crypt became a slaughterhouse.

  The river tunnel stank of rot and stagnant water. Tristram stumbled through ankle-deep filth, heart pounding.

  He heard Lysane’s boots behind him.

  She emerged bloodied but upright.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Enough.”

  Her eyes were grim.

  “You still think you should stay?”

  He said nothing.

  They reached the iron grate that opened into the river beyond the city wall.

  A small skiff waited.

  Two surviving mercenaries held it steady.

  “Ride hard,” Lysane said.

  He looked back toward the city.

  Struttsburg's spires loomed in the gloom.

  “I’ll come back,” he swore.

  “You’d better.”

  He stepped into the boat.

  As they pushed off into the black water, bells began to toll across the city.

  Heretic.

  Traitor.

  Hunt.

  Deep beneath the Citadel, High Cleric Zentich placed a fresh jar upon the altar.

  Within, something ancient and blue stirred.

  Lord Chronos watched from the shadows.

  “They escaped,” he said.

  Zentich’s smile did not falter.

  “Let them run.”

  The thing in the jar pulsed, as though amused.

  “Fear,” Zentich whispered, “travels faster than horses.”

  Above them, the city of Struttsburg tightened like a noose.

  And somewhere beyond its walls, a wounded knight carried a truth that could unmake them all.