The chapter house of the Witch Hunters Guild in Struttsburg stood like a stern rebuke against the indulgent excess of the capital.

  Where noble estates glittered with gold-leafed balconies and colored glass, the guildhall was all iron-bound oak and black granite. Its windows were narrow slits. Its banners bore no sigils of pride, only the stark silver hammer over a field of soot-gray cloth. The place did not exist to impress.

  It existed to endure.

  Within its upper chamber, Witch Commander Roland Strongmore sat behind a broad desk carved from a single slab of dark heartwood. The desk was scarred by decades of use—ink stains, blade nicks, the faint circular burn marks of ritual seals extinguished in haste. A heavy candelabrum cast wavering light across stacks of parchment, each tied with cord and marked in red wax.

  Across from him stood Witch Captain Emilio Verdan, tall, narrow-faced, his beard trimmed close enough to imply discipline rather than vanity. He held a ledger in one gloved hand and spoke with careful precision.

  “The eastern quarter reports three suspected hedge rituals interrupted before completion,” Emilio said, turning a page. “Minor glamour workings. Likely street conjurers attempting coin tricks beyond their competence.”

  Roland grunted softly.

  “Confiscated materials?”

  “Powdered bone, black salt, two finger joints of unknown origin. All destroyed.”

  “And the conjurers?”

  “Public penance. Branded and fined. No evidence of larger network.”

  Roland nodded once. His eyes, a deep iron-gray that seemed perpetually on the edge of storm, shifted toward another stack of parchment.

  “And the Cathedral Ward?”

  Emilio hesitated.

  “A preacher claiming visions of Vrorn’s displeasure. Accusing several councilors of corruption by demon influence.”

  Roland leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked beneath his weight.

  “Any truth to it?”

  “No,” Emilio said flatly. “Only politics.”

  “Then let politics eat him.”

  Emilio inclined his head.

  They moved through report after report—smuggling of relic fragments, rumor of a blood cult in the slums (disproved), two apprentices injured while experimenting with alchemical accelerants. Each issue was dissected, prioritized, dispatched.

  Roland listened with the patience of a veteran general reviewing troop positions before a siege. He interrupted only when necessary, voice low and clipped.

  He did not enjoy repetition.

  He did not enjoy delays.

  And he particularly did not enjoy being interrupted.

  A knock came at the door.

  It was firm. Not tentative.

  Roland’s jaw tightened.

  “Enter,” he said, annoyance unmasked.

  The heavy doors swung inward.

  Mathias strode in first.

  His dark coat hung open, revealing the leather-bound mail beneath. His silver witch-hunter medallion rested against his chest, glinting in the candlelight. His expression was tight, controlled irritation barely restrained behind sharp eyes.

  Behind him came Cassandra.

  She entered with less force, but no less presence. Her dark hair was tied back in a braid, a cross of polished steel hanging at her throat. Her gaze flicked briefly toward Emilio, then back to Roland. A subtle warning was written in her posture.

  And then, just beyond the threshold, the faint shadow of a larger figure lingered in the hallway—Viktor, silent sentinel.

  Mathias stopped before the desk.

  “I should have known,” he muttered.

  Roland arched a brow.

  “What can I do for you, Mathias?”

  The words were polite.

  The tone was not.

  Mathias folded his arms.

  “We have been here for weeks,” he said evenly, “with no explanation of why we were asked to do so.”

  Roland glanced past him at Cassandra.

  She shrugged.

  “Don’t look at me,” she said lightly. “I told him this was a bad idea.”

  Roland’s lips twitched—almost a smile, though humor did not reach his eyes.

  He looked at Emilio.

  “Captain,” Roland said, voice steady once more. “Would you give us the room?”

  “Of course, Commander.”

  Emilio did not hesitate. He closed the ledger, offered Mathias a thin, irritated glare—sharp and deliberate—and walked past him toward the door.

  Mathias either did not notice or chose not to.

  The doors shut behind Emilio with a dull, final thud.

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  Silence settled.

  Roland rose from his chair slowly.

  He walked to a side table, poured himself a glass of dark red wine from a narrow-necked bottle, and returned to his desk.

  He did not offer any to the others.

  “Why,” Roland began calmly, “can you not, for once in your life, follow simple directions?”

  Mathias’s jaw tightened.

  “I have followed every order given to me since arriving.”

  Roland snorted softly.

  “I told you we are here at the request of the Emperor.”

  “Draumbean is not the Emperor,” Mathias interjected.

  Roland’s eyes flashed.

  “Close enough,” he said harshly.

  The word struck the air like a hammer.

  Roland removed his broad-brimmed hat and set it on the desk. He ran a hand through graying hair, exhaled deeply, and sat.

  “Look, Mathias,” he said more quietly. “There are larger things at play here than your boredom.”

  “Such as?” Mathias shot back immediately.

  Cassandra shifted slightly beside him, sensing the edge.

  “Such as,” Roland said slowly, “the investigation into the scroll Draumbean removed from the vaults under the library.”

  Mathias frowned.

  “It’s been weeks, Commander. We have had no word from the wizard.”

  “’Tis true,” Roland admitted. “But with what the scroll implicates, we can afford to be patient.”

  “Patient?” Mathias stepped forward. “There are strange happenings taking place all over the realms. Murders in the north. Disappearances in Everwatch. Cult rumors in the Dak Mar. And we sit in Struttsburg counting bone dust?”

  Roland’s hand tightened around his wineglass.

  “I do not believe most of them to be unrelated,” he said quietly.

  “Then all the more reason to act upon them!” Mathias’s voice sharpened, frustration bleeding through.

  Cassandra placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

  “Easy, Mathias.”

  Roland’s gaze hardened.

  “Good advice,” he said, anger now barely veiled. “Have little fear, Mathias. Unless I am mistaken, we will be called upon soon enough. And when we are… you can be assured the stakes will be high.”

  Mathias gave a short, humorless laugh.

  “Ha. We shall see.”

  Roland leaned forward.

  “Until then, why don’t you make yourselves useful? Help Captain Emilio and the rest of your brothers with local matters.”

  Mathias said nothing.

  “I have seen several complaints about people going missing at the docks,” Roland continued. “Why not use your skills to uncover the reason behind them?”

  “Local slavers, no doubt,” Mathias said dismissively.

  “No doubt,” Roland repeated, dripping with sarcasm. “You see? You’ve already solved it. Perhaps you can return by supper.”

  Cassandra suppressed a faint smile.

  “Come, Mathias,” she said.

  It was not a request.

  Roland nodded.

  “Astute as always, Cassandra. Now if you will excuse me, I have greater matters to attend to than wasting the day arguing with the likes of you.”

  Mathias’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing more.

  He turned sharply and strode from the room.

  Cassandra followed close behind.

  The door shut.

  Outside, the corridor was cool and dimly lit. Stone walls lined with iron sconces bore the guild’s insignia carved into their surface.

  Viktor stood against the wall, massive arms folded across his chest. His dark hair fell across his brow. Children gathered at the far end of the corridor stared at him in awe and fear, whispering.

  He did not move.

  Mathias exhaled sharply as he stepped into the hall.

  “Why must you push him like that?” Cassandra asked quietly once they had moved beyond earshot.

  Mathias did not slow.

  “Because, Cassandra, we are being wasted here.”

  Viktor fell into step beside them, silent as ever.

  “Evil is allowed to take hold across the realms,” Mathias continued. “And we sit idle.”

  “I fear what the wizard is working on is a greater priority,” Cassandra replied.

  Mathias scoffed.

  “Ancient stories meant to scare children brought to life.”

  “You do not believe the scroll matters?”

  “I believe,” Mathias said sharply, “that real flesh-and-blood evil does not wait for scholars to finish their research.”

  Cassandra studied him.

  “You are not angry about the delay.”

  Mathias slowed slightly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are angry because you are afraid.”

  He stopped.

  Viktor halted beside them.

  Mathias turned slowly toward her.

  “Afraid?” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “Of what?”

  “That if Draumbean is right,” Cassandra said softly, “then what comes next will not be something we can simply burn away.”

  Mathias’s jaw worked.

  He did not answer.

  Instead, he resumed walking.

  “Where are we going?” Cassandra asked.

  “The docks,” he replied without hesitation.

  “Of course.”

  They stepped out into the streets of Struttsburg.

  The capital breathed around them.

  Merchants shouted prices. Carts rolled over cobblestone. The smell of roasting meat mixed with sewage and river mist. Church bells tolled somewhere in the distance.

  Struttsburg was alive.

  But beneath the life, there was tension.

  Mathias felt it.

  The docks lay in the lower district, where the river widened and trade ships anchored beneath tall cranes of dark timber and iron.

  As they descended toward the waterfront, the air grew damp. The smell shifted from spice and leather to tar, fish, and brine.

  Cassandra walked beside him.

  “You think Roland hides something.”

  “I think,” Mathias said carefully, “that Roland believes he protects us.”

  “And that angers you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we are not children.”

  Viktor’s heavy boots thudded rhythmically against stone.

  Mathias glanced sideways at him.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  Viktor raised one brow.

  He tapped two fingers against his own chest, then gestured forward.

  You lead.

  Mathias gave a faint, reluctant smile.

  “Fair enough.”

  They reached the docks as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

  Ships rocked gently against their moorings. Sailors shouted as crates were hauled from holds. Seagulls wheeled overhead.

  But Mathias’s eyes moved past the obvious.

  He scanned for absence.

  For gaps.

  “Missing persons,” Cassandra murmured. “How many?”

  “Seven in the last fortnight,” Mathias replied. “All dockworkers. One fishmonger’s son.”

  “No common employer?”

  “Not yet.”

  They moved through the crowd, questioning quietly.

  Most shrugged.

  Some avoided eye contact.

  One older dockhand spat over the side of the pier.

  “Men vanish,” he said. “River takes ‘em.”

  “Seven in two weeks?” Mathias asked.

  The man shrugged.

  “Stranger things.”

  Mathias exchanged a glance with Cassandra.

  Viktor moved slightly apart, his massive presence drawing wary glances from passersby.

  As the light faded further, the docks thinned.

  Torches were lit.

  Mathias crouched near the edge of one pier, examining rope fibers, footprints in damp wood, the faint smear of something darker near a piling.

  Cassandra knelt beside him.

  “Blood?” she asked.

  He touched it.

  Still tacky.

  “Fresh.”

  Viktor’s head snapped up.

  He pointed.

  Two figures moved quickly between stacked crates near a warehouse.

  Mathias rose silently.

  He drew his blade—not fully, but enough that the silvered edge glinted.

  They moved as one.

  Around the corner of the warehouse, they found a narrow alley between stacked barrels and rotting nets.

  A muffled sound echoed faintly.

  Mathias’s expression hardened.

  He gestured.

  Viktor moved first, silent despite his size.

  They rounded the final stack....

  ...and found three men restraining a fourth.

  The fourth struggled weakly, gagged, wrists bound.

  One of the captors looked up.

  Recognition flickered in his eyes.

  “Witch hunters,” he hissed.

  Steel flashed.

  The fight was brief.

  Mathias moved with precise fury, blade striking once, twice—disabling rather than killing. Cassandra’s dagger found a thigh, then a wrist. Viktor seized one man by the collar and slammed him against a crate with bone-rattling force.

  Within moments, the captors lay groaning.

  Mathias cut the bound man free.

  The man collapsed to his knees.

  “Thank you,” he gasped.

  “Who are they?” Cassandra demanded.

  “Recruiters,” he spat. “They promised work. Good coin.”

  “Where?”

  “A ship. Leaving at dawn.”

  Mathias’s eyes darkened.

  “Slavers.”

  Cassandra nodded grimly.

  Mathias looked toward the river, where larger ships loomed in shadow.

  “Which one?”

  The man pointed with shaking hand.

  A dark-hulled vessel sat slightly apart from the others.

  No lanterns burned aboard.

  Viktor grunted softly.

  Mathias straightened.

  “Commander Roland may have larger matters,” he murmured. “But this is ours.”

  Cassandra studied him.

  “You still think we are being wasted?”

  Mathias looked at the rescued man.

  Then at the ship.

  “No,” he said quietly. “Not wasted.”

  Viktor rested a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  Mathias exhaled.

  “Let’s see what waits aboard.”

  And as the night deepened over Struttsburg, three figures moved toward the shadowed ship—unaware that the simple matter of slavers would soon reveal something far more troubling than chains and coin.