“The Order of Blue here in Turri would be working in coordination with White and Silver,” Relias murmured with a slight frown. “This civilian armament under your name may be a response to fears of mass demonic translocation…”

  I did sort of tell them to do whatever they needed to do. Maybe Emmy was the face of the campaign?

  “Those fears you speak of would be made real if we’re found here,” I said with a sigh. “It’d be best to avoid the whole—”

  “Children,” Oliver interjected. “He’s conscripting even children, Rachel. You know, those tiny, mouthy creatures that are barely able to stay on their own two feet—without the added weight of a holy sword?”

  I blinked, then glanced nervously at Relias. “None of the other Captains would endorse something like that, right?”

  Except, isn't that part of my own backstory?

  I felt myself inhaling for the start of an unbridled tirade.

  “No true holy knight would do such a thing,” Relias asserted before I could blow, his grip tightening on the staff. “Blessed weapons are not for the uninitiated. Even among the White Order, sharp striders underwent rigorous training, evaluation, and divine attunement before handling a single sanctified bolt.”

  With a frustrated exhale, I closed my eyes and concentrated. “Well, I do see a blue star just west of us—but it’s being choked out by something dark. Ambient animus?”

  “Only half right,” Oliver said with a scowl. “But that’s him. And there’s a paunchy priest by his side.”

  There could be more than one clergyman in Turri with such a shape, however—

  “Bald?” Nora asked before I could.

  Oliver opened one eye. “And doing an abysmal job of hiding it.”

  “Another blast from the past…” I muttered, cursing myself. “First, those dog men, then something vague with Volker, and now this guy!”

  Murder wasn’t the answer, but perhaps I should consider other, more permanent solutions.

  “You believe it to be ex-Prelate Dolus?” Relias asked, his eyes burning. “The one who freely collected indulgences?”

  “Ahh…” Oliver exhaled. “That would explain how he is unable to sense the demon inside that knight.”

  We all gave Oliver a hard look.

  “Why didn’t you just lead with that observation?!” Nora screeched.

  “Because you might have assumed it was a trap of my own making,” Oliver replied. “I simply walked you through the paces. Now you understand the situation properly.”

  I sneered. “I wouldn’t have assumed that!”

  “I was referring specifically to Lady Nora,” Oliver said, more serious than before. “She continues to confound every sense I have for perceiving will or intent.”

  His tone wasn’t sarcastic this time, only baffled. “The sage is easy enough to account for. His animus toward me is blatant—but more importantly, it follows a consistent, interpretable structure. And you? Well… you’re you.”

  Try as I might, I couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or a complaint.

  “So you can’t sense animus off me either, huh?” Nora mumbled, then shouted, “Well, I’m telling you right now I have it in spades! So next time, start with the problem statement and move from there!”

  “I mean, you could just read her body language,” I muttered. “She’s very put out with you.”

  And I didn’t blame her.

  “We demons fake body language all the time,” he admitted. “What’s to say that she isn’t?”

  Body language is readable, but not reliable… Everyone's hiding something.

  He’s said that to me more than once.

  “To Lady Nora’s original point,” Relias declared. “That knight is a vessel of corruption. The demon must be eradicated without delay.”

  “I agree—to a point,” Oliver said calmly. “But possession of a holy knight is not something a standard demon could achieve. And freely arming the salt of the land with blessed weapons? That reeks of command, and—”

  “We should figure out which one of your siblings put them up to this,” I concluded with a tight sigh. “Alright, let’s go observe the gemba.”

  “Was that a slur?” Oliver asked.

  “No, though I could see how it might sound like one.”

  ***

  From atop a small, sparsely wooded hill, we watched the tiny town gradually swell. People trickled in from every direction, carrying whatever few possessions they could bear.

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  The so-called Holy Knight greeted each arrival with warmth so disarming that it felt out of place for Turri in general. A glance at Nora confirmed my unease.

  With a bit of magical finagling, she managed to catch snippets of conversation. After the audio was connected, Nora and Oliver worked on visuals, performing catoptromancy with the help of a nearby puddle. While its reflective surface was occasionally interrupted when someone disrupted the stream of light refractions composing its signal, it still managed to zoom in reasonably on the town's square. We watched as some newcomers were directed down the road, toward Fort Turri. Others were ushered into the square, where ex-Prelate Dolus, wearing a blonde, bobbed wig, of all things, had established a makeshift clinic.

  He healed humans and hybrids alike, offering no sermons and asking no questions. His posture remained stiff, his eyes flicking across the square now and then with a furrowed brow. Every so often, he would pause, inhale deeply, and resume his assigned task, as if trying to remember his role.

  Food was distributed freely from barrels and crates to those who lingered. Some travelers who had the luxury of small carts took the opportunity to restock, though I rarely saw coins change hands.

  With all the strange commotion, however, one thing stood out by its absence.

  “I don’t see any blessed weapons,” I murmured.

  “Wait a bit more,” Oliver replied.

  After the Holy Knight ran out of people to greet, he stared down the empty road for a moment, then disappeared into a large, distinctly out-of-place war wagon. A few minutes later, he remerged, pushing a cart of his own laden with glowing swords, crossbows, and bolts. All heads turned as he began to speak.

  “My friends,” he called, raising his hands to those who remained. “I must offer my deepest apologies. Fort Turri and the surrounding area cannot accommodate everyone willing to fight, nor can it offer shelter to those unable to pass conscription.”

  Several disappointed murmurs rippled through the crowd.

  “But we do not turn you away empty-handed. These weapons are freely given, so that you may return to your homes and protect your families, your neighbors, and the land we all hold dear. Please take what you need, both sustenance and steel, and go with the Light.”

  He’s using my own words!

  I guess you can’t trademark ‘the Light.’

  Distribution was done under the Holy Knight’s direction, though he never directly touched any of the blessed weapons. He did, however, ensure no one took more than one sword or crossbow. Bolts were limited to six per person, with a ‘person’ being defined as anyone old enough to have a Covenant Name.

  Six-year-olds with swords…

  I wondered how Everett and Kiko were doing.

  “Resources are limited, and we are trying to ensure an optimal distribution,” he said to those asking for more. “Be not the one who takes in excess, but the one who ensures their neighbor has enough.”

  People naturally asked about the Chosen One and the fall of the Tower of Olethros, but the Holy Knight responded with vague reassurances that only led to more questions.

  “The Chosen One has returned from worse circumstances before, has she not? Will you not heed her call?”

  Relias stared hard at the town below, his body twitching. "Using your Name for such a wretched Purpose!"

  “I'm still a little lost on what the point of all this is...” I admitted. “Wouldn't it be more efficient just to destroy the weapons rather than hand them out?”

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend?” Nora asked. “Even if he is my enemy, too?”

  “The General’s already established relationships with hybrids. And Aziza seems to have partnered with Ambrose at some level...” I agreed, though the words felt soft and vague. “Them versus us is always subject to redefinition.”

  Proof of that was lying next to me, somehow staring at the sky with closed eyes.

  “I believe this gambit goes beyond that,” Relias said, his eyes hardening. “Blessed weapons are, by their very nature, a direct challenge to any demon. It is as much a burden as a boon to the bearer. For someone to brandish one without training is foolhardy. Even those skilled in amity must cultivate an iron discipline of mind and body to use them effectively. Learning to deal with the spiritual recoil from a direct demon strike is not novice-level learning.”

  “Father Baram didn't seem to feel the need to question my ability back when he blessed my staff,” I recalled. “Though I guess with Tetora and Aleph asking, I'm sure he would have looked a little foolish if he did.”

  “It's admirably devious,” Oliver added with a stretch. “A novice might strike a demon down, but freeze long enough for another to intervene. Certainly, the faction behind this will anticipate it. But this is easy enough for us to stop.”

  “You have a plan? What should we do?”

  Oliver waved a dismissive hand, settling deeper into the high grass. “Not now. Too many witnesses. Tonight.”

  Once all were armed and again travel-ready, the Holy Knight bid the travelers a firm farewell.

  “Go now with Euphridia’s blessing. There is no shame in returning home stronger than you left it. Yet others in need soon approach, and we must be ready to receive them.”

  And so the cycle repeated, hour after hour, into the early evening, until no more arrivals came. The town felt smaller now, and the few remaining locals began to close up shop. They moved with practiced ease, which had the opposite effect on me.

  “Sir Benvolio…” Dolus said, bowing low as the last group finally departed. “Might I inquire how Captain Armand managed to budget for such benevolence? It seems miraculous that he was able to procure blessed bolts in such surplus—”

  “Father Dolus,” Benvolio interrupted, his tone firm. “You know full well I am not at liberty to disclose specifics. While the Order of Blue commends your efforts toward redemption, we do not forget what brought you to this state in the first place.”

  Dolus flinched and cast his eyes downward. “Of course. I meant no disrespect,” he murmured.

  “You must be exhausted,” Sir Benvolio added, now gentler, placing a hand heavily on the ex-Prelate’s shoulder. “Seek thy bed, for tomorrow morning, we will begin again.”

  Animus eddied and swirled faintly around their feet, and Dolus sagged.

  “Yes… It would be best to rest…” he mumbled, shuffling off toward a small building.

  Okay… Maybe he’s not as culpable as I had thought.

  Benvolio watched him enter and shut the door. Then he stepped into the war wagon and pulled the gate closed behind him.

  A loud demonic buzz rang from Nora’s staff, and Oliver jumped to his feet.

  “Follow me.”

  He blurred into dark mist and zipped down the hill toward a more heavily wooded area. We scrambled after him, weapons at the ready.

  In a small clearing, we found the demon waiting for something. He had assumed a striking humanoid mishmash of owl and peacock.

  Oliver’s amorphous form stirred restlessly. “Why are you staring at him like that?”

  I tugged guiltily at the neck of my cloak. “You have to admit, the feathers are—”

  A large void opened in front of the demon almost soundlessly, startling him so thoroughly that his plumage flared in a panicked display.

  “G-General?!” he screeched, stumbling backward. “How?!”

  The hulking form of General Ragnerus strode through the portal, crimson animus pouring off him. Marquis Galenus, Mistress Aziza's translocation lackey, dangled by a goat horn from one of the General’s massive hands, wide-eyed and gibbering.

  “Where is he?!” Ragnerus bellowed, fixing his rage on the cowering owl-peacock. “Where is my brother?!”

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