Mist hung in the mountain air; jutting out from the mist were impossibly tall, impossibly solid gates.

  Carriages rolled out of the trees. Horses stamped and steamed, their harnesses stitched with glyphs that glimmered faintly. Sigil-plates were set into every chassis. Magic glyphs used as shock absorbers. Temperature magic, to assure those inside had the most comfortable rides through the ever-changing temperatures as they rode towards the Hallows.

  Ahead, the gates of Alleve's Hallow towered into the sky, so tall their peaks disappeared into the low-hanging clouds. Veins of black stone and pale silver crisscrossed their surface like lightning frozen mid-strike. Every inch was etched with carvings that seemed to shift in the corner of the eye—never moving when looked at directly, but alive nonetheless.

  Dragons coiled in endless knots, sea serpents biting their own tails, wolves devouring the moon, orcs roaring into battle, angels and demons locked in endless war. Phoenix soaring over forests filled with Elves and Dwarves.

  Two Titan Orcs, one with reddish skin, the other green, stood solid before the gates, each with an axe taller than a wagon bed; both were still as dead. To the side of the gate sat a crooked booth that looked older than most noble bloodlines. In it, a Lycan with gray and silver fur in his mane and boredom in his eyes. He flipped through a slate-backed ledger with one thick claw.

  The Emperor’s carriage slowed. Behind it, six more rolled in order, the seven royal children dispersed by rank and habit. Cassian, the Crown Prince, leaned just close enough to a window to see. It was his second time here, only now he wouldn't have to sneak in. The retinue fanned out behind: knights, mages, all carried the mechanical stillness of the Imperial discipline.

  Farther back, the Sanctum’s holy convoy followed, carriages that held the upper echelon of the Sanctum. The Archbishops, Cardinals, and the Pontifex. Sigils stitched on silk, Inquisitors on warhorses with thorn-etched chanfrons. Augustine rode point, posture like a spear.

  As they approached the gates, no one announced them. The Hallow never did. The Lycan guard stood, stretched, and set his ledger on the lip of the booth. His voice carried without effort.

  “Name’s Falryn, Gatewarden. We do this simple. I’ve got a list. I check the list. Then you go in.”

  A quiet shift occurred through the Imperial procession.

  The Emperor’s carriage window slid down by a breath, just enough for his voice to carry,

  "Falryn. The Ashen Wolf?"

  The name hit like a thrown spear. Knights straightened, hands resting a fraction tighter on reins and hilts. Armor whispered against itself. Horses stamped and snorted.

  Cassian’s gaze sharpened, interest flashing. A prince raised on war histories and cautionary epics knew that name. Half the nobles did too. Their faces paled.

  The Sanctum priests, proud in their ignorance, blinked with confusion, glancing at one another as though searching scripture for a name history had chosen not to preserve for them.

  Falryn scratched lazily behind one ear with a claw, utterly unmoved by his ancient name.

  “Been a long time since anyone called me that,” he said. "Been even longer since I cared about it. I'm just a gatekeeper now. Has better benefits.”

  The Emperor’s expression did not change, but there was a sharpening — a subtle tightening at the corner of the eye, the faintest shift in posture.

  "Legend says you died in battle on the Paleless Plains," he said, in an almost conversational tone.

  Falryn snorted. “If I'm not mistaken, your legends also say I was killed by several of your Emperors, at varying points in time. History says a lot of dumb shit, and has a way of changing when needed."

  He flipped open his ledger with an indifferent flick of his wrist.

  “Alright then,” he said, as though the moment meant nothing to him. “Let’s get this over with.”

  And just like that, the world exhaled. But no one forgot what name had just walked out of a story and sat down behind a gate booth.

  A ripple went through the Imperials. The Emperor didn’t move. Cassian’s chin dipped the slightest degree.

  Across the second rank of carriages, a noblewoman’s mouth curled. “We are not… processed.”

  Falryn didn’t look at her. He thumbed the first page over. “You are today.”

  He beckoned the lead carriage. An aide slipped from the running board, offered papers, a sigil ring, and a name. Falryn pinched the ring between claw and thumb, squeezed; wards flared once in clean, even light.

  “Valenfor, party of seventy-three. Names I call step up. The rest can stop breathing on my booth. You humans carry so many diseases.”

  The Emperor said nothing, so no one else did. The Imperials approached as if trained: three at a time, papers, sigils, polite silence. The royals and their nobles finished with no issues to speak of. Falryn then turned his attention towards the Sanctum party.

  The Sanctum party crept to the front. The Saints, led by Augustine, caused no problems. They saw no hostility in Augustine, so they carried none themselves. They simply waited for their turn to be called. The same could not be said by the others within their group. An Inquisitor let out a laugh, clearly wanting an audience.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  “A beast weighs our merit?” he said. “Disgusting.”

  A Cardinal’s ring clinked against his staff, a small warning towards that Inquisitor. The Pontifex watched the clergy traveling with him carefully. His eyes were unreadable, but he did nothing to stop their actions.

  Falryn heard their words, but didn't care. “Next.”

  Augustine guided his mount forward, hands open, reins loose. “Augustine of the Thorned Path,” he said. “Saints company, twelve.”

  “Alright,” Falryn said.

  He checked Augustine first, and his Saints first. Everything was moving smoothly. Even with the Inquisitors, though there were some nasty looks, none caused any problems.

  The trouble began when the priest came. A priest in immaculate white, clearly from a noble family, took one look at the claw and forced himself to stand taller. “I will not be judged by a mutt.”

  Falryn’s ear twitched. He did not look impressed or upset. “Then you won’t be entering.”

  The priest's smile was full of himself. “Do you know whom you speak to?”

  “Not yet. That’s what the list is for.” Falryn pointed lazily at the blank beside the name. “State it.”

  The priest’s lips thinned. “I answer to the Pontifex and the Saints. Not to a beast.” After the priest spoke, several others followed him. They were all nobly born and already upset at being nothing more than low-level priests. Now, in their eyes, they were being commanded by a dog.

  Falryn chuckled. “Okay.” He turned, lifted his chin at the Orcs. “Memorize the faces that refuse inspection. If they take a step near the gate... kill 'em.”

  The orcs did not blink. They looked once and registered their faces.

  Anger crept across the priest’s face. He jabbed a finger at the werewolf, words already hot in his throat, the first syllable of a curse unfurling—

  Falryn moved.

  One heartbeat, he stood at the booth; the next, his hand was around the priest’s neck, claws digging into the priest's neck flesh. The convoys let out a collective gasp as they witnessed the Lycan's speed. A dozen hands went to hilts and then stopped because no one wanted to be first.

  “Name and rank,” Falryn said flatly.

  The priest choked. “I—refuse—”

  “Then fuck off,” Falryn said, and snapped his neck.

  Falryn looked at the dead body in his grip for a moment and scoffed. He tossed the limp corpse to the side of the road like trash. Blood dripped from his claws. He licked one absentmindedly, made a face, and spat.

  “Bitter,” he muttered. “The Sanctum must not feed them well.”

  Inquisitors and Saints alike became uneasy. They all tensed and stared down the beast before them. Augustine raised his hand and his voice. “Hold.” He commanded.

  Falryn stepped back to the booth and put his hand on the ledger as if nothing had happened. “Listen well, I'll only explain this to you once,” he said, not raising his voice and somehow making it carry farther. “This is The Hallows. A free Kingdom. We don’t have many rules. But the ones we do have are simple. The rules for the gates are simple. No one passes without my say-so. The second, if you threaten me or mine, you die. That's it. Those are the rules.”

  A carriage window ticked open again. The Emperor’s gaze slid through the gap.

  “Gatewarden,” he said, almost conversational. “Are you aware of the… consequences your actions can bring?”

  Falryn laughed and finally looked at him. His eyes were amber and very, very tired. “Majesty, I don't know how you humans do things. But our kind..." He motioned to himself and the two Orcs at the gate.

  "We have our strongest guard at the gates of our homes. Even if you start something here, the three of us can and will last long enough for the rest to arrive.” He flicked his eyes down the road, over the carriages and banners. “Nearly every citizen, man, woman, and child, is capable of bringing death. You and yours are woefully outnumbered.”

  The Emperor’s attention sharpened. “You think you three can hold out. Even against me?”

  Falryn’s gaze skimmed to the Saints, then back. “You. Your pups. Those Saints?” A shrug. “Yeah. ”

  Silence fell in soft, heavy folds. Cassian felt it in his bones: the quiet that separates insult from war. The Emperor’s pupils narrowed, not from anger but recognition.

  "Would love to test your confidence. Perhaps we’ll make those legends real?"

  The tension heightened instantly. Knights' hands drifted to sword hilts without conscious thought. Behind the Emperor's carriage, a mage's fingers began to glow before he caught himself. Even the horses stopped breathing. Augustine's grip tightened on his reins, muscles coiled, watching the Lycan's ears for the first twitch toward violence. One word. One gesture. That's all it would take.

  Falryn rolled his shoulder, bored. “Maybe later,” he said. “I’m working. Don't have time to play with you kids.”

  He traced a lazy circle in the air, signaling towards the Orcs. They took their axes in one hand, put the other to the gates, and pushed. The massive stone gates swung open under the immense strength of the Orcs as easily as a common door.

  The Imperial line began to move. As Augustine reached the booth, he drew rein and inclined his head.

  “Was that necessary?” he asked, eyes flicking once to the priest’s body.

  “Probably not,” Falryn said. “But it makes my job easier.” Augustine frowned,

  “That just confirms the awful things they think of you.”

  Falryn’ showed a toothy grin. “Kid, I’m over a thousand years old. I bled in the Demon War until my coat was stained red for nearly a decade after. I dragged more humans out of the jaws of death in my lifetime than your Sanctum of Thorns has since its inception."

  He looked into Augustine's eyes, and his gaze softened.

  "I was still nothing but a monster to most humans. I stopped trying to change minds before your grandfather's great-grandfather was a tickle in his daddy's sack. Do what works. What people think doesn't matter.”

  Augustine swallowed; his words carried deeper than he thought they could. He spoke from experience, yet did not dare to judge his path. Augustine bowed in genuine gratitude. “Thank you… for your wise words.”

  “Want to thank me?” Falryn said and flipped the ledger. “Move your people out of here.”

  In the Pontifex’s carriage, the old man had listened without words. Now he sighed and looked back at the priests hovering around their dead. His window lowered,

  “The Hallow is not a parish,” he said, voice soft and tired. “You can not impose your will here. Ancient beings dwell here, beyond your comprehension. There is a reason the Valenfor Empire never hinted at trying to conquer this place.”

  His gaze raked the faces of those who had refused inspection. “Faith is good,” he said. “Blind, arrogant faith edges toward blasphemy. Take our brother’s body home. Give him rites. And spend the rest of your days waiting for our return, praying for the sense you lacked today.”

  They bowed, shaken, chastened, nothing like the proud men they were moments ago. They lifted the body and began their trek home.

  As the Pontifex watched them leave, horns and trumpets sounded across the ridgelines. The orcs’ ears twitched. Falryn closed his ledger and let out an annoyed groan.

  The Pontifex glanced toward the west. “It seems the Altheryons are here.”