The wind curled through the ash-choked streets of Grimm Haven like a serpent through a graveyard—cold, whispering, and full of secrets. The gates loomed high and dark as sin, carved of obsidian and bone-slick metal, etched with old sigils meant to keep evil out—and more importantly, keep it in. They were open now, creaking wide to accept the dead and the damned.

  Through those gates rode the remnants of a shattered host.

  At the front rode Mathias Blackthorne, his black leather coat was spattered with dried blood, the witch-sigil hanging heavy around his neck like an accusation. His horse plodded forward with exhaustion, its flanks foamed and its eyes sunken. The entire procession moved like a funeral march.

  Behind him rattled the first wagon.

  Cassandra Greystone held the reins, her hands raw and blistered. Her face was pale, eyes sunken from days without rest. Beside her sat the armored hulk that was Viktor, silent as ever, his helm still fastened, though dried blood painted the grooves. Between them, manacled and hooded, was Esmericilla, the hedge witch. She murmured to herself in a strange tongue, one eye swollen shut from a blow she’d earned trying to bite through her restraints.

  The second and third wagons carried the dead.

  Wrapped in oilcloth and bound with ropes, the bodies of thirteen fallen witch hunters lay stacked like logs. Their blades had been laid across their chests; their faces were covered but their boots were bare, a tradition in Grimm Haven, that a witch hunter walk barefoot into the afterlife so the gods might know their pain.

  Bartholamew, his once-golden beard now streaked with dried blood, guided the second cart. He said nothing, but his jaw was clenched like a man chewing glass. Beside him rode Sabrina Vahl, hunched and hollow-eyed, her skin pale as wax. She coughed twice into her hand but made no sound after. She had survived the clearing, though her soul might not have.

  Behind them came a dozen more riders—witch hunters who had not fled but endured. Some were bandaged; others bore wounds still weeping red. And standing just inside the gates, steel glinting even in the gloom, was Witch Commander Roland Strongmore with his two captains: Esmeralda Herewen, cloaked in crimson and grey, and Stephen Vildemont, a silent bear of a man with one blind eye.

  The procession passed under the black gates.

  Grimm Haven did not cheer. It did not mourn. The city of witch hunters never did. It simply watched—through shuttered windows and whispered prayers—as death returned home.

  Roland walked slowly until he was beside Mathias.

  He said nothing at first.

  Only stared at the bloodied wagons, the dead wrapped like firewood, the ruined survivors behind them.

  Then, his voice rough with disbelief:

  “So many dead.”

  Mathias didn’t look at him.

  “Yes, Lord Commander. The enemy was not what we expected. The battlefield is littered with demons. We stumbled into a summoning… the likes of which I’ve never seen.”

  Roland’s jaw tightened. “And the witch?”

  Mathias nodded backward toward the first wagon.

  “We captured Esmericilla. She may know more. With the proper… persuasion, we might find out who else was involved.”

  Roland’s eyes narrowed. “Make sure she is well guarded. All wards, all locks. I want the seers watching her dreams, and no one goes near without my permission.”

  “Understood.”

  The commander’s gaze swept the ruined procession once more.

  “Get some food in you. Rest. I’ll call on you soon.”

  Mathias gave a tired nod and clicked his horse forward.

  Behind him, Roland turned to call behind.

  “Captain Herewen.”

  “Yes, my lord?” Esmeralda answered, riding up.

  “Go with them to the dungeons. Make sure the witch is properly seen to.”

  “At once, Lord Commander.”

  As the last hoofbeats faded, Roland exhaled a long, slow breath and turned back toward the black tower that loomed in the heart of the city. Captain Vildemont followed in silence.

  ?

  Several hours later, Mathias walked the inner corridors of Grimm Haven, the cracked banners of the Witch Hunters’ Guild flapping in the torchlight above. Fresh clothing clung uncomfortably to his skin. The stink of fire and blood still clung to his hair no matter how many times he’d scrubbed it.

  Cassandra walked behind him, sharper now after food and rest, her boots tapping like clockwork on the stone. Viktor, hulking and silent, remained in full plate—he had not slept, and none would ask him to.

  They had been summoned.

  To the Commander’s Office.

  And none of them liked it.

  As they turned the final corner, Cassandra slowed.

  Two guards stood at the double doors.

  But they were not their guards.

  Their armor was too fine, their posture too stiff, their tabards embroidered with the black eagle of the Empire—but these eagles were stitched over red, not silver. Imperial guards. And important ones.

  Cassandra narrowed her eyes.

  “What is this?”

  Mathias frowned.

  “Someone important, no doubt. From Struttsburg, if I had to guess.”

  A moment later, the doors opened.

  And out strode a woman clad in crimson-tinted imperial armor, a long cloak trailing behind her like blood. Her face was regal, her stride predatory, and her eyes as hard as riverstone. She did not look at them as she passed, and the guards fell in step behind her like hounds behind a wolf.

  Mathias stared.

  “Lady Ezabella Rell,” Cassandra whispered, awestruck.

  “The Emperor’s Sword.”

  She was gone by the time they stepped inside.

  Within, the chamber was filled. Witch Commander Roland stood behind his desk, but he was not alone. Flanking him were Councilor Toland Felstrum, Franklin Ment—once Mathias’s mentor and a man he despised—and Gilda Merovelle, commander of the southern outpost at Black Hollow.

  It wasn’t just a meeting. It was a tribunal.

  Toland spoke first.

  “Now that we’ve had time to review your report, we have questions.”

  Mathias crossed his arms.

  “The reports speak truth. But ask what you will.”

  Ment leaned forward.

  “You claimed to have rooted out a coven. Yet you failed to mention demons. Or the ritual itself.”

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  “We had it on good authority,” Mathias said coldly, “that a summoning was being prepared. When we arrived, it was worse than we feared.”

  “And yet you attacked?” Gilda asked, arching a brow.

  “We were already committed. The moment we saw the signs; it was too late for retreat.”

  She looked unimpressed.

  “If you had to do it again, would you make the same call?”

  “Yes.” The answer was a stone dropped in still water.

  Gilda frowned.

  “That decision cost thirteen hunters their lives, Captain Blackthorne. And more wounded. Your action was reckless. Protocol demands we observe and report, not charge in blindly.”

  “And let demons crawl across our fields while we quibble over maps and strategy?” Mathias growled. “A ritual was happening. We stopped it. That was the job.”

  Roland leaned forward.

  “A demon escaped, you said?”

  Mathias nodded slowly.

  “Yes. I saw it kill two of ours in a heartbeat. I could not identify it. But I know its strength.”

  Cassandra stepped in before the tension could explode.

  “We did capture Esmericilla,” she said. “She may know more. We’ll get answers.”

  Gilda gave a thin smile.

  “For your sake, I hope so. Because this… this was a waste of blood. And such waste will not be tolerated again.”

  Roland stood.

  “Cassandra. Viktor. You may go. We need a word with Mathias.”

  Cassandra glanced at Mathias, her gaze full of warning: Hold your temper.

  She bowed, then turned, with Viktor thudding after her.

  The silence that followed was a noose.

  Roland folded his hands.

  “Captain Mathias Blackthorne,” he began, “the council has reached its decision. You are hereby stripped of rank and docked a third of your pay for the coming months.”

  Mathias blinked.

  “You will remain in Grimm Haven. You are to train the new initiates. You will not leave without explicit council permission.”

  The words landed like hammer blows.

  Mathias’s jaw clenched.

  “Are you mad? You want me to stay here? Babysit? The world burns outside these walls, and you’d have me… play nursemaid to green bloods?”

  He took a step forward.

  “You think this is justice? I’ve buried friends, I’ve burned witches, I’ve faced down horrors you can’t even name—”

  “Enough.” Gilda rose. “The council has spoken. You are dismissed.”

  His hand moved—only for a heartbeat—toward the dagger at his belt.

  Then stopped.

  Vrorn help him, he wanted to throw it.

  But he nodded once, curt and cold, and turned on his heel.

  When he was gone, Roland let out a slow breath.

  “Are we certain of this?” he asked the others. “Mathias is one of our best.”

  Toland looked grim.

  “And men like him become dangerous when they forget the rules.”

  Gilda folded her arms.

  “Many threats stir in the dark. We cannot afford chaos within our own ranks.”

  Roland looked toward the black city beyond the window.

  “Then we better hope that witch breaks easily… or Mathias may not be the last to push back.”

  The Storm in His Wake:

  The great doors of the Keep of Blackstone slammed open with a thunderous crack, echoing down the rain-slicked stone steps like a thunderclap over a funeral pyre.

  Mathias emerged, eyes sharp with fury, jaw clenched so tightly the veins along his neck stood out like the cords of a bow. His black leather cloak snapped in the wind behind him, the sigil of the Witch-Hunter’s Order half-hidden beneath his heavy strides.

  Cassandra stood just outside the gate, arms folded, one brow arched high enough to reach the rooftops. She had waited nearly an hour in the cold, boots wet from the drizzle, her face half-shadowed beneath the hood of her dark green cloak. When she saw his face, she didn’t need to ask what had happened.

  “Didn’t go so well, I take it?” she said, her voice lilting with sarcasm, half-smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

  Mathias stormed past her without pause. His stride was long, purposeful, as though he could outpace the shame that clung to him like a second skin. Cassandra sighed and fell into step beside him, her smaller frame nearly jogging to keep up.

  “The fools,” he spat, his voice low but seething. “They seek to embarrass me—belittle me and the decisions I made in the field—and for what purpose? To prop up their illusion of control? To maintain the farce that their will is the law. That we are safe behind these stone walls while the world burns around us. Demons roam freely through the far reaches, witches breed in cellars, beasts stalk forests once sacred—and yet they wag fingers and count coin.”

  Cassandra said nothing. She knew better than to interrupt when he was like this. Mathias in a fury was like a firestorm through a dry field. Let him rage. Let him burn it all out.

  “We stopped an entire summoning circle,” he continued. “Held the breach until the earth itself bled. And they call it a waste of resources. They act as if it had no consequence, no meaning—just another mess to clean and forget.” He exhaled, the breath rattling like broken glass in his throat.

  They walked in silence through the cobbled alleys of Grimm Haven, past shuttered taverns and flickering lanterns. The witch city was always alive in whispers—veiled glances from windows, arcane glyphs scrawled beneath rain gutters, and the occasional raven-eyed child who watched without blinking. The stones here remembered.

  “I know a place,” Cassandra said finally, her voice gentle. “Let’s get a drink. Calm the storm before you drown in it.”

  Mathias didn’t answer, but he turned down the next street without protest.

  The tavern was called The Broken Cauldron, a low-lit haunt nestled between a blacksmith’s stall and a brothel with silk-draped windows. Inside, the scent of wet wool, sour ale, and fire-roasted meat clung to the air. The few patrons in the corner kept their voices low. Witch-hunters did not mix well with common folk—not unless blood was involved.

  They found a table near the hearth, flames licking up from the logs in a half-hearted struggle against the damp.

  Mathias sat heavily, his back to the wall, tankard in hand before the barkeep had even turned away. Cassandra sipped her mead slowly, watching him from across the table. She didn’t speak. Not yet.

  The silence stretched like an old scar—familiar, painful, and unwilling to fade.

  Then, at last, Mathias spoke, his voice quieter now, but deeper. He stared into the amber pool in his tankard as though searching for an answer within the foam.

  “We have always done the will of Vrorn,” he murmured. “Our Order was forged in fire, not comfort. We have shielded this Empire from the darkness that the nobles dare not name—protected its people from horrors they will never understand. And what thanks do we earn? Scorn. Silence. A slow death by politics.”

  Cassandra’s brow creased. “Mathias…”

  “Countless of our brothers and sisters have died upholding our vows. You know this. I’ve buried more than I can name. And most of us—most—will die in some dark pit or burning village. The leadership we have now…” He scoffed bitterly. “They’re not fit to sharpen a witch blade.”

  “Mathias!” Cassandra said sharply, surprised by the rawness of his voice. “Do not speak so loudly. You’ll get us both tossed into the dungeons if someone overhears.”

  He looked up at her, eyes tired but unwavering.

  “Bah,” he said. “I care not who hears. Any witch-hunter worth his salt knows of which I speak. The moment we stop protecting the Empire and its people and start protecting ourselves… that’s the moment we become no better than merchant guilds. No better than those who line their pockets while the world burns.”

  Cassandra rubbed her temple. “It can’t be that bad. The council may have made some questionable decisions of late, yes—but do you really think they’ve lost their way? Are they truly so afraid?”

  Mathias’s jaw flexed.

  “Our numbers dwindle with every moon. You know this. The recruits we train now—soft hands, softer hearts. Barely any grit in their bones. And don’t even get me started on the quality of their steel or their souls. But that… that is not an excuse to shirk our duties. It is a call to rise. The Order must be rebuilt. From the top down.”

  “Is that so?” came a voice like gravel dipped in wine.

  They both turned as Commander Roland Strongmore slid into the seat beside Cassandra. He held three tankards, the smell of strong ale already leeching into the table’s worn wood. Without a word, he passed one to each of them and took a long, slow drink from his own.

  Mathias straightened immediately, his mouth pressed into a hard line.

  “Commander.”

  Roland smirked over the rim of his tankard. “Please, Mathias. Regale me with tales of the glory days. How we must cast down the council and raise new banners in blood and righteousness.”

  “You wouldn’t listen.”

  “Perhaps,” Roland said, brushing foam from his beard with the back of his wrist. “But I didn’t come here to scold. I came because I agreed to your demotion.”

  Mathias’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  Roland leaned back, exhaling deeply. “You think it was personal. You think it was some petty punishment. But you’re wrong.”

  “Then enlighten me.”

  “The Emperor has summoned you,” Roland said simply. “You’ve been requested by name. And not just by him—Draumbean rides as we speak. He’s coming here. To Grimm Haven.”

  Cassandra leaned forward, brows raised. “The wizard?”

  Roland nodded. “There are darker times ahead than any of us imagined. The kind of darkness that eats the sky. The kind of enemies that even the Order cannot face alone.”

  Mathias’s voice was softer now. “What are you saying?”

  Roland drained half his drink, then set it down with a thud.

  “I’m saying we’ll need our best. The sharpest blades. The most loyal hearts. I did not demote you to disgrace you. I did it to free you. From red tape. From meetings. From their leashes.”

  Mathias stared at the woodgrain table, thinking.

  “But,” Roland continued, “until Draumbean arrives, you are to stay out of trouble. Stay away from the hedge witch, Esmericilla. The order’s eyes are watching. Is that clear?”

  Mathias didn’t answer.

  Cassandra placed her hand gently on his. “He understands, Commander.”

  Roland stood, nodding. “I leave him in your hands, Cassandra. Keep him from burning down the city before the wizard gets here.”

  He left without another word, the tavern door creaking shut behind him.

  A moment passed.

  Then another.

  Finally, Mathias exhaled.

  Cassandra smirked. “What is it?”

  Mathias glanced at her, half a shadow of a smile on his lips. “You always look so happy when someone puts me in my place.”

  “You always fear the worst,” she said, finishing her drink. “Roland’s always had your back. You heard him yourself. You’re needed elsewhere.”

  Mathias looked down into his tankard, watching the foam swirl.

  “Aye,” he said. “I heard him.”

  He took a slow sip.

  “All that means,” he added, voice low, “is that there’s no one else left. No one else as expendable as us.”