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(Volume 2 of The Wandering Inn is available on Amazon! If you can, please leave a review or tell people it’s out! Buying is not necessarily necessary. Thanks so much for the support!)

 

Day 65

 

A woman sat in a web made by a spider. She was sewing, stitching together a soul out of pieces. The fabric was worn and old, tattered and stained by sins. It was made of flesh and sacrifice. Stolen years and desperate deeds.

Blood? A single skein of thread could contain oceans. The needle that pieced each part of this soul together was black, like the empty eyes of the dead.

The woman had heard the silent scream of a soul leaving the body a million million times. She had stolen the souls and the lives of so many she could no longer remember. Whispering to them for secrets and offering them halflife for prices only she could name. Leaving behind pain and regret and anguish and death upon death upon death.

The spider’s web was vast—or had been. Now, it floated, free-form, strands of identity, memory, and power hanging around her. A tapestry of eons of making to rival Dragons or the greatest [Archmages] and legends—destroyed.

Mice. Naughty, wretched mice had eaten it away. Exposed holes. Weaknesses. For however filthy any part was—a ransomed life, an eye plucked from a socket in trade, a sacrifice in scarlet—what she had made of it had been beautiful.

Her web. The woman could well be called the Spider, then. The Last Weaver. Witch of Webs. Temptress. So many names.

How had it been ruined so? The pieces had been nibbled at without her knowledge, power stolen away until entire fragments of her being were disconnected. Into that gap came weakness.

Even now, the woman looked around and saw the damage to her web. Not just to her village; her eyes roamed and saw shattered threads. Ruined. So much work ruined by song and flame.

Unacceptable. Her lips would have curled if she was capable of that much emotion. Instead, the woman just bent back to work, and her furious work to mend and salvage what could be salvaged consumed her.

The tapestry of her soul was only about her. Her…and a single child holding her hand. Her deaths circled the weaving, unable to pierce the manifold layers to the heart of her. Rings of immortality bargained for, stolen, obtained in profane ways.

 

Bind your soul by magic against spell and blade and Skill.

Murder the last of the ancient Phoenixes and eat its heart raw.

Strike a deal with a [Necromancer] of old for the secret to his eternal body and life.

Write a pact to send your death to another woman before it came to you. A hundred women. A thousand.

 

She had not striven for one method, but rather, all. It was her life’s work, and it had all been undone because she had grown careless. She had fallen asleep, lonely from her daughter’s absence, sated on her latest project—and they had wormed their way in.

This new tapestry would be foolproof, even against the dead. Then she would find the mice and hang them from their naughty tails and find out how to exact vengeance for each and every thing they had taken from her with interest.

This was right. This was proper and in the old way of things. The woman sat there, fingers constantly moving.

She was not old. Or rather, not as old as the tapestry around her. She had made the first layer to hide herself from time long, long ago. Then other layers to seal away things like her heart that it might never bleed, hide her soul that no one could judge it.

Too much, perhaps. In time, it had become a cocoon, suffocating her from the outside world. Now that the layers thinned, the woman was more herself.

Belavierr, they called her.

Belavierr.

She had a daughter.

She had a nemesis who sang.

She had a death who blazed. Two deaths, it seemed.

These things were true and mattered; all else would change. The woman kept sewing, watching the world twist around her, a haze through her veil of being. The tapestry of her soul reflected a battle.

Needles made of every material in creation, from wood to silver to bone to stone, lancing through the air. A cartwheeling figure firing two bolts at her chest.

She twisted a finger, and the fletching should have snapped—but it did not. Each fiber was charmed against her, and the figure had found a way to pierce magic.

Bolts struck home; the woman watched, idly, as blood pooled. Not on her chest, but at the very edges of the tapestry. A body woven out of cunning cloth stumbled and bled.

That it even touched the tapestry was annoying. A sign of weakness. The woman corrected the stitching, removing the bolts with a flick of her hand. Sewed the gaps closed; reinforced the weave.

Vengeance, then. Old as she was, she did it well. Spilling blood into one hand, the Witch of Webs flung the droplets wide, and they bloomed like strange flowers she had seen once. Each edge as sharp as could be.

Shadows dodged around her, shouting. But the woman, the [Witch], simply kept sewing. She was being hunted.

Why?

I remember them. She studied the shattered tapestry of her memories. Oh. Yes.

They were there. She barely recalled faces, but she recalled it now. [Hunters] meddling in her task. The Kingdom of Shades. Ghosts…

An axe struck her tapestry hard enough to make the outer edges shake; it could not pierce the outermost layer. Once more, the woman simply removed the axe, dealt the [Hunter] a blow to shake his bones, and went back to sewing.

They were less than mice. Not a single one had reached the first step of power. They had no age; their weapons were well made, though. Yet the woman paid them no heed. She sat, sewed, and knew not how long she worked, for her task was all-consuming.

Then?

Suddenly, there was flame. A burning man approached her, and the woman threw up a hand, and her eyes dilated in the sudden brightness that pierced the layers of her manifold soul.

What was this? Someone else? A [Knight]?

Yes. She knew him. A burning man, eyes open wide, blazing with a fire carried from thousands of years ago. She saw its very source: the wrath of a long-dead [Paladin]. Flames of faith. Flames of hatred.

Flames born of sacrifice. Such a conflagration that it was burning him alive each second he existed. The man was strong. Insignificant compared to those she had clashed against, but he had reached the first step of greatness.

—And he had turned his achievement into a single vow, a single purpose: her death. The burning man walked towards her, and a sword dug into her tapestry and lit it ablaze.

It pierced the first layer and the second, and the woman reached to pluck the sword out—and the flames burnt her. The fires ate away at her work, and alarmed, she tried to quench the fire with threads made of blood. With wards made of ancient Dragonscale for this very purpose.

He was only a flame. Yet—and yet—

Ser Raim burned. His flames should not have reached her, but they did, racing through holes in the safeguards around her being. Like a torch set to worm-riddled wood, he ignited layer after layer of her web.

Then—the woman felt alarm change to fear. For the first time in an age, she gazed at the man and saw her death coming for her. A true death that refused to catch on her nets or turn away.

“Stop. It will be your end. Have I quarreled with you?”

She whispered, and the man’s eyes only raged hotter. She…did not remember him, but he had the look and likeness of so many. An old bargain or deed, perhaps. It mattered not. Thus, he came.

And the woman called Belavierr began to struggle, now, fighting the flames. For the closer he got—

The more she remembered pain. Now, quick, the Spider scurried. To do battle. A little ember was burning her web. It should not have even been able to catch a spark, but she scrabbled for the scraps of her power. Threw them at her foes, for she did know how to escape and live.

But for her daughter and it would have been easy to flee.

‘But fear not’, whispered the Spider, ‘I know well this killing game.’

 

——

 

The air was dark and heavy, but the light that raged in the center of it all was all the brighter, like a bonfire in perfect midnight. Tangled voices, shouting, screams, and the snap of strings faded unnaturally fast, as if all were muffled by a sea of cotton. It smelled like a dry summer’s day, hot, and like charcoal and smoke.

The air even tasted wrong. Old and dusty, like a cough never released for a thousand years. Or longer? A shuffling filled the air as the crackling roar intensified.

“—support Raim! My arrows aren’t even hurting—”

“She’s burning! Back, back! ‘Ware the shadows! I see—”

A woman reached out, and figures shambled out of the darkness. Not from real reality, but from somewhere else. The shadows of her cloak? Another dimension? Their aimless walking slowly became purposeful, as if they had been wandering so long and finally—saw light and purpose.

Who were they? Hundreds, now, marching, now running, metal clattering, trailing broken cloth and thread, mouths agape as the [Hunters] whirled, calling out alarms. One fired a silver arrow straight into the head of one of the shadows, but it kept running forwards until all could see who they were:

Puppets.

Thousands of years ago, they had been given form. Their forms cut from silk, carefully stitched into shapes and connected. And something else had been added. Magic. A half-life that could animate their bodies of cloth and give them purpose.

They looked like soldiers, these puppets. Not like people. They were no Stitch-people with proper anatomy and faces—and souls. These puppets had dead eyes, stern, warlike features, or sometimes even blank faces and crude sockets carved out of wood or painted onto canvas.

Huge arms, long legs—and very real weapons. A [Hunter] with a scissor-sword snipped the arm off one running at him with a spear, and the thing only bled stuffing; he whirled his sword, took its head off, and it kept stabbing until the [Witch Hunter] bisected it again at the waist. Then the legs just fell, kicking.

More puppets rushed after the first, attacking wildly, a perfect little army for some war or other purpose. What purpose that had been perhaps even their creator had forgotten. So the puppets eventually lost their purpose, were stored away. But they remained. Because the one who had stitched them together always had need of things.

She stood as the [Hunters] formed a ring around a blazing man trying to drive his sword deeper into her chest.

The witch’s hands were locked around the burning sword, ignoring it charring her flesh, trying to pull it out of her. Now there was a grimace of pain on her face, but only slightly, as if she had felt a pinprick for the first time in eons.

Yet that was enough to make her eyes open wide, wide. If you looked into those eyes through the interconnecting rings bathed in orange, you might fall into that infinite gaze.

Deeper. Deeper. Into the very depths of her soul. There, you would see her.

She had been a mortal woman once. But such was her skill at thread and needle that she had grasped a truth of her art. All things were connected. And the art of sewing life and fate and magic was only a different technique than physical materials.

Over centuries, she had added to those layers, creating something beyond any spider’s ability. Some of those old wards had failed. Many had stood strong in the face of harm. But for all she had touched immortality, Belavierr had always known of her death. For it was the one thread she could never cut. It was woven into her being.

And now she knew one other truth: nothing was permanent. Dragons fell. Gods died. And now her death had come for her.

Belavierr burned. And as she screamed, her creations charged the [Knight]. They tried to stab him, shoot him with arrows—but the [Witch Hunters], six of them, forced a circle of steel and flesh.

“[We Make a Stand: Fight or Fall]! [Blademaster’s Slash]! Sylind—Phoenixfire arrow! Now!”

The leader of the [Witch Hunters] carved down two dozen puppets with a cut that tore through wood and armor alike, and the half-Elf with a bow plucked a burning arrow from her quiver. She loosed it with a shout.

“[Triple Shot]! Take c—”

The detonations of the three copied arrows erased hundreds of the puppets. The explosions sent mounds of earth and stone fountaining up into the air, and the shockwave itself tossed the puppets around like leaves. Only the [Hunters] held their ground.

“[Dwarven Defence: Granite Formation]. They’re coming.”

The largest one gritted out, holding his battleaxe at the ready. The puppets had no brains to concuss or bones to break. Even if their legs were shattered, they dragged themselves forwards onto the [Hunters]’ blades. But they were so many—one slashed at a [Hunter]’s armor, slowly marking the enchanted leather. Another stumbled past the [Hunters] towards the [Knight]. A crude hatchet made of blood-red crystal raised…

Before any [Hunter] could bring it down, the wooden puppet’s body burst into flame. It tried to swing the crystal hatchet, but it stumbled, turning to ash so quickly that the hand holding the axe fell—and then even the crystal was melting around the man’s feet.

Ser Raim never noticed. He had yanked his sword back and cut at Belavierr’s arm as she deflected the sword with a staff of her own. His sword met the dark ash of her staff and ignited it; two more swift blows and he cleaved through an artifact, unleashing a screaming howl of magic—and then stabbed once more into Belavierr’s chest. With a faint grimace, she yanked the greatsword out and tossed him back a step. Her puppets ran at Ser Raim, and he whirled his sword, cleaving through a puppet made of pale, yellow cloth that refused to burn.

“Keep them off him! Target the dangerous ones!”

A [Witch Hunter] tackled the golem as it staggered, barely cut, and began to knife it repeatedly, and Ser Raim checked himself before facing the [Witch] again. The [Hunters] used his aura as a shield; they drew in closer, letting him burn the weaker puppets by his very presence.

His aura. Ser Raim’s fire was like a beacon in the darkness. The flames that consumed the puppets were burning at the shadows themselves. It seemed anything he deemed a foe was caught in an inferno beyond any ordinary temperature. Steel melted. Magic burned. And when he drove his sword a third time into her stomach—

The [Witch] screamed.

There he was. Standing in the web of her soul, cutting at her protections. The thread burned. He was cutting it all away. The [Knight] burned, his very life the fuel of the flames. He could hurt her. She was dying.

But she didn’t flee. Because the [Witch] was looking ahead. At a single [Hunter] who hadn’t joined the fighting.

Her axe cut a red line into Wiskeria’s throat as the [Hunter] stood there, watching her, eyes blazing with hatred and victory. But she did not pay attention to the [Hunter].

Belavierr did not even remember why she hated her.

Wiskeria was all Belavierr cared for. Belavierr took another step, then turned. She raised a hand and produced a needle of her own, long, like a rapier—and swung it fast.

Ser Raim went to block, but the blow caught him off-guard. His feet left the ground, and his armor and flames caught the blow—it nevertheless tossed him like a fly. Fifty feet.

“Raim!”

The [Hunters] shouted as his aura left them beset on all sides. Belavierr aimed the gigantic needle like a lance to throw as the man tumbled, but the half-Elf snapped.

“I’ve got him—[Recalling Shot]!”

She fired an arrow a second before Belavierr threw. Her arrow struck Ser Raim in the breastplate—and she yanked him back towards them. He came to his feet with a shout of gratitude as the needle buried itself in the ground.

At this, Belavierr’s eyes flicked to the half-Elf, but her swipe through the air missed her target as Ser Raim brought his sword down on her arm.

Rather than cutting it off, he merely knocked it down, and Belavierr grimaced—before stepping back out of the way of another slash.

She was faster than she looked, and Ser Raim’s sword, which should have already mortally wounded her half a dozen times over, only seemed to hurt. But by the same token—Belavierr’s dodge merely carried her into the second slash. The [Knight] smoothly pivoted and cut her across one leg, before slashing her arm.

Swordmaster she was not. Belavierr staggered, then tried to step past Raim. Towards her daughter.

“Keep her back.”

Gaile’s voice was steady as she yanked Wiskeria backwards. Now, the [Witch Hunters] redeployed, screening Gaile and Wiskeria. Belavierr’s daughter was stock-still, staring at Gaile.

She wasn’t breathing hard; she certainly felt the blade at her throat, but she was calm. Possessed when it came to her own life. But when Wiskeria looked at her mother, it was with—disbelief.

As if she didn’t believe Ser Raim’s sword was actually hurting her.

One of the [Hunters] with crossbows shot again and again, downing the stitch-creations that came charging out of the shadows. The sky had turned black. Some of his bolts hit Belavierr, but she ignored them. They cut, but not deeply at her thread. The flame was what burned her.

Another had a hammer and shield. He turned as Belavierr pointed, this time at Gaile.

“She’s summoning bigger ones! What’s—”

This time, a giant puppet came hurtling out of nowhere, and the [Hunter] shouted as an eighteen-foot-tall monstrosity of wood, half-grown branches with dead leaves and glowing amber eyes, hurtled at him.

“[Shield of Defiance]! [Sin of Wrath]. Give—me—strength!”

His feet skidded backwards, but he heaved—and the deadwood giant went stumbling back instead.

Another [Hunter] was firing a hand-crossbow at the giant, blowing chunks out of its face with explosive bolts, when she looked up.

“Tombs of Menorome—spirits! Ghosts! She’s got her own ghosts!”

All the [Hunters] looked up. Now, there were spectral figures, screaming faces and disturbed air, reaching hands—and even a skeletal, corporeal figure holding a scythe.

“We can’t hold back this many! The entire damn Guild couldn’t—”

“Shut up. Truegold!”

The [Witch Hunter] with the scissor-blades stowed his sword, and the one who’d spoken drew a rapier made of bright gold—and stabbed through the first spirit. The thing shrieked, and the gold flashed brilliant ocre where it met the spirit’s ‘body’—and the thing vanished.

“A gift from Ailendamus!”

For all their bravado, the six [Hunters] fell back again. They would have been dead in heartbeats if they were the target of this army. Yet like the puppets—

The spirits feared the blazing [Knight]. Each creation that Belavierr summoned burnt or perished, most before even reaching the man.

Belavierr’s face was a grimace now, one masked by her own blood. She threw another storm of needles at Raim; saw them melt. Next came loping beasts made of stuffed hide, mimicking what they had once been.

A Wyvern with red scales bit at Ser Raim, ignoring his flames for a time, but even the Fire Wyvern began to smolder—one of the [Hunters] shot gaps in its hide, and the stuffing within ignited it like a [Fireball].

That sword kept cutting into her. Belavierr staggered—then her eyes locked on Wiskeria’s face. She ceased summoning puppets. And she began to stride.

“Keep her from Gaile! Keep her back!”

Tagil, the leader of the [Witch Hunters], roared. But his sword failed to deflect one of the puppets, and when the [Hunter] with the hammer tackled Belavierr, trying to slow her, she tossed him aside. Raim drove his sword into her back, deep, and Belavierr threw her head back and howled—

And she stared at her daughter. Then at the [Hunter] holding Wiskeria’s life.

Gaile tightened her grip on Wiskeria. She tried to drag Wiskeria back, then cursed and looked down. Black threads had wound themselves around her boots. Gaile stared at Wiskeria, and her grip tightened.

“Hunter Gaile!”

Raim had seen, and Gaile stared him in the eyes, teeth bared, as Belavierr stalked towards her.

“Wound her, Raim!”

He drove his sword deeper, trying to literally saw Belavierr in half, and the [Witch] kept advancing. She reached out—and Gaile glanced at Wiskeria’s face.

Then the [Hunter] shoved Wiskeria aside and raised her axe.

“This is your end, Witch!”

The [Huntress] struck as Belavierr swung an arm down. On Gaile’s lips was a Skill. She drove the axe lightly into Belavierr’s chest, barely parting the cloth of her robes—

Belavierr’s hand crushed through the woman’s neck, her ribs, and drove Gaile’s body down until it was a crumpled thing of blood and flesh. She reached for her daughter—and Ser Raim’s sword carved a second time through her chest.

Then, Belavierr did shriek once more and whirl away from her daughter. She was wounded. With each second—it seemed as if the shadows around her were parting. As if she were more real, and each blow hurt a bit more. She was…dying.

So was Ser Raim. He was dying too as her immortality burnt away with him. For a mortal could best even that which was immortal, if he had the strength, the will, and the chance. He could slay forever.

 

—–

 

They watched. The Order of Seasons in distant Terandria, from the Knight-Commander to the Grandmasters to Dame Talia, her fingers white on her sword. In Riverfarm, the people of the Unseen Empire watched, witnessing the battle of giants. From their isle, the [Mages] of Wistram covertly observed.

The coven of [Witches] watched. So did the fae. From their perches, they watched an old story unfold. All eyes were on Belavierr as she tried to flee, and her daughter watched her mother. Smelled smoke and burning. Heard her mother scream.

One person turned away. She ran as the shadows caught fire. Searching the ranks of the otherworldly host. Ryoka shouted, but her voice was lost by the roar of battle. And no matter how far she ran, she couldn’t approach the watchers. They were here, but not here.

And they looked down, eyes staring past her. On Belavierr, alight with flame, Ser Raim, the [Witch Hunters]. The fae watched with curiously grave expressions, without the glee or amusement Ryoka would have expected. They were bearing witness. Their chatter was audible to only one person desperate enough to hear it.

 

“Twill she die, I wonder? Look, he cuts her protections deeper with every blow.”

“Aye, but she has more lives to burn. He’s but a man.”

“He’ll take her life because he’s but one man.”

“Aye, aye.”

 

The maddening talk above her was all focused on Ser Raim. But Ryoka had to know—she shouted.

“Ivolethe!”

The young woman cried out, but her voice was too quiet. This was not her moment. And the watching fae paid her no notice. She ran towards one, begging. Pleading.

“Ivolethe! Is she here? Is she alive?”

Ryoka Griffin called out for her friend. At last, one of the fae looked down at her. A strange person with sharp teeth grinned. And her?—his?—eyes were suddenly gleeful.

 

“You again. You want to know?”

 

“Yes! Please!”

Every fiber in Ryoka wanted to turn. It was screaming at her that she had to see. For better or worse, see what became of Belavierr. But what kept her begging, searching for a hint of blue and ice, was friendship. Her lost friend. She pleaded with the fae, and it laughed.

 

“Tell me. Why should I tell you? Now, begone. We are trying to see.”

 

He flicked a finger. Ryoka could only stumble away. She kept pleading. But they didn’t listen. When Ryoka heard the last shriek, she had to turn.

Gaile was dead. The [Hunter] lay on the ground, crumpled and broken. The other [Hunters] cried out in fury, continuing to fight. But Belavierr’s voice rose above them, a sound no Human could have made.

She was on fire. They all were. The [Hunters] burned from their proximity to Ser Raim. And they screamed with it too. But they fought. Ryoka saw one drinking a potion as he reloaded. He shot both crossbows, and the silver bolts struck a cloth-Wyvern dropping out of the skies. The bolts blew holes in the Wyvern, exploding with fire. He whirled.

“She’s running! Sylind! Mark her!”

The [Hunter] with the bow and arrow turned. She aimed at Belavierr. The [Witch] was fleeing, striding away as Ser Raim pursued her. Again, each of Belavierr’s steps seemed to take her dozens of feet away. But the fire was still burning her. She looked—Ryoka’s breath caught.

Mortal. As if some of the unearthly nature had burnt away. Even her steps were unsteady as she fled. She turned, her hand flickering, and she raised a cloth shield.

“[Chain Lightning].”

The [Witch Hunter] with the wand aimed it. Ryoka saw a flash—the bolt was caught on the cloth shield—Ser Raim’s blade stopped as it struck the shield. Then it began to burn as his blade drew back. Belavierr struggled, stepping backwards. And the [Huntress] spoke.

“[The Eternal Hunt].”

The arrow flew. Belavierr dropped the burning shield, and dozens of threads as thick as cables tried to ensnare Ser Raim and the [Witch Hunter] with the hammer. The man with the hammer cursed as the threads tried to snare him, and he clutched an amulet, and for a second, he was intangible, walking through the thread. Ser Raim swung, cutting through. Belavierr whirled, and the black horse rode towards her, faster than any horse should move.

The arrow struck Belavierr in the shoulder as she pulled herself up onto the bare horse’s back. She turned, staring back at the [Hunter] with the bow. But the one with the crossbows loosed again, and Belavierr’s fingers twisted. The crossbow bolts snapped on her clothes, which were suddenly harder than stone. She rode, outdistancing her pursuers in a moment, with each second passing hundreds of feet. But the [Hunter] kept firing, aiming at her back even when she was a distant speck.

And then? Ryoka, her eyes wide, saw Belavierr’s head turn. Though the [Witch] was a speck, Ryoka felt the single emotion from her. Fear. Pure, mortal, fear.

She fled, and the others abandoned their pursuit. Ser Raim slowed, and the brilliant, white flames around him vanished. The other two [Hunters] slowed as well. The man with the hammer gasped, his face cut, his armor torn twice.

“Did it take? Did it take, Sylind?”

The half-Elf was checking her bow.

“It—did! The Skill worked! Raim must have burnt her bad enough—I know where she is! We have her!”

She whirled, and the others looked astonished—then the [Witch Hunter] with the wand snapped.

“It’s not a trick?”

“I swear it’s not. We can bring her down. Gaile—”

They turned and fell silent a moment. One of them, the one called Tagil, touched the brim of his hat.

“She bought Raim the time to hurt her. Truly hurt her. A Hunter to her last. Do we pursue now?”

The woman with the rapier stared at the place where Belavierr had disappeared in the distance. She cursed.

“We’re wounded, and Gaile’s fallen. If we lose her now—”

Sylind shook her head.

“I will never lose her again. I told you, she’s marked. We could call for reinforcements. Bring an army or continue pursuit—”

The one with the crossbows tapped Sylind in the chest.

“So long as you live. Right, your life is as precious as Raim’s, Sylind. If we need to, we’ll send you to—where can’t she find you? Samal?”

Sylind pushed the hand away.

“Forget about me, Coroise. Raim. How much of his life did he burn away?”

The others turned and saw the [Knight] kneeling now, flames extinguished, smoke rising from his armor, visibly exhausted after the battle.

The [Summer Knight] was bent as Ryoka approached with Prost, Rie, and the others. Prost called out, and the group turned. Ryoka saw the [Knight] turn to face them and froze.

His armor blazed with the colors of his season. Gold and red and orange. His sword still burned. But the man was different. He had been changed.

“Who are you people?”

Prost demanded. The [Witch Hunters] looked at him. The one with the scissor-blades bowed.

“I apologize, sir, for the danger we have placed you in. I am Foreign Hunter Tagil, leading the other Hunters of Noelictus. We are on a mission of utmost importance on the business of the Crown of Noelictus itself.”

Prost stared at the unfamiliar titles and address.

“The what? Noelictus?”

“Terandria. They’re very well respected. This is an international affair, Prost.”

Lady Rie murmured the words. Her eyes were wide. The [Hunters] besides Tagil barely paid attention to the onlookers. One went to Raim’s side. The [Knight] was bent over. Another ran for the orb on the ground. Ran, not walked. The half-Elf with the bow, Sylind, turned, scanning the distance. The one with the crossbows spoke tersely.

“We are hunting the Stitch Witch, Belavierr. A monster among monsters. If I were you, I’d either get to your homes or just run for the hills. We can’t promise you’ll be safe if she returns.”

“We know. That is—her coven—”

At this, the [Hunter] instantly raised her crossbows and stared at the other [Witches].

“Coven? She has a coven now?”

Tagil snapped.

“Bows down, Coroise. They must be new. Peace, [Witches]! We have no quarrel with you!”

Despite that, he put his hand on the scissor-blades at his side. The [Witches] halted; Mavika’s shoulders were tensed, and she looked exceptionally wary. Her face was filled with wrath, but Tagil glanced at Prost.

“Are you the [Headman] here?”

“No. [Steward] to Emperor Godart.”

Hunter Tagil blinked with genuine astonishment.

“Well, I’d ask you and that [Emperor] to clear the area, sir. We mean you no harm, and this woman might well destroy your homes if she’s left to ruin another place.”

Prost crossed his arms, less impressed with Hunter Tagil’s reputation than Rie.

“We may do that, sir, and I see a noble [Knight] with you. But if you go after Miss Ryoka or any folk here, we’ll be forced to fight, and we have an army.”

Hunter Tagil paused as the other Hunters of Noelictus glanced over at the threat.

“Who?”

Ryoka tensed, looking from face to face, but now she whispered.

“Prost, they’re not the same…”

“Miss Ryoka was attacked by a trio of your lot not a few days back. You don't know about that?”

Tagil half-tuned, and one of the [Hunters] with a hammer actually put up his weapon, swearing.

“Amateurs? Do you think one of the guilds outside of Menorome put Dedicated Hunters on the Stitch Witch?”

“If they did, there will be hell from us to pay. They attacked you?”

Their leader looked at Ryoka, and when she confirmed it, he stood there, then shook his head.

“That wasn’t us. It sounds like another group—we will have our guild look into this. Or it could be independent [Witch Hunters]. It’s not like we’re the only ones with the class. Maybe…”

Maybe someone else had hired them? Ryoka saw Tagil’s look of uncertainty, but before they could dive into the subject, Tagil’s head turned; his eyes flicked to the horizon. Ryoka felt it too. Then she saw movement. The half-Elf murmured.

“Tagil—”

“I see it. Whoever you are, all of you, get your people into that village. We’ll cover you. The Stitch Witch is hurt. But she’s desperate. And she knows we can find her.”

“Raim! I see movement! She’s sending more puppet-things! Lots of them.”

Sylind called out nervously. The [Knight] was moving towards them, supported by the man with the hammer. The [Summer Knight]’s voice was beyond weary.

“The Order. We have her. I can finish her. I cut away her immortality. But—”

“We see it.”

The scrying orb was speaking. Ryoka saw a huge conference table, staring faces. [Knights] gathered in the circular reflection. Ser Raim nodded. Then he pointed. Prost, Rie, Ryoka, all looked up.

“She can die. But she has sent her minions against us. We must track her down.”

Coroise called out.

“Protect Sylind. If she dies, Belavierr escapes.”

The half-Elf glanced sideways.

“Forget me. Watch the daughter. Both of us are keeping her here.”

Hunter Coroise glanced at Wiskeria, and Ryoka felt a shiver run down her spine. But the woman just lifted her crossbows and fired straight ahead at the distant forest. At first, Ryoka didn’t see what the woman aimed at. Then, as both crossbows reloaded and Coroise shot again, Ryoka saw them.

A legion of warriors made of cloth. Not one or a thousand, but tens of thousands. Taxidermy monsters, indistinguishable from their real counterparts. A patchwork giant, as misshapen as a Snow Golem, lurching forwards. And then—Ryoka’s heart stopped.

A Dragon, crawling towards them. But the scales were purple cloth. The creature was fake. But the threat was real. In the sky came howling faces. Half-real things that flickered and made Ryoka want to tear at her ears. The others paled, but the [Hunters] set themselves.

“Looks like bound wraiths. An entire army of cloth monsters. Brace.”

The crossbows shot. Ser Raim gasped for air. He turned, and Ryoka saw that he had burnt himself away. But the ember flickered.

Belavierr’s death coughed. Then he straightened.

“Knight-Commander. A word.”

 

—–

 

At the same time as Ser Raim spoke, a woman sat on a throne. Hers was made of wood, but hardly as humble as that of the [Emperor] of Riverfarm. Hers was enchanted wood, yet the paint still chipped in places, because centuries meant even magic began to fail, let alone millennia. But that was not the point.

The throne marked her. And she belonged to it. Her people, who stood in the throne room that was open to the elements on one side of the room leading to a huge balcony, respected the symbol of the throne more than the appearance.

They did not dress like courtiers of a typical kingdom, for their garb was thick, appropriate for the winter, even. But fitting because the open-air throne room was chilly, cold, even in the last days of spring. The altitude was freezing, and snow was not unknown even in the hottest days of summer. This was the court of Kaliv’s kingdom, and it was the nation of Kaliv whose people lived among the highest altitudes. And they were Humans, predominantly.

To the south lay the Eternal Land of Calanfer and Gaiil-Drome, one of the forest-kingdoms who lived in uneasy peace with half-Elf populations, and the north was occupied by the powerful nation of Ailendamus, whose breadth and span was thrice that of all three other nations.

But though all three had been tested, the alliance between Calanfer, Gaiil-Drome, and Kaliv had held back even Ailendamus and six other nations in the last war, Petril’s Folly, which had been twenty-eight years hence. Because Kaliv had settled the high plateaus and a mountain itself. Poor in arable land it might be, but like the Dwarves of Terandria, they had endured any foe who might assail them.

Because of the beasts that were Kaliv’s treasure, export, strength, and weakness. That demanded food, yet they made the nation famous. Griffins. And their counterparts on the ground, giant goats that could be ridden to battle, far unlike their insane cousins, the Eater Goats of the High Passes. Such was their history that their ruler was always known as the Griffin King of Kaliv. Or in this case, the Griffin Queen.

It was not to the Griffins she looked today, but to the latest arrival, who had been borne by Griffins, yes, but unusually, had been carried into the throne room. She stood, ignoring the protests, her protectors and her daughter who had barred the sudden arrivals with blades. The Griffin Queen, Novakya, shouted so her voice might be heard in the cavernous room.

“Let him through.”

He did not approach. But the four men and women bearing him did. The Griffin Queen saw with a start that it was him. She looked down upon her son as they bore him across the throne room. The man was young—in his late twenties.

He was, in his way, the most famous of the royal line of Kaliv. Firstborn of her line, yes, but also for another reason. He was Kaliv’s famous disgrace. An exile in all but name.

The Griffin Prince, Ostevien.

He had not returned to this throne room for years. Not since he had been banished. Now, they bore him in on a sheet of cloth, straight from Griffin-back. Novakya recognized it, the crimson cloth akin to the plainer stretchers that the [Griffin Riders] used to transport the wounded or supplies. But why had they used…? Then she realized the cloth was plain, but the blood had dyed it red.

“What has happened?”

She spoke to the man who accompanied the [Prince]. He stuttered, his eyes wide with panic.

“Queen, he collapsed not ten minutes ago. On patrol. He’s bleeding. We can’t stop it, even with potions. The—we’ve seen this once before. It’s—”

“Move aside! Lay him down—gently!”

The words were shouted by the [Royal Healer], who ran across the throne room. The men and women did, and the Griffin Prince was lowered to the floor. The blood began spreading. His mother looked down.

He was supposed to be banished, never to set foot in here again. But no one would challenge the Griffin Queen’s will. Even so, murmurs rose, and people backed away from the sight of the prince. They all knew why he was banished even if the tale was forbidden to be told to anyone, especially outsiders. But the sight of that blood…

What had gone wrong?

Ostevien was choking, bleeding from his clothing and onto the stone floor. The Griffin Prince could barely move, but he still looked up. And his face was deathly pale as he reached up. The Griffin Queen, Novakya, looked down and reached for her boy, a man grown. But the [Healer] stopped her.

“Potions don’t work?”

“They heal him, but the wounds—”

The [Griffin Rider] pointed, his face pale. Then Novakya saw it. All present drew back save her. The Griffin Queen saw her son bleeding from his limbs. From the stitches that held his arms to his shoulders, his torso, even his neck.

Yet he was Human, not Stitch-person. And Novakya knew. She looked up. The [Healer] had frozen. Then she grasped for her potions.

“The same as eight years ago.”

The Griffin Queen nodded silently as the [Healer] knelt. She said nothing. Her daughter spat as the open throne room echoed with the Griffins’ shrieks as they scented the blood.

“The Stitch Witch. She’s finally decided she has no use for him.”

“Why now? She has never broken an oath.”

Novakya’s daughter opened her mouth, and her mother snapped at her.

“Not once! For all the ill she wreaks, she does not forswear herself. She twists and manipulates, but she keeps her word. Why now?”

The Griffin Prince was choking, coughing on his blood. Spitting it up. Novakya could not look away. No one had an answer. But one revealed itself as the [Healer] desperately brought out her own needle and thread, trying to stem the bleeding from the separating limbs.

She cried out as the thread twisted as she tried to thread it through the needle. It fell to the floor, black, curling. The [Royal Guard] tried to stop their [Queen], but she pushed them aside. And she saw the thread writhing in the blood.

The thread moved, forming into a pattern on the floor. A crest of four parts, so distinctive that Novakya recognized them at once.

“The Order of Seasons.”

“They must have her. They’ve cornered the Spider at last, and she’s desperate. Mother—”

The Griffin Princess looked both triumphant and disgusted. She spared no emotion for her brother lying on the ground. But his mother—the Griffin Prince’s eyes opened. And he spoke in a pained voice as the [Healer] shakily tried to sew his limbs back in place.

“My Queen.”

She jerked. The [Prince] tried to raise his head. The [Healer] snapped at him.

“Don’t! Move and you could lose your head.”

He stopped. But his eyes rolled. The Griffin Queen stepped closer. And his eyes focused on her. He spoke hoarsely.

“My—mother. This is my punishment. For ever trusting her. Don’t give in to Belavierr. If she is using my life, she’s truly backed into a corner. She wants you to assail the Order to save me.”

Novakya’s daughter made a disgusted sound. She drew her sword, stepping into the blood.

“Of course she does. Brother. Say the word and I will end it now. Just as I promised you then! Let her not leave her claws in our kingdom.”

And there was silence. The Griffin Prince breathed laboriously. The [Healer] paused, and the court waited. And the Griffin Queen waited. Her hands were clenched as he inhaled and looked up, his grey-blue eyes wild. He closed his eyes after a second.

“I—can’t. I may yet live. And I wish to live. If Belavierr dies, I will be free. But, Mother. Leave me. Tell Wiskeria I am free at—”

His sister made a sound of disgust and turned. She hurled her sword across the throne room as she stalked away. Her mother just stood there. Thinking. But not thinking. Just watching his blood run across the throne room’s floor. And he looked at her pleadingly. They had not spoken in six years. And then, only for a moment. Not like this.

“My Queen. Mother. Let me die, if it is my time. I have brought you only grief. Do not let her ensnare you too.”

Her disgrace. The fool of a [Prince]. Her son. Novakya knew this was Belavierr’s game. She knew. And still, she reached for him, and again, the [Healer] stopped her.

“Your Majesty, he is falling apart. We are holding him together with potion and thread.”

The Griffin Queen stepped back. The [Healer] was calling for more potions, her assistants. And her son lay there, pleading silently. Not a man or woman in this room didn’t know his story. But none dared say a word, not even the Griffin Princess. They all waited. And Novakya closed her eyes.

How long and how wide was her web? The Stitch Witch, Belavierr. The Spider of Lives. Novakya raised her head. And, oh, how bitterly she admired the way the threads had ensnared her. But she would never choose otherwise. That was what Belavierr had known. Damn her.

Then the Griffin Queen turned. Her cloak swirled, and her breath appeared in the cold air. A storm was coming. She snapped at the nearest [Royal Guard].

“Send a [Message] to the Order of Seasons. By order of the Griffin Queen, I demand them cease their quest for Belavierr’s head.”

The man paused only a moment. The Griffin Queen walked past him. She shouted for her [General]. He was already ready, mounted on the Imperial Griffin. She pointed at him.

“Summon eight hundred Griffin Riders. We fly upon the Order of Seasons’ stronghold. Arm them for battle. Now.”

“Mother.”

The Griffin Prince called her back. His voice was desperate. Novakya stopped and peered at him. Her shoes were standing in his blood. She looked down at him, and her face was distant. Harsh.

“You are a disgrace to Kaliv. But you are also the Griffin Prince. You may not die yet.”

That was what she said. But that was not what he heard. The Griffin Prince sighed. His mother turned, and she called as the storm swept down across the mountains. She swung herself up into her personal Griffin’s saddle. She had known this day would come. And she had known the choice she would make. She looked ahead and swore that would not be the last sight she saw of him.

The Griffin Queen pointed.

“Fly.”

 

—–

 

He had seen great battles won. Fought against armies; even dueled Knights of the Thousand Lances and won. Yet, Knight-Commander Calirn had never seen a battle rage so hot so fast.

It had been a true ambush, and against this foe, he didn’t care if they’d caught her sleeping. The Stitch Witch had not been ready for Raim or to face foes who had prepared for her.

That was her arrogance; they’d beaten her once, and Calirn had used a grand ritual to give them the edge this time. So many things could have gone wrong, but still—!

“He wounded her. He actually wounded her.”

The Spring’s Warden sounded disbelieving, for all she had been told it had been done once before. Nothing had harmed Belavierr, none of the other [Hunters]’ artifacts or Skills. And each one was over Level 40.

But Raim? Raim had done it. The cost to his own body worried Calirn, though.

Knight-Commander Calirn stared into the orb. Ser Raim stood there. And he had already changed. He had given himself to the flame as the champions of his class had time and time again. Already—Calirn closed his eyes.

He was dying. Closer to death. But Calirn had also seen Belavierr flee. He had heard her scream. And now—

“She can die. Knight-Commander, she has fled. But we have marked her.”

“How certain are you that you can locate her again, Ser Raim?”

The [Summer Knight]’s voice rasped. Behind him, the five remaining [Witch Hunters] were setting up. Two were already loosing arrows and crossbow bolts. Knight-Commander Calirn knew time was of the essence. Ser Raim’s eyes flickered past him, staring at something Calirn couldn’t see.

“Completely. Sylind has [The Eternal Hunt]. She will never lose her quarry once marked. The Skill didn’t touch her last time; the fact that it worked means I have weakened her protections. Greatly! With each blow, I felt her mortality surfacing. I cannot explain how we strove; I saw a woman within a great web of horrors, but I was slowly cutting towards her. Burning her out of her cage.”

He coughed, and Calirn saw Raim’s eyes flicker. He wasn’t hurt badly; Belavierr had only hit him once, truly, but he looked—well, he had aged years. Maybe even decades.

“Knight-Commander, we can hold against the waves Belavierr has summoned. But we must pursue Belavierr. This village will be destroyed if we do not protect it. I request reinforcements to hold the ground while we advance.”

“There is a legion of cloth golems bearing down on them.”

The Spring’s Warden spoke quietly, her eyes staring past Ser Raim’s head. Calirn nodded. He saw one of the [Hunters] turn and snap.

“Raim. More are coming.”

The [Summer Knight] nodded. He looked back at the orb.

“Knight-Commander.”

“I will consider your request, Ser Raim. A moment.”

The Knight-Commander was a [Winter Knight]. He spoke the harsh words impartially. Emotion could not affect his judgment. He could see the Summer’s Champion, the opposite of his Season, look up, eyes flashing. But Ser Raim only nodded. He drew his sword and advanced past the orb, taking up a position with the [Hunters]. Calirn saw a huge shadow and one of the [Hunters], the one with the bow, Sylind, aiming up—

“Fall’s Sentinel. Do you believe that Skill will locate the Stitch Witch, despite her abilities?”

Calirn looked over at the Grandmaster of the Season of Fall. The Fall’s Sentinel glanced up. The war room held three of the Grandmasters and Calirn as well as two servants. By protocol, the Winter’s Watcher was elsewhere, should they all fall. The Fall’s Sentinel paused and nodded.

“[The Eternal Hunt]. With that Skill, [Hunters] of old could track even Dragons. Getting to them was more difficult, but no magic could protect them.”

“And she is wounded.”

The Fall’s Sentinel nodded, but the Summer’s Champion smashed a fist down on the table they were watching from. The image shook.

“Calirn! Would you leave Raim alone? He has the Witch of Webs wounded! Now is the time to call armies! Signal House Veltras! Send us all—”

Calirn stared at the Summer’s Champion until the furious man broke off. He was raging with fire, echoing Ser Raim’s amazing display. Calirn, though, refused to get riled up.

“Calm yourself, Ser Greysten. Until I saw and heard a lesser Skill working on her, it was my belief Ser Raim might well fail to do enough damage to the Witch of Webs. Now I see he has wounded her? Of course we shall send reinforcements.”

Ser Greysten looked relieved. Calirn rubbed at his beard.

“The only issue is who could reinforce them. We sacrificed any aid we might have from Noelictus or Ailendamus, or her many foes. If we had time—”

“Could we prevail on Ailendamus? They are not friendly towards us.”

The Spring’s Warden muttered. The Fall’s Sentinel raised his brows.

“For the Stitch Witch? Call for one of Ailendamus’ Great Generals! And every Veteran Hunter of Menorome!”

“We have no time. If she escapes—perhaps. But we are to work with what we have.”

Calirn regretted not giving Raim more credit. They should have had more than a brief overview of the terrain. The man should have a legion at his back! However…the longer they gave the Stitch Witch, the more the odds turned against them.

The recent [Messages] addressed to him—and Pheislant’s [King] were proof of that!

Calirn turned. The wide-eyed [Servants] were still panting, holding up scrolls blazing with urgency. Knight-Commander Calirn looked at them. Then at the Spring’s Warden. Her gaze met his. Calirn clenched his fist.

“Kaliv. And the shining kingdom of Taimaguros. I knew of the Griffin Prince. But what hold does the Stitch Witch have on Taimaguros’ [King]? Both have ordered us in no uncertain terms to release or halt our pursuit of the Stitch Witch.”

The Fall’s Sentinel shook his head.

“Anything. Perhaps she gave him life. Or maybe some charm? We should be lucky the Blighted King himself isn’t threatening war.”

Calirn nodded. He looked at the [Servants].

“Any updates?”

One had a scroll. She checked it, and the servant shook her head rapidly. She gulped, looking afraid.

“No, Knight-Commander. Both nations continue to demand the Order abandon its pursuit of Belavierr at once, Knight-Commander. And both…both have roused a large force.”

“How many?”

“Eight hundred Griffins from Kaliv, sir. Thirteen thousand by horse from Taimaguros. Both have set out at once. Towards the Order.”

The Summer’s Champion uttered an oath.

“Eight hundred [Griffin Riders]? Does Kaliv mean war?”

Calirn shook his head. He calmly assessed the numbers. But even his heart was beating faster.

“They would have sent three times that number and a ground force if they intended war. Even so, the Griffin Queen means to assail our order directly. If we do battle, it will be war.”

“For her son.”

“Yes.”

The Grandmasters paused. Calirn studied a map.

“Fall’s Sentinel. Your appraisal? How fast will Kaliv reach us?”

“Three day’s flight from Kaliv’s borders. Or—if the Griffin Queen herself leads, a day’s flight. But she will not reach the order until tomorrow at dawn at the earliest, even if she uses speed-boosting Skills and calls wind-magic to her aid. Taimaguros will be six days even with the best Skills.”

Calirn nodded absently.

“Then we have no time to raise an army, even if one could be sent. Not from Terandria, nor Izril. It truly was the best measure to send so few. Yet Raim is in need.”

Then he glanced over. The Summer’s Champion’s aura was driving the temperature of the room up. The man met Calirn’s gaze.

“It just proves Ser Raim is right. She is desperate, Knight-Commander. Belavierr throws everything she can against the hunters. Ser Raim has cut the thread of her immortality. Give me leave to assemble five lances. I will lead them myself. We can end this.”

The Knight-Commander shook his head.

“You are compromised, Summer’s Champion. As am I. She would turn you against your own comrades.”

The Summer’s Champion looked bitter.

“Not I, then. But the Spring’s Warden or the Winter’s Watcher, then. And every [Knight] over Level 30 we can spare—!”

The Spring’s Warden raised her hand.

“Greysten, Calirn. You have met the woman. Speak to me honestly: can Ser Raim and his party even survive her onslaught? Within moments of being attacked, she summoned enough puppets to overwhelm a hundred [Knights]. I know the Stitch Witch’s legends. What might she bear against Raim before he can reach her?”

That was Calirn’s fear as well. Even if she had been bested once and Raim had weakened her…he stared at the orb. The Griffin Queen promised war. As did Taimaguros’ [King]. But Belavierr—he weighed the costs, the odds of her death. Then, Calirn nodded.

“Prepare the grand ritual a second time! Summon the Order of Spring and Order of Summer! Move!”

The Grandmasters raced from the room. The Fall’s Sentinel was protesting, but he sprinted with Calirn to one of the oldest parts of the Order of Seasons’ stronghold. So old, in fact, it predated the Order of Seasons.

It was a relic of the half-Elven empire that had once called this area home. The room was a giant spell circle, designed for several ritual spells that even Wistram would have trouble emulating. And perhaps more that were yet unknown. One—the ability to walk across a world in moments—was one of the Order of Seasons’ trump cards. And yet—

“Knight-Commander! The cost is too high! We have exhausted over half of my Season performing the ritual once! We cannot do it again so easily!”

The Fall’s Sentinel snapped as Calirn burst into the grand ritual chamber. Calirn saw he was right. The last ritual’s components were still assembled on the floor.

Raw magicore, mana potions—even artifacts and enchanted weapons, scrolls, wands—all lay on the design on the floor. And the magicore was already turning to simple stone. The scrolls were just parchment.

All were spent. The [Autumn Knights] who had fueled the magic were drained, unsteady. Many were drinking mana potions, but they rose as Calirn strode into the room. Racing [Knights] poured into the room, but the Fall’s Sentinel’s voice snapped above them all.

“Gather all the magical items below relic status! Prioritize components and replaceable items first! Knight-Commander—”

“I hear you, Fall’s Sentinel. But the cost I am willing to pay. Even if we must sacrifice a lesser relic.”

The Fall’s Sentinel inhaled sharply, but then he shook his head.

“The cost would be too high. Our order is exhausted, and it is from them that much of the mana is produced. Moreover, you know we cannot move an army, Knight-Commander! The [Witch Hunters] and their gear were bad enough, as was Ser Raim!”

He gestured to the spell circle.

“Moving that much magic across the world took every bit of magic the Season of Autumn could muster, Knight-Commander! It is not a matter of weight—in the confines of this ritual, magic is the true weight! If we had another type of spell—no army. No magical armor! And the Stitch Witch will rip apart any [Knight] not bearing enchanted gear!”

Calirn paused.

“How many with simple steel armor and unenchanted weapons?”

“Calirn—”

The Knight-Commander glared at his old comrade.

“How many, Grandmaster?”

The Fall’s Sentinel hesitated.

“…Thirty-two, Knight-Commander. No one with a powerful aura or whose body is affected by their Skills. No Autumn Knights. That is the only margin we can account for. Any more or anyone with more magic and we will run out of mana. They will fall short of Riverfarm.”

“What of a few individuals who…?”

“No. I could calculate it out, but not on the fly.”

The Fall’s Sentinel folded his arms. Calirn looked back. A [Servant] had the scrying orb. Battle was already being joined. He made another decision and turned. The Seasons of Spring and Summer had flooded the room. They stood to attention, young and old, eyes locked on the combat across the world reflected in the scrying orb. Calirn called out.

“Summer’s Champion. Choose sixteen of your best who fit those parameters! Spring’s Warden—I seek sixteen of your most talented. Let only those who are ready for death volunteer.”

He paused and made a further calculation.

“…Half. Half of each, so eight of Summer and eight of Spring. Each one over Level 30. They will reinforce Ser Raim and hold the ground before bringing the fight to Belavierr. They are to take steel and silver only.”

The Fall’s Sentinel closed his eyes. Sixteen veterans and sixteen young? That many [Knights] would be overkill against a nest of Hydras. For the Stitch Witch—armed with steel alone?

Was this glorious or damned? Only the Knight-Commander could decide, and decide he had.

The Summer’s Champion and the Spring’s Warden only hesitated a moment. Then they began calling names. Calirn turned. Cold decisions. He looked at one of his brethren, a [Winter Knight].

“Send word to the Winter’s Watcher. Lock down the Order. Prepare for combat against aerial foes. Make ready to seal all the entrances for a siege.”

“You mean to defy Kaliv, Knight-Commander?”

“Until war is inevitable, yes. The scrying orb.”

Calirn beckoned. The Fall’s Sentinel turned, and artifacts and magical items flooded the room as thirty-two of the Order of Seasons lined up. Dame Talia stood proudly among her sisters and brothers, tossing her magical gear aside and being armed with plain steel and silver.

Calirn paused. But she was a [Summer Knight], noble blood or not. He spoke into the scrying orb. The [Hunters] were already battling. One had deployed an artifact that was throwing up walls of stone; another was throwing chained lightning from her wand.

“Ser Raim!”

The man turned. Calirn shouted towards him.

“Ser Raim. Reinforcements are on the way! You must claim the Stitch Witch’s head as quickly as you can. You have three days! The Order is about to be assailed by Kaliv. The Stitch Witch has forced their hand!”

The [Knight] stumbled towards Calirn. He was burning, but not from his life-consuming Skills. Calirn repeated the order. Ser Raim’s face was pale. He paused, panting.

“Reinforcements? We accept. We will pursue—the Stitch Witch—I am pledged to—”

He wavered. His face was deathly pale. Calirn’s eyes widened as he saw a huge clothed foot smash one of the stone walls.

“Ser Raim! Behind you! Ser Raim!”

The [Summer Knight] whirled. He saw the cloth giant and raised his greatsword. Then—suddenly—he paused. Calirn bellowed his name, but it was no use. Ser Raim fell without a sound, the greatsword slipping from his hands. The cloth giant turned as a thrown hammer struck it, and the impact sent it reeling back. But it advanced. Ser Raim had fallen. Calirn whirled.

“Fall’s Sentinel! Send them now!”

But the ritual needed time. Calirn turned back. Ser Raim was lying on the ground. Spent. He had used his Skill—he needed rest! He had to finish it! But the cloth giant was bending down, ignoring the spells and arrows blasting holes in its face. It bent—as Calirn watched helplessly, freezing the ground around him—

And a grey hand grabbed Ser Raim. At first, Calirn thought it was a monster. But the giant of a girl was holding a shield and crude leather armor. No—her shield was just a converted wooden door. But she pulled the [Knight] back behind her. She grabbed the greatsword in one hand and lifted her shield—a door of wood—in the other. The cloth giant brought its hand down like a hammer.

The half-Troll girl blocked it. The impact drove her down, with a cry, but her knees held. She forced the arm up and swung. The enchanted greatsword cleaved into the cloth golem, set it alight. The [Hunters] finally severed its head at range, and the girl held her ground. She roared and swung her greatsword, catching a bounding Ghoul and bisecting it. Calirn stared.

“Who is that?”

 

—–

 

Durene stood over Ser Raim. The line of [Hunters] had broken with the cloth giant. They reformed it, shouting, as she swung the greatsword one-handed. She blocked a pair of cloth-warriors circling her right with her shield. The sword was light. It sheared through everything with a single cut.

She swung. The flaming greatsword burned in her hands, but the fire did not hurt her. Nor had Ser Raim’s flames. And her eyes held a trace of that same fire. The [Paladin] bellowed, holding the line, while the [Hunters] raced past her.

“Guard Raim! Set up a perimeter! [Hail of Bolts]!”

Hunter Coroise yelled at her comrades as she raised her crossbows. The self-loading magical crossbows raised as he aimed at the purple cloth-dragon charging at them.

Thunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunk—the crossbows reloaded and shot, the mechanism blurring too fast for Durene to see. The bolts streaked across the ground, exploding and blowing parts of the gigantic dragon to bits. It collapsed before it got within range, but more cloth-warriors were advancing.

There were so many! And they were armed—Durene cried out as one slashed across her side. The blade was ancient steel, but it cut through her armor. Her skin was tougher, and the blade only slashed lightly. Durene twisted, and a hammer crushed the cloth head, smashing the entire creation into the ground. The man with the hammer raised it.

“[Circle of Protection]. Fortress wall strength.”

Durene saw a racing line of bright green—and felt a reassuring presence. The first rank of Belavierr’s creations charging at them ran into a wall and began hammering at it. Undeterred, the man with the hammer swung into them, and Durene did the same.

“It won’t last! Stone walls, there and there!”

Another [Hunter] was raising stone walls with a wand, funneling the enemies. The one with the bow was shooting down flying targets. But there were so many!

“[Quake Blow]!”

The man with the hammer swung and knocked a score of enemies flying. Then he looked up and swore.

“Ghosts! Incoming!”

Durene glanced up. She saw a laughing face, twisted with insanity, a flicker in the unnaturally dark sky—and then something went through her. It passed through her shield, her armor—she cried out as her insides froze. Then she heard an explosion.

The [Archer] with the bow had shot at the spirit. Durene heard a scream as it retreated, but more were flying out of the sky.

“What are they?”

“Spirits. Those are spirits. Not even like the ghosts we’ve seen. Mundane weapons won’t even work on them unless they’re made of silver or a purifying substance like Truegold. Back up!”

The [Hunters] retreated. They began aiming up as Durene swung at the airborne apparitions with her greatsword. They avoided that, but they went through her shield. Durene abandoned it to pick up Ser Raim. She ran back towards Riverfarm, the [Witch Hunters] covering her.

“How many creations does she have?”

“Keep fighting!”

The [Hunter] with the crossbows snapped. She drew a potion, threw it. The explosion of light drove half the specters away. But more were coming. And beyond them—

“Another giant. Dead gods.”

Hunter Sylind lowered her bow. The [Witch Hunters] exchanged a glance. The hammer-wielder bared his teeth.

“No retreat. We’re too close. That village is at our backs! Hold! Hold, damn you all!”

“She’ll come after us when we’re exhausted, Faigen! Raim’s out, and Gaile’s dead. We need to pull back! So long as Sylind lives—”

The [Mage Hunter] snapped as she pointed her wand and shot lightning into the sky. Durene, panting, looked up. Riverfarm was filled with screams. Prost had mobilized Beniar and the [Riders] to hold the entrance to the village. But where was that galloping coming from?

She turned. And then the first [Summer Knight] raced past her. Dame Talia lowered her visor and pointed her sword ahead.

“For the Order of Seasons! House Kallinad and the summer! Charge!”

More riders thundered after her. Knights dressed in the bright of spring, the radiance of summer. They filled the gaps, hacking down the cloth golems as four of the [Summer Knights] charged the cloth giant. Durene caught her breath. She gazed at the unconscious [Knight] on her shoulder. The [Hunters] turned to her.

“Miss! Into the village! Do you have anywhere we can use? We can set up a warding spot until Raim wakes up!”

One of the [Hunters] snapped at her. Durene blinked.

“I—yes! This way!”

She led them at a run towards the newest houses. Behind them, the Order of Seasons was holding Belavierr’s army back. The physical ones, at least. Durene glanced up as someone screamed. More spirits were flying lower. And they looked like faces, caught in some madness of grief or rage or insanity—

“Down!”

The [Archer] raised her bow. But the spirits were flying lower, assailing the fleeing Riverfarm people in the street. They dove as the [Hunter] cursed, trying to place her shot. They flew past an old woman with a pointed hat, chasing a child. The [Witch] raised her hand and slapped the spirit.

“[Deft Hand].”

The spirit had no body. But something smacked it into the air. The [Archer] loosed, and the arrow exploded with light. The spirit vanished with a scream. And the [Witch Hunters] looked down.

Eloise straightened her hat as one of the [Summer Knights] thundered back into Riverfarm. Dame Talia’s eyes were blazing. She spotted Eloise, then did a double-take.

“Another [Witch]?”

“She’s not a target! Hold!”

The [Witch Hunter] with the crossbows halted Talia before she could lower her lance. He turned. But warily. The man studied Eloise. The grandmotherly [Witch] wasn’t smiling as she regarded the battle outside Riverfarm. Or Ser Raim.

“Lady Eloise du Havin. Where is the Stitch Witch?”

Tagil addressed the [Witch] politely. Eloise watched him.

“Gone, young man. And I am [Witch] Eloise. I haven’t used that other name in years.”

The [Hunters] tensed. The man with the crossbows paused.

“I see. Does your coven intend to stand with the Stitch Witch, then?”

Eloise paused. She glanced around, meeting Durene’s eyes a moment. Then she shook her head.

“My coven will decide whether they stand with her or not. I have already given my answer, but the others have not. Now, let us protect this village. Put the [Knight] in a safe place. He’ll wake soon. He’s just tired. If he means to end Belavierr, he had better do it soon. She will try to kill the [Hunter] who marked her by any means necessary.”

“And if they choose to fight? This coven of yours? What then?”

Talia snapped, still blazing with battle-fever. Eloise glanced up at her. And then she looked at Ser Raim.

“If they do, you had better bring ten times as many of your sisters, Miss Knight.”

Her eyes glinted under her hat. Dame Talia almost lowered her lance until she realized how small the [Witch] was, and how elderly. Nonetheless—

[Knights]. It was a small force, but sixteen of them were veterans, and it showed; one was pointing a finger.

“[Aura Fireball]. Dame Erreid?”

“Younger [Knights], to me! We will hold them before the village. [The Hurricane Begins].”

Another [Knight] pointed, and Ryoka’s head whipped around as the wind began blowing against the army of puppets coming their way. But most of the [Knights] not setting themselves for battle were just around Raim, guarding him with shields raised.

“There’s a curse coming. I have it. [Shield of Valor]—”

One of the [Knight] pivoted, as if trying to block something headed towards Ser Raim with his shield. He had an amulet around his neck made of gold and jade, like an egg held in delicate chains of Truegold.

Something rippled through the air. The [Summer Knight]’s amulet turned black—melted—and a hole opened in the ground. Faster than anyone could react, a hand, black and clawed, reached up—grabbed the [Knight]—and pulled him down.

He screamed once. The other [Knights] recoiled, and Talia went pale.

“Ser Johnsten? He—he was over Level 35!”

“He’s dead. Those curse spells will chew through any artifact you have. Sylind, we need the Hunter’s Haven up now.”

Tagil snapped, and the [Hunters] abandoned their fighting. Talia was staring.

“Ser Johnsten?”

One of the senior Summer Knights elbowed her aside, eyes intent on Tagil.

“Hunter Tagil, I am Ser Turric, and I place the lives of my company under your command and Ser Raim’s. What are your orders?”

“If another curse comes—block it. We have a safe spot, and it’s likely the Stitch Witch is only coming after Raim and Sylind. Sylind’s your second priority. She can track the Witch of Webs—ensure neither one is harmed.”

Tagil snapped, and Turric nodded. Sylind broke in.

“And the daughter. Where is she?”

At this, the [Hunters] and [Knights] turned, and Coroise, the [Witch Hunter] with the crossbows, looked around and snapped.

“You! Halt!”

Her crossbows rose, and Wiskeria, striding towards the forest, glanced around. Tagil swore, and Coroise fired her crossbow.

A bolt sprouted from the ground in front of Wiskeria. The [Witch] hesitated—took another step—

“Take her legs out.”

Sylind had drawn an arrow. Tagil snapped as he yanked her bow down.

“Are you insane? That’s our one hold over the Witch of Webs—”

“So don’t let her get away. There’s no time to be nice!”

Coroise nodded. The [Knights] hesitated, but when they glanced at where one of their number had been, Ser Turric went thundering at Wiskeria. Coroise aimed her crossbows, and Wiskeria tensed. She dove—

A string snapped on one of Coroise’s crossbows, but the [Hunter] fired the other one instantly. Wiskeria flinched.

Califor caught the bolt bare-handed. She blocked Wiskeria off, saw Turric riding down on her, and whistled.

Instantly, Turric’s warhorse whirled about and galloped the other way. The cursing [Knight] tried to order his steed about—then leapt from the saddle.

“Don’t move!”

Sylind and Coroise both trained their weapons on Califor now, and the other [Witch Hunters] whirled. Tagil drew his scissor-sword.

“Witch. I don’t know what hold Belavierr has on you—”

“None, thank you. But she is part of my coven. And you are threatening one of my fellow witches. Lower your weapons.”

The [Knights] and [Hunters] saw the coven—at least, Hedag, Eloise, and Mavika—behind Wiskeria. Alevica and Nanette were with Riverfarm’s people.

Four [Witches] didn’t intimidate the [Knights]. Nor the [Hunters]. Sylind shouted.

“By the Hunter’s Guild of Noelictus, we are after an enemy of nations! Don’t force us to kill you. This is not a hunt where we’ll take chances.”

Califor’s reply was level, like steel.

“Then I suggest you lower your bow, Miss Hunter. Leave Witch Wiskeria out of this.”

“She’s one of our only ties to Witch Belavierr.”

Tagil muttered. Talia nodded and hand-signaled the [Knights] from her order. Califor exhaled.

“I know exactly who Belavierr is. Her fate is one thing. You are endangering this village, [Knights] of the Order of Seasons, Hunters of Noelictus. If you are true to your class, do not put innocent blood on the line.”

That drew them up short. Ser Turric hesitated, and Tagil swore.

“Who is that [Witch]? Coroise, easy, easy—”

Another [Hunter] muttered.

“One of them is the Witch of Flocks. Mavika. Watch out—if they take her side—”

One of the [Knights] called out towards the coven.

“We won’t harm the daughter. Give her to us, Witch, by order of Pheislant. This matter concerns a true monster.”

Califor’s voice snapped.

“Then leave her daughter out of it. I will not warn you twice.”

The standoff between the [Knights] and [Hunters], with the forest erupting with Belavierr’s minions, was ludicrous. A waste of time. The [Hunters] glanced at each other. They had no time for this.

So Sylind and Coroise fired, and a third [Hunter] waved her wand.

“[Ray of Paralysis]—”

The [Knights] charged on foot since their mounts wouldn’t listen. Califor grabbed Wiskeria, tossed her to Hedag, and the other [Witch] shielded Wiskeria in her arms.

It was fast. A crossbow bolt, an arrow, and a ray of magic went straight for Califor’s chest. All three failed to touch her.

Three crows flew, and three crows fell. Two dead; one paralyzed. Mavika screeched, and Ser Turric, running at Wiskeria, looked up—

A clawed foot smashed into his chest. He drove a sword into the claw but froze as the giant beak of a primordial bird snatched up another [Knight] and held the squirming figure. Mavika, transformed, did not bite—but two red eyes stared at the other [Knights].

One of the [Hunters], the one with the hammer, had run at Wiskeria. Califor had intercepted him mid-stride.

“[Sin of Wrath]. Strength!”

His charge could knock over a giant. Califor grabbed one arm as he went to knock her aside—and tossed him.

It looked as though he were lighter than air as he went over a rooftop. Sylind nocked another arrow, then cursed; her hat was over her face!

Eloise had her own hat over her eyes. A spell glanced off Sylind’s armor; blind, she dodged two of Alevica’s shots as the Witch Runner sprayed magic—the [Knights] blocked it with their shields.

Califor pivoted as a [Spring Knight] charged her. She raised her staff, struck the man’s shield—and all of Riverfarm heard a sound like a gong.

The reverberation was deep and old—and the [Knight] was pressed down by the blow, buried up to his waist in the earth. The trees wavered in the distance, and Tagil stopped as Califor pointed her staff at him.

“Hunters. Knights. We are not your enemies. Do not force this battle. Touch Witch Wiskeria and I swear I will wake the river. You cannot best this coven and the Witch of Webs. We will not get in the way of your vengeance. But I swear this: harm this village or the other [Witches] and I will be your enemy. I am Witch Califor, if that name means anything to you. Do not make a mistake.”

A silence fell as Tagil halted, and the struggling [Knights] or ones eying the massive bird-Mavika halted. They looked around for orders, and Tagil glanced at Wiskeria—then lifted his hands.

“Back up.”

“Ser Tagil—”

Ser Turric protested as if he weren’t currently being crushed by a giant bird. Tagil snapped.

“Sylind’s got the mark. Do you want to fight multiple [Witches] over Level 40? Back up. We don’t have the time for this.”

Slowly, the [Hunters] lowered their weapons, and Mavika spat out the [Knight], who landed with a loud clatter. The huge bird turned and appeared as a limping [Witch], scowling, who had blood on one foot.

Califor nodded to Mavika, breathing hard, but motioning to Wiskeria. She addressed the [Knights].

“I mean what I say. Riverfarm is innocent of this quarrel.”

Dame Talia was furious; her horse had refused to move for her throughout the entire fight, but red-faced, she pointed at Witch Califor.

“If you aid Witch Belavierr, know you will be marked by every kingdom of Terandria, Witch!”

Califor barely glanced at her.

“Save your energy for the Witch of Webs, Dame Knight. She is going to unleash everything upon you. I will give her the same terms as I gave you. Keep Riverfarm out of this.”

She whirled, and the coven backed away as the [Hunters] looked at each other. Tagil strode back to Ser Raim.

“Get the Hunter’s Haven up. We’re lucky she didn’t curse us all to death. What’s—”

He looked up, and Sylind spun and began shooting arrows.

“Belavierr’s shooting comets at us! Black comets!”

The fighting resumed as the [Knights] dragged Ser Raim away. Durene was trying to cover their retreat. And throughout all of this—

Ryoka Griffin ran after the fae.

 

——

 

She couldn’t catch them. Not the fae. No matter how hard she ran. They didn’t even seem to move. But they were distant. With each step, she was further from them. The wind wouldn’t carry her. She couldn’t run like the wind. So she called out to them.

“Wait. Please?”

They laughed at her. But their eyes didn’t linger on the mortal girl. They turned. Following another gathering.

The coven, minus Nanette, found Belavierr sitting under a lonely tree. Wiskeria picked up her hat and stared at Ryoka. Somehow, the City Runner was there first. Despite the cloth warriors that marched on Riverfarm, attacking everything they saw. The [Witches] had been forced to fight past them, all but Wiskeria.

When they saw Ryoka, even Califor looked taken aback that the Wind Runner was here. But Wiskeria had only a glance for her. All of her attention was fixed on the huddled shape at the base of the tree.

Belavierr. Smoke still rose from the [Witch]’s clothes. And her dress was still ragged, torn from battle. She was sitting. And she breathed. The air rasped through her lungs. Wiskeria uttered a word.

“Mother—”

Califor stopped her. The senior [Witch] stared at what Belavierr held, and she shook her head.

“No closer. She has a jar of spirits. She’s unleashing them. Witch Belavierr, a word? Now.”

Now, Wiskeria saw the flickering around Belavierr. Faces. Shadows despite the day. She heard faint voices. Some called her name.

“A what? Spirits? That’s old magic. They don’t exist anymore.”

Alevica shivered and tried to grin. But the flickering, half-real shapes flew towards her, and she raised her wand. The things avoided her spell. No—the ray of burning fire passed through them. And they flew at the coven.

Dragging. Calling Wiskeria’s name. They pulled at her, freezing her body, trying to force the dagger out of its sheath. They circled Alevica as she swung at them, taunting, laughing at her magic. Mavika they avoided. Hedag they swarmed around, screaming her sins. Califor raised her wand, and the light blossomed—

Light. It was the first of spells. But the [Witch] shaped it. She conjured a sword out of it and swung. And the ghosts fled, screaming. Califor raised her wand. And the light shone bright.

Belavierr looked up. The ghosts abandoned her, Ryoka, and the coven. The Stitch Witch pointed, and they fled past them. Towards Riverfarm. Gasping, her insides cold, Wiskeria took her hand off her belt. She saw Alevica jerk. The [Witch] had been aiming her shortsword at her own neck. Hedag breathed slowly, loosening her grip on her axe.

Even Mavika seemed disturbed. Califor put one hand out. She spoke as if Nanette were here, but seemed to be confirming something herself. Shaken, but her voice was still steady.

“In ages past, [Witches] consorted with such things. Now, they are far fewer. So few that even bound ghosts are rare. The afterlife is empty. Thus [Witches], [Shamans], [Summoners], and all of our kind suffer for it. I should have known you of all women could summon some, Witch Belavierr.”

For the first time, Belavierr seemed to remember Califor. Her voice was a rasped wheeze.

“They…are old. Not true ghosts. The deadlands empty. You. Have you come to aid me? Fellow [Witch]. Daughter?”

Her eyes lingered on Wiskeria’s throat. The [Witch] still felt the cold axe digging into her flesh. She raised her hand to the healed wound. But it had been magical. So a scar remained. The potion hadn’t healed it.

“Mother. Who are those [Hunters]? Who is that [Knight]? Why are they hunting you?”

She knew. She didn’t know the exact details, but she knew. And she waited for her mother to give her a non-answer. For that vacant expression. That timeless expression that Wiskeria loved and hated. But Belavierr’s eyes were steady. Present.

“Enemies, Daughter. I had many when my plans fell to ash. These are more, seeking to finish their task. You must flee. I do battle here.”

She raised her hand, and Wiskeria felt her calling more magic. It ran through the ground, pulled at the shadows. Magic far beyond her, so much of it that Wiskeria felt sick. She had never seen Belavierr using this many spells.

The ground near Belavierr’s feet began to move. Alevica eyed it and stepped back. Califor did not. She ignored the hand that rose as it unearthed itself, clawing its way out of the soil. She stomped on the rising Draugr’s hand. Her voice was sharp and direct.

“To my knowledge, the [Hunters] and [Knights] pursue you for the crimes you have committed, Witch Belavierr. Do you deny why they seek vengeance?”

“I am hunted. It happens time and again. I do not remember why. The burning man I recognize. He was at…at…the village. Where is the [Singer]? I will kill her and rip her throat out too.”

Belavierr hissed. Califor ground her foot down as the earth tried to rise up.

“Witch Belavierr, you are endangering Riverfarm. Take your battle elsewhere.”

Belavierr ignored her. Wiskeria was just staring at the huddled [Witch]. She reached out, hesitantly, and there was a hiss. Eloise grabbed Wiskeria’s fingers.

“Burnt. Almost down to the bone. She’s still burning like an ember.”

Wiskeria grabbed her hand, face pale, as Alevica fumbled for a potion. Califor kept speaking.

“Witch Belavierr, do you hear me?”

Belavierr had gone back to summoning. More gigantic figures broke the earth. Ryoka stared at vast undead, super-zombies, but Wiskeria had no attention for the undead, spells, or anything else. Just her mother.

“She’s—she’s actually hurt. They can’t kill her, can they? Nothing can kill her.”

It was the most ludicrous thing to say. And yet—Wiskeria didn’t seem to believe Belavierr was hurt. Mavika’s eyes swung to her.

“Any witch can bleed or die.”

“Not her. Not—Mother? It’s just a death, isn’t it?”

The Stitch Witch blinked. More corpses dug themselves out of the earth. Belavierr had a needle in hand, and she was stitching them together. Now she paused and looked back at Wiskeria.

“Daughter. This death burns through my tapestry of self. The mice nibbled too greatly…it will be death or I, as ever. As always. I am not without…means.”

She tried to rise, fell backwards, and then seemed to remember Califor again.

“You, Witch. You are of passing skill. And you…”

She looked at Mavika.

“Aid me and I will grant a great boon. Witch to witch.”

Mavika hesitated, but Califor leaned forwards.

“You did not hear me, Witch Belavierr. I said: this is not our quarrel. I will not judge your deeds in Noelictus since I was not there. Tell me honestly and swear it on your hat: do these men and women have no cause to hunt you?”

“All have a cause that is just to them. Always. Even the lowliest rat.”

Belavierr sneered, sounding annoyed for all her voice rasped in pain. Califor shook her head.

“Then I will not aid you. I warn you a third time: endanger Riverfarm and we will be at odds.”

Belavierr stared blankly at her daughter until the words seemed to permeate through to her. Then she looked up with an expression of actual anger and incredulity on her face.

“You? You are threatening me?”

Hedag leaned on her axe.

“Not just her. Keep your creations away from the villagers, Belavierr. Or I will be forced to fight against you. I am Hedag, and they are under my protection.”

The Witch of Webs didn’t even look at Hedag as she locked eyes with Califor.

“Begone, witch of one name. I have met a thousand Hedags. I have butchered Hedag for getting in my way.”

“Then you know I mean it.”

Hedag’s voice was soft. Califor inclined her head.

“Do not endanger them, Belavierr. I say this for your daughter’s safety as well as your designs.”

The two [Witches] stared at each other. Hedag raised her axe slowly, resting it on her shoulder. In the end, Belavierr’s roaming gaze jerked away from Califor.

“Daughter. Daughter…I remember pain. I am closer now. With each layer unraveled, I miss you more. Strange.”

Belavierr turned back to Wiskeria, and the younger [Witch] looked at her, lost for words. Then stammered.

“You—you came back for me.”

“Yes. Your life was in danger.”

It was a simple equation to her. But it filled Wiskeria’s eyes with tears. And Belavierr saw. She reached out and paused. Staring. Then a finger reached out and did not touch Wiskeria’s cheek for fear of burning it, but captured one of the tears. Belavierr inspected the puff of steam and Wiskeria’s face. And then she glanced around.

Mavika. Ryoka. Wiskeria. The fae and the rising dead. Belavierr lingered on Ryoka for a moment, and then turned back to Wiskeria. She hesitated for a second. And she seemed so tired.

“My daughter. There is little time. I must do battle. I am hunted. But I ask one question of you. Would you see me dead? Do you wish it?”

The question hurt Wiskeria. She clutched her hat, her tears running down her face.

“No, Mother. I don’t. I don’t—!”

Despite it all, not like this. Let it not happen this way. Wiskeria shook. And then she saw Belavierr straighten. She smiled, and the great hat rose. The Stitch Witch looked past her daughter, towards her death. And she relaxed.

“That is well. Then go, my daughter. I will escape this death as I have others. Go.”

“I can’t leave you—”

But the black horse was already riding towards Wiskeria. She felt her clothes tugging her towards it. Belavierr gestured, and Wiskeria flew. As gently as if she were a child, settling onto the horse’s back. She clutched at her hat, shouting.

“Mother! Let me stay!”

Yet she was already being carried away. Wiskeria wept as the tall figure disappeared. And then she rode past giants. Creations of old cloth. And she realized she hadn’t known her mother well. If Wiskeria had her craft—she wept.

And then Belavierr turned. To the young woman who had seen it all.

“Ryoka Griffin. Tell me of my daughter’s heart. Does she…know of my love for her now?”

“I think so.”

Ryoka peered into those ringed eyes. And she saw a mortal woman there. Just a flicker. Belavierr nodded. And Mavika stepped forwards. Her flock of crows and the single raven flew high overhead. The [Witch] regarded Belavierr. And the Stitch Witch looked at Mavika, questioning. The Crow Witch spoke.

“You are being burnt away. That [Knight] has the means to burn your magic itself. All your protections and wards are useless before his fire. He will turn himself and you to ash. And they have marked you.”

“Yes.”

Belavierr sighed. Mavika paused.

“If you ask it, my flock and I will give you half a day to flee.”

All eyes swung towards Mavika, and Califor opened her mouth as if to object, but then closed it. The coven waited as the Stitch Witch wavered. She was tempted. But her eyes swung back to Ryoka. And they flickered.

“ If I do flee, they will come after my daughter. Mavika, is that so?”

The Crow Witch paused.

“She is of our coven. She was of my coven. We would protect her. But she may be a hostage or be forced to flee herself. This [Emperor] is not here, and this order of [Knights] is powerful.”

“I see.”

“Your answer, then?”

Belavierr’s head turned. She stared across the moving land. Past the undead that walked, the spirits screaming through the dark skies. Towards a young woman riding back towards her village. Still gazing back at her. Belavierr sighed.

“For her, I would give it up. My magic. What I possess. Even life. Not my craft, but I would gladly face my death.”

Mavika looked up. And she nodded once.

“I see your true nature, Belavierr the Witch. May you meet fire with craft and stitch.”

She turned and disappeared, flying past the dark shapes. Hedag, Califor, and Alevica retreated as well.

That left only Ryoka. She watched Belavierr. And then fled. The Stitch Witch stood alone. And she kept watching her daughter until Wiskeria was out of sight.

Then Belavierr turned. She felt pain. She knew her death waited. But not yet. She called on her magic, summoning them to her aid. But it would not be enough. So she cast one last spell, whispering into the night.

And that night deepened into a war at Riverfarm’s boundaries.

 

—–

 

Ryoka Griffin was the observer. She had a thought, briefly, to help someone. Whom? Belavierr?

She didn’t know the crime for which the Witch of Webs was hunted. Nor did she know whether the [Knights] or [Hunters] were the good guys.

If anyone was. All Ryoka knew was that she wished it were not—this.

Blood and fire. [Knights] riding around a strange, slanted house a thousand paces out from Riverfarm.

“They set it up too close.”

Califor snapped when she returned. Nanette was with Durene, and the half-Troll girl had been fighting. Durene panted.

“They said they couldn’t get too close to the forest. Miss Califor—it’s like the end of the world!”

Her eyes were round, and Califor paused.

“This is what happens when a Great Witch dies. For better or worse, she’s the last one of old. What has she sent?”

Nanette replied as Durene just opened and closed her mouth.

“Curses—until they put up that house. It must be a relic, Miss Califor! And—and undead by the thousands! And puppets! And spells! There were comets raining down, and a giant snake made of magic—”

“There are barely thirty [Knights] out there. Spells picked a few off, and the Hunters. I’ll grant you, the [Hunters] are all strong. Each one might be Named-rank level. But how are they surviving that? Califor, I’ve never seen fighting so fierce, and I’ve seen great [Mages].”

Even Eloise seemed uncertain. Califor just strode to the drapes.

“[Witch Hunters] are specialists. They’re armed with top-grade artifacts, and some of it looked closer to Relic-class. Where did they get Truegold?”

Eloise’s hand moved, as if snatching at the air.

“[Tea Gossip]. They said they worked with Ailendamus. A great spellcaster…”

“Hrm. As for the onslaught, the Order of Seasons is supporting their [Knights]. Belavierr’s magic is a mess; the flames might have destroyed many of her better weapons. Despite that—look.”

Califor pointed, and Ryoka saw an advancing line of puppets approaching ten [Knights]. Even if two were tossing fireballs, they were outnumbered hundreds to one. However—as they watched, red lights flickered over the row of puppets.

“What’s that—”

“[Mark Target]. The Hunter’s Guild of Noelictus. Their Guildmaster must be sending support.”

Crossbow bolts began raining down, many of them exploding and sending the puppets flying. Same for the larger monsters; a cloth-Wyvern went down as more crossbow bolts struck it, launched from distant Noelictus. Alevica whistled.

“They truly want her dead. What did she do?”

Califor had no answer, and Wiskeria just sat there.

“But she’s not going to die.”

The coven looked at her. Wiskeria gazed around and, for the first time, seemed uncertain, lost.

“She truly won’t. She’s my mother. She…I’ve never even seen her hurt. I wanted her to die when she—I’ve thought of it and even dreamed of how to do it. It’s impossible.”

“And now the hour comes, do you wish it?”

Witch Hedag knelt, and Wiskeria’s mouth opened and closed. Nanette hugged her fiercely.

“No one should want their mother to die! Miss Califor, is Witch Belavierr that awful? Can’t we talk to the [Hunters]? Does she really deserve…”

She looked up at her mentor, and Califor’s voice was calm.

“Yes.”

Nanette looked up at her, eyes big and staring. Wiskeria’s head rose, and Ryoka saw Califor wearily adjust her cloak and staff.

“Yes, Nanette, she is. No, I doubt words could work. Each man and woman who came here lost something to her. Does she deserve it? Does anyone deserve anything? I will tell you this, Nanette: if I were not raising you, if I had known she yet lived and if her crimes in Noelictus were as heinous as I suspect, I would have gone there myself to put an end to it. If I even had a chance of besting her.”

Califor looked around the room and at Wiskeria.

“It would be folly for you to interfere, Witch Wiskeria. If you do, I cannot protect you.”

Ryoka waited, but Califor gave no further instructions. If—Wiskeria sat there. Paralyzed, Ryoka thought, with fear. Uncertainty.

And outside—her mother sent worse still.

 

——

 

Ser Raim was awake when Ryoka returned. The undead didn’t touch her. Nor did the warriors made out of cloth, armed with ancient weapons. They fought and broke on the [Knights] who held the field outside of Riverfarm.

The Order of Seasons charged and held, some of the unhorsed [Knights] fighting on foot. They wouldn’t have held alone. But the [Hunters] fought too. Ryoka saw magical explosions tearing up ranks of advancing cloth warriors, the [Archer] loosing and bringing down the spirits in the sky.

It felt like a dream. Neither side bothered with Ryoka as she approached the strange house, a slanted, almost deliberately lopsided structure, like a tall hunting lodge, standing in the middle of the grass. Apparently, the Hunters of Noelictus had summoned it.

Slowly, the Order of Seasons drove back the cloth creations. Until their ranks dwindled. Then came zombies. Undead. But fewer. The [Knights] drank potions, and the [Witch Hunters] fortified their position.

With magic and Skill. And the house was the most impervious thing of all; Ryoka saw a bolt of crimson lightning zap down from the heavens, hit the house, and fizzle out of existence.

Riverfarm was a lot less confident about their walls. The entire village was boarded up behind Ryoka. Shutters closed. Riverfarm was silent, afraid. But the house the [Hunters] had created was safe. Needles lay around it, so many that Ryoka had to cover her feet to even approach the door. As she did, more needles, some as large as javelins, flew out of the dark evening. They struck the house, bouncing off the sides. Cloth ropes like snakes twined closer—lost their magic. Failed.

The young woman entered the house through the front door. It was unlocked. She heard a voice, saw a gathering. The [Witch Hunters] were there. They had taken their fallen comrade. Ser Raim was on his feet, and so were Prost and Rie. Ryoka heard a low voice.

“This is a Hunter’s Haven. A portable place to fight from. Warded against any foe. Even Belavierr’s magic would fail here. She is trying, hunting Sylind. Keep all of your people indoors. If you have any needles, any sewing equipment—throw it outside! Those needle storms are aimed at us.”

One of the [Hunters] was addressing Prost and Rie. His crossbows hung at his sides. He looked up as Ryoka entered—the crossbow was in his hands in a flash. He paused as he saw her.

“Who are you?”

“Ryoka!”

Lady Rie exclaimed. The [Hunter] lowered his crossbow a bit. Ryoka glanced around. She tried to answer the [Hunter]’s suspicious questions. Rie and Prost’s urgent queries. But her eyes were on him.

A female [Knight] had joined Ser Raim and the [Hunters]. Her armor was scratched, the colored steel deformed. But she was alight with passion.

Ser Raim was not. He stood over Gaile. The female [Huntress] who had wielded the axe and threatened Wiskeria’s life lay on a long table. Her arms had been folded. Her eyes were closed. Belavierr had crushed her, but her friends had done as much possible to make her presentable.

Ser Raim looked upon her and bowed his head.

“She threw away her honor to strike a blow against Belavierr. And I believe she would have forsworn herself had the Stitch Witch fled. For one of the Foreign Hunters of the Hunter’s Guild of Terandria, she disgraced her status and legacy.”

He stared down at the woman’s face. Gaile’s expression was still set in death. Ser Raim bent, exhausted. Someone offered him a chair, but he stood.

“And yet, I knew Gaile. Gaile the [Beastslayer]. Gaile, who became [Witch Hunter] for vengeance. For six years, we have sought Belavierr. And were it not for her actions, we might have lost her again.”

“Was it justice, then, Ser Raim?”

The female [Knight] was confused. Ser Raim glanced up at her and shook his head.

“Neither, Dame Talia. She did wrong. She threw away her honor, and I would have cut her down if I had to. But. She was my friend. And she had every right to her fury.”

He bowed his head. And he spoke to Gaile.

“Your death will not be in vain, Gaile. I swear, I will bring her down.”

Then he straightened and staggered. Hands reached for him. Durene’s. Talia’s. Raim caught himself and shook his head.

“I’m fine. Just exhausted.”

“You’ve burnt your life away. The backlash will continue. The Summer’s Champion and your Season agrees—you must rest before doing battle again.”

A voice spoke from a glowing orb to the side. Ser Raim turned, and Ryoka saw a man dressed like winter in the glass. Ser Raim nodded once.

“I understand, Knight-Commander. But Belavierr is assailing our position.”

“Let your brethren handle it, Ser Raim. Rest. You must end Belavierr. And soon. If you lack the strength—”

“No. I have at least twenty more years to burn. So long as we can find her, she will not escape the second time.”

Ser Raim sat. And Ryoka, drawing forwards, saw how he had changed. He was aged. He might have been in his thirties before the battle. But now—his hair was grey. His body was still hale, but now it was lined, as was his face. Ryoka saw him sitting up, brushing off one of the other [Knights] trying to treat him.

Thirty years. It seemed like he had burned thirty years away in less than thirty minutes. The man in the orb, the Knight-Commander, spoke directly.

“If you should fall—”

“I will not. I will cut away the last of Belavierr’s protections. I saw them, Knight-Commander. A dark web. I will lead the other [Hunters] against her. They have the means to end her. Together, we can defeat her.”

“Bring the reinforcements we have sent you. They will hold tonight, but at least the [Summer Knights] will be able to give battle on the morrow. They stand ready to aid you, Ser Raim. With their aid, you may still keep a decade or two—”

“No.”

Ser Raim’s voice was flat. He looked up, and his gaze still burned.

“If I sought to live, Knight-Commander, I would not have volunteered to hunt Belavierr. I will end her tomorrow, even if I must burn away. All the [Hunters] and I are resolute. My brethren may battle the Stitch Witch’s minions, but we must end her. They are not specialized for combat against her, and none bear magical weapons.”

“Ser Raim! I am a [Summer Knight] like you. I may not be able to conjure your fire, but I can enchant my weapon to flame, plain steel or not!”

Talia protested. The other [Witch Hunters] snorted as they glanced up from their quiet preparations. Ser Raim shook his head.

“Dame Talia, you misunderstand. It is not about fire. It is about piercing Belavierr’s defenses. I have cut half away. But she is still half-immortal. While she is such, every blow we deal her is useless. The [Witch Hunters] with me can cut her threads, and I will burn the rest. But if you stand against her without the right precautions, she would turn you into a puppet and use you against us.”

“I—”

Calirn spoke coldly.

“Dame Talia, enough.”

Talia bit her lip. Knight-Commander Calirn studied Ser Raim. His eyes flickered past Raim.

“The Stitch Witch continues her attempts to stop us in Terandria. You are certain this…haven will stand?”

“Certain, Knight-Commander. The [Witch Hunters] employ it against enemies capable of magic. So long as the Order continues repelling the undead Belavierr is conjuring, we will be safe from her magic within these walls.”

“Can you bring the battle to her now? After a few hour’s rest?”

Ser Raim hesitated. It was one of the Hunters, the one with the wands, who shook her head. The woman was checking her arsenal of wands and snapped a reply.

“Night is the worst time to hunt a [Witch]. She can use illusions or summon spirits if there are any about. Raim is also exhausted. We wait for dawn. Is that a problem?”

“…No. Act as you deem most fit, Huntress Erashelle. But are you certain you can both locate and trap Belavierr tomorrow?”

The [Witch Hunters] paused. The man with the hammer nodded.

“She’s wounded. She can attempt to flee, but we have her location. While we are on the hunt, even her speed will fail her. She cannot escape Sylind’s Skill.”

Sylind nodded. She was checking her bow.

“I can feel her. Not six miles distant.”

“Six miles? We could ride against her now—!”

Talia shut up as Ser Raim glanced at her.

“Unless a [Hunter] leads, she could outrun you, Dame Talia. Again, it will not be easy. I must gather my strength. So long as I burn, her magic fails around me. Paladin Arteis gave me this chance; I will wound her mortally this time. It was like piercing an armor of sludge. Now that I have removed most of it, I can see her naked heart. The [Hunters] will end it if I cannot and support me. We will work alone. As a team. You must guard our rest.”

“I understand. Forgive me, Ser Raim. Leave the field to us. We are armed, and Riverfarm supports us.”

Dame Talia’s cheeks were red. She looked questioningly at Durene. The half-Troll girl nodded.

“I’ll help. Beniar and his [Riders] are taking out anything that gets past you. Except for those giant things, we can beat all those undead.”

“She’s weakening already. Those first legions were ancient. Now she’s summoning undead. Still, if we hadn’t had Raim burning half of them away, she might have overwhelmed us just with those.”

One of the [Hunters] murmured. The others nodded. Everyone stopped and glanced up. Ryoka felt a thump. Talia strode towards the window. She swore and charged out the door. Ryoka saw a huge shape in the darkness. Then a bloom of fire. Durene barreled out the door as well. Rie paled.

“What is that?”

The [Hunter] with the crossbows glanced up. She took a step towards the door, and Sylind stopped her.

“Coroise. Save your bolts. The Order of Seasons has it.”

Hunter Coroise nodded and sat back down. She began disassembling and cleaning her weapons, placing one crossbow on the table and checking the enchanted parts piece by piece.

“Undead. She’s sewn together Flesh Abominations and raised Ghouls. I saw a Rotfield Giant, but our Guildmaster is raining down bolts from home.”

Sylind grunted.

“The first good use of all that money wasted on indulgences and…”

She broke off, bowed her head.

“This one is for all the [Hunters] who died for her. Each damn one, Tagil. We’re actually here. I only wish the [Singer] was with us.”

Tagil clasped her arm, wordlessly, and bowed his head too. He hesitated as he turned back to the others, and his eyes were remorseful. Ryoka saw him flick back to focus after a second—but she wondered what they had done to get here.

“—Even so, be prepared. Belavierr has more creations still.”

Rie paled. But Prost just nodded. He gazed warily towards the windows.

“The magic she’s throwing against you all. Will it truly not get in?”

Tagil’s smile was bleak, but his tone was reassuring.

“Hostile magic fails in this place. Even Ser Raim’s fire is hard to use here. This is a place for [Hunters]. We know our craft, Steward. Raim, you should get some rest upstairs.”

He gestured, and Raim nodded. However, at this, Sylind, the lone half-Elf [Hunter], protested.

“We’re a doubly large target with me and Raim here, Tagil. Can we move him to a warded room in Riverfarm?”

“What?”

Prost and Rie were horrified, and Tagil hesitated before shaking his head.

“The Hunter’s Haven is the most secure building we have, Sylind. Better to stick together and have Raim under one roof.”

“Or—we can ward a house. Let’s grab Raim’s hair and a bit of blood and fake his presence. The Stitch Witch can attack this place all night. If it falls—Raim will still be able to fight. If he’s here and she takes it—”

Tagil was shaking his head, adamant.

“The moment Raim sets foot outside that door—what if she sets her minions on him and we can’t reach him?”

Sylind snorted.

“If she’s weak enough for my Skills to work on her, I don’t think she’s perfect, Tagil. She didn’t kill Raim; she’s sent a few killer curses, but she can’t pierce the Hunter’s Haven. We can ward him just as well.”

Erashelle sat upright as the other [Witch Hunters] gathered. They knew their trade well.

“She’s right. If we set up all our charms—hey, who’s got one of those artifacts we got from Ailendamus? Let’s arm Raim to the teeth. He might burn up his life tomorrow, but all we need is to get to tomorrow.”

The rest of the [Hunters] thought it was a good idea to split Raim off—if they could find a home.

“I cannot endanger Riverfarm, [Hunters]—”

Prost began to object, but Rie cut in.

“What about Durene’s cottage? She wanted to help, and even if she can’t fight—it’s not the best made.”

Sylind shook her head.

“If it’s got a roof, we’ll turn it into a castle with magic. Tagil, this is perfect.”

“No. Raim, I think it’s best we stick together. I can’t force you, but—”

Tagil addressed Raim. The [Knight] looked up wearily.

“With respect, Tagil, I don’t think I can sleep with all the sounds of fighting here. And even if you all need to distract her, if some [Knights] could act in your stead?”

Calirn spoke quickly from the scrying orb, having listened to the entire argument.

“Indeed. Two [Summer Knights] will guard your rest. Dame Talia—”

“—has gone to join the battle. I will leave her to it.”

Calirn’s voice snapped.

“Absolutely not. Fall’s Sentinel, contact Talia. Have her return at once! She is to stand guard and—”

Ser Raim got up slowly, ignoring the rest of the discussion. Tagil was still trying to talk him out of it urgently, but the [Knight] was grey-faced with exhaustion. He walked towards the door, hesitating, and Ryoka opened it. She held out an arm.

“Here. I’ve got you. I can take you to Durene’s house.”

Raim frowned at Ryoka as Tagil reached out to stop them—then gave up with a huge sigh. The [Knight] murmured.

“I thank you, Miss. Who—who are you?”

Rie murmured Ryoka’s name for Raim’s benefit. Ser Raim paused. He stared at Ryoka. Then he nodded.

“Directions would be welcome, Miss Runner.”

He tried not to lean on her, but Ryoka ended up supporting a lot of his weight until they got to a horse. In the distance, more fire bloomed, and [Knights] rode to battle. But Ser Raim rode away from it, towards Durene’s cottage. Ryoka was braced. She didn’t know if Belavierr would assail them. If she did—Ryoka was ready. But nothing attacked them.

It seemed the [Witch Hunters]’ charms—well, high-grade artifacts, really—did work. Raim smiled weakly at Ryoka.

“You needn’t worry. If I needed to, I could burn away any weak spells. I’m tired. But my aura is strong as ever. And we have the resources and preparations from hunting her in Terandria. Noelictus. Great allies have given much for this day.”

Ser Raim reassured Ryoka as they rode—well, he rode and she jogged—towards the cottage. He frowned vaguely at her.

“Tagil mentioned you’d been attacked.”

“Not by your comrades. Someone else. Maybe the Circle of…they weren’t nearly as dangerous as your friends.”

Ryoka didn’t suspect Raim or the Hunters here were part of the group who’d nearly killed her. Their vibe was entirely different: focused, like an arrow. Raim simply bowed his head.

“I am sorry to hear it, either way. My friends will do whatever it takes to complete the hunt, as you saw…but you are not the Stitch Witch’s daughter. That some would attack you—I can swear by my Order these are unknown [Hunters] to me. The ones with me are the finest Hunters one could find in this entire world. Even among the Veteran Hunters of Menorome, they stand out. If there are…miscreants claiming their authority or misbehaving, they will track them down. After this is done.”

That might be something. Ryoka didn’t envy the kidnapping Hunter running into this group, if he was even alive. She felt like pointing out taking Wiskeria hostage was very close to trying to off her, but she decided against it. The facts seemed to be that there were at least two [Hunter] groups wandering about—and this one was the most dangerous by far.

Conversation lapsed until they got to Durene’s place.

Someone had let Durene know Raim needed to sleep there. The half-Troll girl hurried out with Bismark and Frostwing; Raim barely blinked at the bear and blue bird.

Ryoka couldn’t take her eyes away from his grey hair and lined features. He was so old now. He glanced at her as she led him towards Durene’s house. Entered it as two [Summer Knights] rode towards them. Ser Raim waved them away. He sat down inside.

“I have a few artifacts they told me to set up. My bag of holding. Would you help me with…?”

He handed Ryoka a stack of talismans. Like Japanese ofuda talismans. Then what looked like bright orbs of glass. They hung around the room, swaying. Flickering.

“Bad magic?”

“Her spells. Those charms are Drathian. You don’t need to worry about my safety. A [Witch] like Belavierr is powerful. But she must have my hair or some possession of mine to curse me. And even then, these wards work. Her magic is not all-powerful. It is ancient. But not—”

Ser Raim coughed. Ryoka found herself making tea. He sat, sipping it. He sighed. Then he gazed at her again.

“You know the Stitch Witch. And you’re here to argue for her life.”

Ryoka froze. But the [Summer Knight] didn’t reach for his blade. She hesitated.

“I—want to. I’m not here to attack you. Just—I’ve met Belavierr. Talked to her. She didn’t offer me any deals, but I’ve…seen her.”

“Strange. She rarely talks to anyone that she does not want something from. I’ve searched for her for years, and she rarely talks to anyone. Save for her victims. Then again, she was different when we cornered her last. Weakened before we even attacked. A heartening sign; it means she’s vulnerable.”

Ser Raim coughed. Ryoka nodded once.

“I’m—different. Wiskeria’s also here.”

“Her daughter?”

“Yes. Your friend took her hostage.”

“Gaile. But for that, Belavierr might have fled.”

“Yeah.”

The two sat in silence. Ser Raim waited. Ryoka burst out at last.

“I haven’t seen her commit any terrible crimes while she’s here. I’m sure she has. But Belavierr doesn’t seem evil to me. Just amoral.”

She paused, flushing.

“I’m sorry. I know this is stupid to argue with you—”

What was she doing? But Ser Raim didn’t bristle. He just sat back and sighed. When he spoke, it was quiet.

“Do you know what she did in Noelictus?”

He set the tea cup down quietly on the table and watched Ryoka. The Wind Runner swallowed.

“No. There are rumors flying everywhere in Izril, apparently. Witches have been attacked, but no one knows what happened. Not even her daughter or Califor.”

Raim’s brows rose.

“Really? It should have been covered up. Someone has been talking for news like that to reach…I was there. I did not see all of it, but enough. Do you…this is far from Terandria. Izril. I can scarce believe it. Do you know what ‘Helpful Servants’ are?”

“No.”

“Ah. Then I must explain. In Noelictus…in the nations thereabout, there was a growing trend of these—‘Helpful Servants’. Men, women, who would sign up for this unique class and job. For a day, a week, you could rent one. They would cook, clean—servants for rental, you see? Always pleasant, always hard working. Always. Extraordinarily cheap. Ever smiling.”

Ryoka felt a chill. Wait, that sounded so incredibly suspicious and—and—

“Belavierr did that? Wait, how did no one sense anything was off?”

Ser Raim coughed again and sipped more tea. Color returned to his cheeks, and Ryoka realized Eloise had given her the tea. Was Eloise against Belavierr? Ryoka remembered the conversation about Rehanna and grew more conflicted.

“Oh, some did. But Belavierr had allies and ways to protect herself. Most never noticed the incongruities. Magic of her level does that. I will not sully your ears with the whole tale; I am tired, and it is not mine to tell. There was a [Princess], a very strange [Singer], ghosts…”

His eyes closed wearily, and he almost smiled.

“I was a rather broken man until one gave me a spark. But I did witness what she did. Those Helpful Servants were prisoners in their own minds. Helpless, bound by a contract they signed.”

“But—but they agreed to it willingly. It was a deal.”

Raim’s eyes opened bitterly.

“Oh, they agreed to it. I doubt any knew what they would be subjected to. I have seen the likes of that bad contract by unscrupulous [Merchants] or in black market deals. A contract can be fair under the law and cause maximal suffering, Miss Griffin. Believe me—they suffered. We liberated many, but the harm she caused was the work of centuries. She killed scores, scores before we drove her from there. That is the woman you would like to defend.”

He looked at Ryoka, and she wanted to disbelieve him. Yet Raim’s tone was entirely knowing, and he continued.

“I am sure you have seen some…good she does. Especially if she cares for her daughter. However. She does evil as well. Half of our number have lost someone to her. I lost my heart, my fiancée. Gaile her daughter. Coroise has lost three fellow [Hunters] to Belavierr. The rest bear her no love. Some are in the hunt for the glory of it, like Faigen, who wields the hammer. Or because they see Belavierr’s crimes as unforgivable, like Sylind, the [Archer]. The [Mage Hunter], Erashelle, is of that mind, although she may also desire Belavierr’s artifacts. Tagil does. But he would use them for the good of his family, and in truth, the reason matters not. We have hunted her for decades, and those six were all who remained. Now? I will finish it.”

He paused. And the lights flickered from the ward-spells. Raim looked at Ryoka and shook his head.

“—So please, save your breath. I am committed to her death, and I have paid almost all the price. I hope you will watch her die, and you may think me a fool or a monster of my own for killing her. I shall be entirely grateful if you never have cause to understand why I came here.”

Ryoka had no answer to that. She could only hang her head.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know she did—all that. I wish I had seen. Not that I want to have been there, but so I could judge. I just feel like she’s something old and ancient and, yes, terrible. But seeing that die…she’s Wiskeria’s mother.”

Ryoka thought of Teriarch, closer to Belavierr in his way than Ryoka was to the Witch of Webs. She tried to get this all to the [Knight] without going into details, and Ser Raim did look at her kindly, but that deep flame in his eyes never wavered. His voice grew stronger as he put down the empty cup, beginning to stretch; it seemed he intended to sleep in his armor.

“I understand your reverence for history, Ryoka Griffin. I mourned the loss of immortals of another kind in Noelictus. I shall also readily admit: in the past, my Order slew Dragons. They followed their natures, like Belavierr. But some burned and killed, and we deemed them a threat. It matters not. Tomorrow, I will burn, Ryoka Griffin. Burn with all the enmity I bear Belavierr. My grief, my love for my lost heart—all of it, I will deliver her. Nothing can stop me.”

And that was true. Ryoka had nothing else to say. Exhausted as he was, tired, she saw Raim’s eyes flash. He burned still. And the last ember was waiting. Waiting to flare and die.

To slay Belavierr. Ryoka could not tell him it was wrong. She could not argue for Belavierr. So she stood. She bowed to Ser Raim.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could wish you luck. I only—”

She couldn’t finish her sentence. Ser Raim smiled.

“Thank you.”

She left the house. Quietly. And Ryoka gazed up as the night grew quieter. Even the undead attacks on Riverfarm were slowing. She searched for the fae. But they had vanished. Powerless, Ryoka left the two [Summer Knights] standing guard. She walked through the streets, lost.

“Ivolethe.”

She looked for them. But the fae did not reply. Nor could Ryoka find them. Because they did not hang about Ser Raim as he wearily rested. They were too busy watching the battle.

 

—–

 

The pitch-black night and the war between Spring, Summer, and the Stitch Witch’s minions left sleep for no one but Ser Raim.

The lone Hunter’s Haven was a besieged castle, and the puppets and undead pressed forward in waves, despite the support from the Hunter’s Guild and Order of Seasons.

Step by step, the [Knights] gave ground. Fighting. Dying.

One of the [Spring Knights] fell, fighting a giant made of cloth who crushed their armor. Another created a vast bonfire that only went out when a comet as black as night’s sand struck it.

Was Belavierr winning? The Hunter’s Haven let the [Hunters] fearlessly fight from its sanctuary, but the shrinking circle of [Knights] forced them to dismount, fight amidst the walls of magic.

Did the Witch of Webs deserve this?

Yes. If any story of her was true, she had earned this death. If anything, should the other [Witches] have joined hands to kill her?

Mavika had offered to help Belavierr escape. In the end…

“A [Witch] is selfish. You are the greatest of the living [Witches]. The one who lived where legends fell, Belavierr. Not the most deserving or the best. But the one who would not die.”

Witch Califor wished she could have had a proper conversation with the Witch of Webs. But she supposed all ants looked the same to the woman.

You lost perspective the more powerful you got. Califor knew that. She looked down and saw a cluster of the rookie [Knights], led by Dame Talia, trying to fight a single Draugr on foot. The massive hulking undead was sending them flying, battering forward to slam against the Hunter’s Haven.

And more undead were spilling forwards. Not just the controlled puppets, who fought with asymmetrical grace, but undead. Mindless. Unled. Belavierr was a fine [Necromancer], but the undead were trying to kill everything living.

Talia Kallinad fell on her back as the Draugr stomped on her, trying to cave in her armor. Califor watched.

Young men and women, who fought like they were invincible until the day they learned they were not. Easy foes for one like Belavierr, who had broken youth and will against her true power.

—But Califor liked to think she had never forgotten how much that mattered. She had warned the [Hunters] and [Knights] not to put her against them.

Now, she wished they had asked her to join them. She had her apprentice. But she also had her principles.

The undead. Califor watched from above as the Draugr was knocked back a step from a bolt. The [Knight] scrambled to put her back to the door to the Hunter’s Haven as her comrades fought around her. And the Draugr?

The Draugr stared blankly at the Hunter’s Haven, crossbow bolts sticking out of its face, huge gashes in its side. Then the undead turned and regarded the village behind it.

A village of countless souls. Far more valuable to an undead, which lived only to kill, than a handful of [Hunters].

The undead began to lumber towards Riverfarm proper. Califor, watching from the top of one of the houses, saw an arrow strike it in the head. Then she heard screams of alarm, and Beniar and his [Riders] set themselves behind impromptu barricades in the village.

There was the brave girl, Durene. And Hedag. They saw more undead shifting their way.

Beniar, a brave man, was no [Knight]. He was not near the levels of the Order of Seasons, and the undead were shifting towards the village. Hundreds. Too many for a single Hedag to best. Califor shook her head.

Below her, she knew, Nanette was probably peeking out the windows, terrified—but brave enough to have her wand ready. The Wind Runner, Durene—would Wiskeria fight her mother’s puppets to defend this place?

“I warned you, Belavierr.”

The Stitch Witch didn’t even remember her name. Witch Califor sensed her attention elsewhere, on some other scheme. So Califor straightened her back, rolling her shoulders down, keeping her neck aligned with her spine.

Good posture. Enunciate your words, Nanette. Now—look up.

Califor’s faded cloak swirled around her as she lifted it. The wind was blowing across Riverfarm, and it carried her voice as she raised it.

 

“I have worn you a thousand days.

Each time you were my relief

From rain, from fog

From prying eyes and wretched blade

Oh, friend. One last favor I crave.

One last time—remind them of your name.”

 

The battered cloak around her shoulders caught the wind, and Califor caught it and drew it across the air like one would close a curtain.

It was…heavy. The fabric was worn; even magic could wear until the stitches were so faded that they were soft and fragile. The patterns had long since been lost, but sometimes, it still looked like a shadow slithering softly through the world.

Nanette loved to brag about it, but it was a riding cloak, a comfortable one, ninety-nine days out a hundred. And sometimes?

The Cloak of Balshadow strained in the night air. It warped, and Califor whispered to it as a little girl poked her head out of the windows. As the Wind Runner looked up, Hedag lifted her hat, and the villagers cried out in fear.

“I’m sorry. And thank you.”

Then—the force pulling at the cloak was too much. It tore away in the air, leaving Califor with only a fragment. She reeled backwards, caught herself—and looked down.

—The undead streaming towards the village of Riverfarm halted. The onslaught of bolts from above, as the eyes of the Order of Seasons and Hunter’s Guild watched, slowed a second, and alarm shot through those distant watchers.

Even the [Knights] and [Hunters] halted a moment. Their foes, puppets and undead alike, milled around, suddenly aimless, easy prey. The ones headed to Riverfarm stopped, looked around, and saw…

Nothing. To the folk of Riverfarm, gazing around, and even all but the best [Hunters], it was as if a…shadow had fallen across the landscape. A veil that swallowed the houses, people, and held them in a soft cloak of night.

Califor let the last scrap of the cloak fall from her hands and stumbled, weary. She almost fell—but an anxious Nanette tried to climb out to catch her.

Witches Alevica and Mavika had to rescue both, and Califor slid down the roof and climbed back through the window. Outside—the armies of the dead were flailing, trying to get at the Hunter’s Haven, and Belavierr’s gaze swung back towards Riverfarm in sudden wrath.

I warned you. Califor closed her eyes, exhausted.

“Nanette. Stop fussing. It was a beautiful cloak. I told you not to brag about it.”

“But—how did you—the entire village?”

Alevica spluttered. Califor opened one eye, then winked it at Alevica.

“It’s just sympathy. Let it be worth something.”

Perhaps it only meant one or two silly [Knights] would live. Perhaps it had changed everything. Califor closed her eyes. She wondered what outcome Wiskeria was hoping for.

Thus, Ser Raim slept, and though more minions appeared, the [Knights] regained their ground until the [Hunters] themselves elected to rest, guarded by both shadow and their Hunter’s Haven.

Still, the fae watched. They were not watching Ser Raim that night, nor the Order of Seasons who did battle. They waited elsewhere. Watching something else.

One of the oldest stories. And they wept, then.

 

——

 

Night had fallen. Ser Raim slept, guarded. Outside, the onslaught against Riverfarm had slowed. But the Order of Seasons remained vigilant, patrolling in every direction, cutting down Belavierr’s minions. And the Hunters rested in their house.

There were five left. Sylind, the [Archer] who had marked Belavierr. Coroise, with her crossbows. Tagil and his scissor-swords. Faigen, with hammer and shield. And Erashelle, their magic user. As night passed deeper and deeper, they grew more watchful.

They might have slept. But they were alert. Each time the ward-charms flickered, they looked up. But they were guarded well. Even so, all knew that if Belavierr struck, it would be now. Now, or the next day, as they drove their quarry into a corner. So they stayed alert. Vigilant as they partly rested. Each had been on longer hunts, so they guarded their strength. Tended to their arms.

They did not speak of Gaile. Or of Ser Raim’s fate. They were resolved. After a while, Sylind went upstairs to the second floor of the slanted house. There were few rooms, but she sat upstairs to meditate and check her arrows. After a while, one of their number, Tagil, joined her.

Sylind glanced up as he stepped into the room and sat across from her. She said nothing for a while. Neither did he. At last, Sylind spoke.

“You don’t have to watch over me. I’ll shout if I see anything. Her magic won’t work here.”

“Perhaps. But I have seen our havens broken. She could penetrate the wards.”

The female [Archer] raised her brows.

“If she does? I have all my gear on. What magic could bypass our wards and have the strength to kill me?”

“A powerful blood spell. I’ve seen it done before.”

Tagil crouched. His gear was simple, but Sylind saw the dozens of concealed, magical pockets in his armor. Her eyes even saw his equipment, a fortune’s worth. It made him one of the best [Hunters] in the Hunter’s Guild. And he was specialized for his task. As was she, but he was her senior. She shifted uncomfortably.

“Don’t get sentimental near the end of the hunt, Tagil. You’re twice the veteran I am. We won the greater battle on Terandria. If we fail now…there’s no excuse.”

It was unlike Tagil. But the [Hunter] had to be feeling the same nerves she did. Belavierr had fled. They had hoped to take her. Sylind felt like the Stitch Witch was watching her. But she would not fall. So long as Ser Raim stood against Belavierr, they could bring her down. Tagil shook his head absently.

“Those [Witches] were monsters. But Belavierr is older than all of them. Age is strength for [Witches]. And her web is widest of all. She puts her hooks into everyone. Everyone from the Griffin Prince of Kaliv to the Knight-Commander of the Order of Seasons.”

“You heard what the Knight-Commander said? Are they really going to assail the Order of Seasons? Can Belavierr really threaten them? The Knight-Commander himself and the Grandmasters? How can she do that?”

Tagil shrugged.

“She has the hair of one of their loved ones, perhaps. If they came against her, she would kill them. Perhaps she is trying, but failing. The Griffin Prince is different. He made a pact with her.”

“Really?”

She had heard the rumors. But Belavierr was made of rumors. Tagil nodded. He was watching as Sylind unstrung her bow. They were different, he and she. She used a longbow, and she had trained for over two decades to obtain her ability and Skills.

Tagil had practiced as well, but most [Hunters] used a crossbow; Veteran Hunters had ones enchanted to reload automatically. Sylind was placing her arrows on the table to organize them for tomorrow’s battle.

Different skill sets, both geared towards the same job. But she was a [Deepforest Huntress], adapted to hunting all kinds. He had one quarry. And his unrest bothered Sylind. What did Tagil sense? The [Hunter] shifted. After another break, he spoke again.

“The share of the bounty. Do you know what I’ll do with it?”

Sylind looked up from inspecting her magical arrows with a frown.

“It goes to your daughter, won’t it? If you’re worried, Tagil, we swore an oath. Gaile’s money will go to her relatives. If she has any. Regardless. Even if we fail—your share goes to your daughter. The Order of Seasons will make sure of that.”

Tagil didn’t say anything. Sylind paused.

“She’s sick, right? Not even the best [Healers] could cure her.”

“Yes. They can delay the sickness. But not cure it. She’s…tomorrow, if we bring Belavierr, that could change things.”

Sylind nodded. She wondered if Tagil had tried the Healer of Tenbault, a local celebrity. Yet if they defeated the Witch of Webs, even more doors might open. Belavierr was worth more than gold. Wistram had promised treasures to the one who slew her. So had Roshal. The Order of Seasons, the Hunter’s Guild…she could respect Tagil’s motivations.

Then Sylind had a thought. She checked a stone set in her bracer and spoke casually.

“I know the Hunter’s Guild investigated this. But…was your daughter’s sickness magical? Did Belavierr curse her somehow? You’d never have been allowed on this team if so, obviously—”

Her hand lingered near her bow. Tagil didn’t seem to notice. But of course, he did. He paused.

“No. Her sickness isn’t magical. Or if it is, Belavierr had no hand in it. That I’m sure of.”

The stone flickered. Sylind sighed and relaxed. Abashed, she attached the bow to her back and spread her collection of magical arrows on the floor, inspecting them.

“Sorry. Just jumpy.”

Tagil’s eyes flickered. He was silent for a long moment, and Sylind thought he had taken offense. But then he sighed. He looked up at her.

“You’re right, Sylind. Belavierr never touched my family. But I met her once during the attack on her village. Remember when I cornered her? I didn’t escape; she captured me. And she made me an offer then.”

Sylind froze. The bow dug against her holster. But now it was behind her. Tagil sat still. And his eyes locked on hers. The [Huntress] hesitated.

“You turned her down, of course.”

Tagil didn’t reply. His sword hung at his side. Sylind’s heartbeat quickened. Her hand slowly crept forwards towards her arrows. Tagil watched her. He spoke. Haltingly.

“I thought she was going to threaten…she saw right through me in a second, Sylind. She could have threatened me. Maybe it would have worked, but she didn’t have to. My daughter is very sick, Sylind. Even if she’s cured, the sickness has worn her away. Even the Healer of Tenbault couldn’t cure that. I actually got her a meeting and—the spell failed. I’d given up hope, and I was ready to die. Then Belavierr looked me in the eyes and made me an offer.”

“Tagil.”

“I wish I could believe she was lying. But she’s the Witch of Webs. She can do almost anything. If the deal is fair. Believe me, I hesitated. Believe me.”

“Tagil. Don’t do this. You turned the offer down, didn’t you?”

Sylind’s hand paused. Tagil watched her. And his eyes were full of grief. He shook his head slightly. Neither Hunter moved. But now her eyes were on Tagil’s side, where his iconic scissor-swords hung. He’d commissioned them to fight Belavierr.

“The offer was never for then, Sylind. It was for now.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

Sylind paused, her body untensed, deliberately relaxed, sitting across from Tagil, but her eyes were on his face. Just searching him. Lost, suddenly.

“Did it even matter? Going home? Searching for years and years? Teaching those rookies like Haeight and the others? Actually—this is the only chance anyone might get in thousands of years. I get it, I do. I’ll help with your daughter. We do this, and [Kings] and [Queens] will be in our debt. Is it worth it? Tagi—”

He moved, and she twisted, reaching for her bow, lashing out with a foot to stop him drawing his sword—

The crossbow bolt struck her in the chest. Her protective charms exploded. Even so, the half-Elf’s arm rose, and she fired a single arrow past him—he fired the crossbow again at her face.

Slowly, her body slumped to the floor. Tagil lowered the crossbow and stared blankly at Sylind. He was a sword-expert; she’d expected the blade. He’d kept this crossbow hidden for this moment.

“I’m sorry.”

Coroise was in another room upstairs, woken from sleep. She’d heard the sound but looked to him for confirmation.

“Tagil. Did something get—”

His sword went through her chest, and she began to move with the strength of the damned—he flicked the blade straight up. Then Tagil headed downstairs. Fast. The last two would be…

Erashelle and Faigen peered up from where they sat. Faigen raised his hammer. He was treating it with a compound of silver dust. He frowned.

“Tagil, what was that s—”

The [Hunter] raised his crossbow and one he’d taken from Coroise’s body. The two [Hunters] dove. Tagil fired twice. Faigen howled as the bolt caught him in the throat. Erashelle screamed. Tagil dodged as she pointed her wand. Faigen was charging, breathless, blood running down his chest.

“[Hail of Bolts].”

The crossbow fired again and again. Faigen jerked as the bolts hit him. Again and again. But he kept coming. Even after they found his heart. Tagil backed up. Faigen collapsed, falling onto him. Tagil stepped to one side. Then rolled. He aimed his crossbows. Fired once. Twice.

Erashelle was still alive. The first bolt had gone through her ribs, but it had missed her heart. Both of her hands were nailed to the wall. She kept trying to cast a spell as Tagil walked towards her. He aimed the crossbows. But she was already dying. She spat blood, the bolts blocking her magic.

“You—traitor. Damn you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tagil’s eyes burned. He looked at her. She spat. Her lung was filling. She coughed, choking the last words out.

“I hope you suffer forever. If there’s anything—hope you—”

Then she died. Tagil stared at her corpse. Then at Faigen. His hands shook. He dropped the crossbows. The [Hunter] fell to his knees as bile filled his throat. His tears lasted as long as Erashelle’s blood kept dripping to the floor. And he screamed his damnation.

Then the man stood, and his eyes were empty. But one last purpose moved him onwards. He left the house, left his crossbows. Walked through silent Riverfarm. Past the [Knights] whom he placated with lies. He walked onwards. Out of Riverfarm, slowly following a thread that called him.

She was waiting for him there. At a tree far enough from the village it hadn’t been cut, on a small hill.

Belavierr. The man gazed up at her.

“It’s done.”

She nodded. And her eyes shone with orange light. He stared at her with hatred. Regret.

“Raim lives. I’ve done my part. Now. Will she…?”

“Yes. Do you want me to repeat our pact? I have sworn it.”

Belavierr’s voice was cold. Tagil shuddered. He walked up the hill.

“No. Keep your oath, [Witch].”

She had left something for him there. And she helped him stand on the stool. Tagil stared at her. He spat into her face. She never blinked.

“I will keep my promise. It will be fulfilled in the hour after your death. Regardless of my fate.”

“I hope Raim burns you away.”

“He may.”

But that was not his business. Tagil closed his eyes. The hemp rope hung around his neck.

“Will you tell him I’m sorry? Will you tell her what I did?”

“I did not promise that.”

“Then I curse you, Belavierr the Witch. I curse you. But save my daughter. I did it for her.”

Tagil took a deep breath. And he stepped off the stool. The noose tugged. His throat constricted, but his neck would not snap from such a short height. It took a long time to die like this, he knew.

 

——

 

At first, it had been a glorious morning. Trumpeting horns from the [Knights], who had fought and fallen to give the [Hunters] and Ser Raim their moment. A weary [Knight] beginning to blaze like a sun.

Then—someone had gone to the Hunter’s Haven, which had been blocked from the inside and never entered, found the door locked, and the [Knights] had knocked again and again, then called out and demanded entry.

Like a bad dream. The [Witches], Ryoka, the people of Riverfarm had seen Ser Raim’s head turn, and the confidence and wrath blazing in him had faltered. Like a shard of ice entering into unshakeable will.

When the door opened—they had found the dead [Hunters]. And the cries of shock and horror and failure—

Even then, the [Knight] had not wavered. Only stood there, his flame of resolve becoming deeper. Death could not break Raim of the Summer.

—But when they had laid the bodies out and they had found one was missing—then Raim knew. And his fire flickered, and he had demanded they find Belavierr.

Her daughter was still here. Surely…

It was easy to follow Tagil’s trail. A single [Spring Knight] with tracking skills led them to that tree. To the long branch where he hung. And to the one thing that could break a burning resolve.

That was how they found him. As dawn broke, as the four bodies were found inside the warded house by Ryoka Griffin, and the [Knights] found they had battled only puppets that collapsed as the sun rose.

He hung there. On the hilltop. From the longest limb of the tree.

Ser Raim’s scream still echoed. His despair. Betrayal. The [Hunter] stared sightlessly at the [Summer Knight].

And there she stood. As tall as the hanging body. Her eyes glowing in the light of the rising sun, and her smile curved to the very edges of her face. Raim stared up at Belavierr.

“What did you offer him? What did you give him? His daughter? Was it you?”

His hands shook. His face was ashen. Belavierr gazed down at him.

“No. But I offered him her life. A charm to protect her. It is already sent.”

“A charm? He betrayed all for a charm?”

Raim choked. Belavierr nodded. Her eyes were distant. She smelled of smoke and fire.

“The charm was woven from heartstring and bowstring and the string of the noose. His daughter will receive it, and it will protect her from sickness and harm. It will be cursed with a traitor’s sins. But blessed by a father’s love. She will live a hundred years longer, and her gifts will overflow until the day of her death.”

She paused.

“And now, my death, you will no longer find me.”

She turned. Raim uttered a wordless cry. Behind him, Talia raised her sword.

“The Order of Seasons will hunt you down! We know your weakness, Belavierr! We know your daughter—”

She wavered as Belavierr turned back. The Stitch Witch stared down at Talia. At the orb from which Knight-Commander Calirn and the Grandmasters of the Order of Seasons watched. And her eyes widened.

“My daughter. You would use her against me? Very well. Try. For if I am chased, I will flee. If my daughter is held, I will find who takes her and kill them. If she is slain, I will find who slew her. And they will never die.”

She pointed down at Talia. At the Order, as the body swung behind her. Belavierr’s words echoed and shook the air.

“If the Order of Seasons kills my daughter, I will break their stronghold and slay their families one by one. I will kill their sons and daughters generation upon generation and bring ruin to their lands. I will disappear and bring ruin to Terandria if it takes me all of eternity. I vow the same to anyone who would harm her.”

No one present could meet her eyes but Ser Raim. Knight-Commander Calirn spoke hoarsely.

“This will not go unpunished, Belavierr.”

“Unpunished. Then tell me, little [Knight].”

Belavierr stepped down the hill. Her eyes fixed on Calirn’s as she bent over the scrying orb. She spread her arms.

“Are we enemies? I have never considered the Order of Seasons my foes. If we are, let there be war and ruin. Until my final hour, I will hound your Order from the shadows and by my craft. Do you wish it, [Knight]? If you wish it, I will show you how I treat my enemies.”

Calirn gazed at her. Ser Raim was gathering himself.

“Ser Raim. Can you end it?”

“I cannot follow her if she flees.”

“Her daughter.”

Belavierr waited. Calirn hesitated. He looked at the young [Witch] and felt his oaths holding his tongue from what he might suggest. And then a piercing shriek sounded, and he turned. On his side of the scrying orb—suddenly, the Order of Seasons was under attack. Raim closed his eyes bitterly.

 

——

 

He had been so focused on the Witch of Webs, Calirn had missed the forces of Kaliv arriving—a day early.

From the skies, he heard a ringing voice. And he saw them flying down upon his order. The Griffin Queen screamed.

“Stay your [Knights], Knight-Commander! Or I will bring war to the Order of Seasons!”

They would have landed amidst the startled [Knights], who hesitated, bowstrings nocked, unwilling to shed blood—but for a wave of ice that appeared.

The Winter’s Watcher. The last Grandmaster of the Order of Seasons drew a sword, and the Griffins banked, flying around the figure, who seemed prepared to take them all on alone.

The rest of the order stood within the keep, encased by stone and magic. Novakya landed her Griffin. Her eyes blazed as she lowered the lance.

“If she dies, my son, the Griffin Prince, dies.”

The Spring’s Warden called out from her position.

“Griffin Queen, he is one life. The Spider can be ended once and for all! She can be killed. Your son might survive her death! Is one life not worth risking?”

“He is my son. That is your answer.”

The Spring’s Warden bowed her head.

“So be it.”

The Winter’s Watcher’s sword met the first Griffin’s talons, and the forces of Kaliv dove. Griffins fell, striking at the Order’s stronghold.

Calirn felt cold. It was all coming together. He spoke a hoarse word.

“Ser Raim. The Order does not call Belavierr our enemy this day. We will not risk it. Nor can we hold the Stitch Witch’s daughter responsible for her crimes.”

“Knight-Commander. I understand.”

Calirn saw Ser Raim slowly draw his sword and walk forwards. So, despite the chill in his bones—despite the death of kindred Terandrians in his very keep, despite treachery and the Witch’s smile—

The sun still shone.

 

——

 

There was a rhythm to the end. It was in his voice as he looked to Wiskeria, who stared at him as he lifted his blade. At Califor, who raised her staff—but even she hesitated when she saw his burning gaze. Ser Raim turned to Belavierr and forswore his honor.

His friends lay dead. He had reached the end of his time. And her smile—said she knew all that he had lost.

Still, he burned. And Ser Raim’s voice was steady as he spoke.

“Belavierr. I am a [Summer Knight] of my Order no longer. But for what you have wrought. Then and now—! You will not flee. Stand. Or I will slay your daughter.”

Belavierr’s tone was mocking, even gleeful, as she loomed over him.

“You swore an oath. You are [Knight] no longer.”

Raim nodded.

“I did. You have taken everything from me. Even my honor. Stand, Belavierr. And let us end this.”

The Stitch Witch paused. She looked at her daughter. And she nodded, once. She walked past Raim and turned to face him.

“Come, my death.”

The [Summer Knight] followed her. He paused just once. Talia’s eyes burned and ran with tears. He put a hand out, touching her shoulder gently.

“If I should fall, none of you are to pursue her. Return to the Order. That is an order, Dame Talia.”

“Ser Raim—”

He peered into her eyes and walked on. The [Knight] paused and turned his head.

“Knight-Commander. Grandmasters. It has been my honor.”

“Raim! Don’t do this!”

A voice came from the orb. But the [Summer Knight] walked on. He passed by Ryoka, and she studied him. His face was set. And his footsteps became fire. He walked towards Belavierr as those gathered watched him go. They shouted. Called his name.

A monster waited for the knight. He stepped towards her. And behind him, the Order of Seasons stood and unsheathed their blades. They raised their swords and saluted him, shouting, weeping.

In Terandria and Riverfarm, the Order of Seasons watched him pass. They were not the only ones. The people of Riverfarm screamed. All those who claimed mortality cheered on the [Knight] as he moved forwards. They had seen her evil, so they called to him. End her. End the nightmare. A roar that shook the skies, from a thousand throats. The man raised his sword high, his armor shining, his back straight.

Glory.

There the immortal stood, her back to the dawn. She nodded once, and he advanced, lifting his greatsword as it burned. As he burned. And Ryoka thought she saw Raim smile for just a moment. Then the fire was all-consuming.

She was crying as she watched him go. And the fair folk bowed their heads as he charged. The [Knight] met the [Witch].

This time, he screamed first. A wordless cry with all the rage and fire in his soul. And he struck her. Cutting away the threads that bound. Cutting into her very soul. And she screamed and struck him. He was alone. But he burned. Bright. Brighter, with a fire that struck the shadows. That burned the Stitch Witch away.

They fought. One tore at the other. They staggered. She struck Raim, bending his armor with her bare hands, boiling his flesh behind metal.

Yet Raim was flame incarnate. He drove his sword into her, then gave up and simply seized her and began to blaze through Belavierr’s being. Her scream was high and unending, and they could almost see her now.

A woman being revealed from eons of protections. Burning as the flame came for her. Her death.

Yet—

The flame burned with hatred, vengeance, and rage. It burned on a man’s life with the will to kill a monster far greater than he. It was a conflagration that could have killed any mortal man—and even her.

A day ago, it could have. Today? The flame consumed Belavierr. Ate her web. Left her shrieking in agony—and yet it was lacking.

For the [Knight] had lost his honor. He had lost his comrades and seen faith shattered. The kindling of his soul that provided the flame had no more hope.

Perhaps it was the smallest of differences, for he had his will and vengeance. Or perhaps it was all the difference. For the [Witch] began to laugh as the two were linked, a burning man and a dying woman.

She laughed and laughed and laughed and stopped striking him and stood there. Just stood as he drove towards her end and tried to deliver her promised death.

Belavierr fell, a smoking, charred woman without feature—then a [Witch] again—then a cinder of ash—choking. Vulnerable.

He tried to finish it—but there was nothing left.

A [Knight] stopped where he stood. He sank down, trying to stand. But a mortal man had burnt away.

Ser Raim took a step, then another, trying to lift a greatsword that had all but melted. He struggled to fix on her as her blackened teeth gaped up at him. Still laughing.

Raim whispered a name. His love. He tried to lift his sword, tried to conjure a single spark—and the last light left his eyes. He fell, silently, as smoke rose around him.

Gone.

Then there was only the woman, who lay there, flesh re-knitting, in an agony beyond anything she remembered—still laughing. Mocking her death despite all it had cost her.

She was alive. However, her eyes no longer glowed. The shadows had left her. The [Witch] rose, gasping, her lungs burning.

Mortal. But alive. Belavierr stood and turned. The Order of Seasons watched her. And Knight-Commander Calirn lowered his head. He turned away.

Triumphant, Belavierr smiled. She gazed across the faces of Riverfarm’s folk. The [Knights]. She ignored their horror and wrath. She looked past them at her coven.

They regarded her steadily, with awe, envy, terror, abhorrence, and even pity. She scorned their glances. She only cared for one opinion.

Her daughter stood there. Wiskeria?

Relief flickered across the younger [Witch]’s face, and Belavierr drank that in. Relief—but when Belavierr reached for her hand, Wiskeria recoiled. The [Witch]’s fingers stopped, as if feeling the edges of another tapestry, one unknown to her.

Relief—and regret. And sadness. Wiskeria’s eyes lingered on Ser Raim’s corpse as long as her mother’s face. When she looked up, she saw Belavierr truly.

The Spider’s smile vanished. She reached for her daughter again as Wiskeria backed away, and Belavierr’s gaze was confused. Her triumph faded, and she stood there, as if she had suddenly forgotten why it even mattered. When she looked down:

She did not remember her death’s name.

Slowly, the woman began to knit once more. Remake even more of herself, for she had lost almost everything. Everything except her life. Thus, she was triumphant.

Then Belavierr paused. Her death lay before her, spent. Belavierr frowned at him, then turned away. Her head rose upwards. Towards the clear sky. She shaded her eyes.

“It’s bright. My second death awaits.”

Somewhere, somewhere, the man with the wide, uncanny smile was laughing.

 

---

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