The journey proved shorter than expected. As soon as Carl Clawyn dismounted, his sturdy stallion lowered its head again to crop the tasteless weeds. Carl left the horse a hundred and fifty feet from the farmhouse; he had no wish to startle the man outside—someone he took, at first glance, for a farmer splitting wood. The fellow was so broad-shouldered and powerful that even at this distance, Carl felt his courage waver. Perhaps I should return on horseback, he thought, swallowing as he eased his sword half out of its scabbard before sliding it home again. (This brute could lift me with one hand...)

  True terror seized him when he was a few paces closer. Carl Clawyn saw the truth—this was no farmer. A powerfully built knight was swinging a spiked maul, methodically pounding what had once been a man, now just a ruin of meat and bone that was the true owner of this farmstead. Though the distinctive cut of the armor left Carl uncertain, the dog-headed standard thrust into the earth nearby removed all doubt—this was a Friez. (Not some common foot soldier either, but... a high-ranking officer.) A nameless dread drove Carl back toward his grey stallion, as if the horse might somehow lend him authority when parleying with this Friez. (This family is finished.) he thought. (I have no reason whatsoever to approach him...) He nudged the horse with his heel; the stallion tossed its head irritably. (Gods damn it—why am I walking over there!?)

  The poor farmer's upper body was beyond recognition, yet the Friez maintained his mindless rhythm of blows. The corpses of several House Friez soldiers lay nearby, along with horses long fallen and still. Evidently, the farmer had waged a fierce battle here. The Friez muttered curses between strokes. Carl approached him.

  The Friez halted mid-swing, turned his head, and narrowed his eyes at the intruder—with a deliberate slowness that chilled the blood.

  Carl Clawyn straightened his back, forcing a mask of pride and confidence he did not feel, but his grey stallion betrayed him, lowering its head to nuzzle the mud in its anxiety. After a silent beat, the Friez returned to his work, having completely erased Carl and his horse from his reality.

  Carl suppressed the urge to speak and instead let his gaze drift toward the farmhouse. The door stood slightly ajar; through the crack, a young girl watched the savage scene unfolding outside. Carl's heart seized, a painful clench that seemed to force all the blood from his body. The girl was his daughter's age—Amy Clawyn's age—and had the same bright, clear eyes. The only difference was that this child's eyes were utterly vacant, holding nothing at all.

  He yearned to protect her, to act before the Friez noticed her presence, just as he would have done for his own child. His heart thundered in his chest as the autumn wind stung his face. "You don't need to do that," he said—and could scarcely believe the words had escaped his lips.

  The Friez glanced at him. "Did you speak?" The grey horse edged backward. "I did," Carl replied. "I spoke."

  The Friez paused, seemingly waiting for him to continue. Carl found himself wordless—the man's gaze could petrify. With an impatient, contemptuous snort, the Friez returned to his mechanical ritual.

  (He's a beast. All the Friez are. Kill him.) His hand had drifted to his sword-hilt without his knowing it. The Friez, lost in his rhythm of destruction, was oblivious. (Do it. Kill him, Carl. Do it. Or the child will die. She will die horribly, and for no reason. Just like her father.)

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  The girl had already noticed Carl, but her attention remained fixed on the Friez and her fallen father. She seemed unable to comprehend why her father lay so still while this towering man continued hammering him, like a butcher at market pounding meat. (Draw. Don't hesitate. Be quick.) He swallowed hard. (Then charge—thrust for the neck or face. Or perhaps a draw-cut across the throat.)

  As his sword began sliding from its sheath, a woman appeared in his peripheral vision, disrupting his plan entirely. She wore a tattered dress and filthy apron, carrying two water buckets as she returned from the fields—had there been a well nearby, she would likely have suffered the same fate as the man. One glance at the carnage told her the whole story; her husband's body was among the fallen. She clapped a hand to her mouth, and a small sound escaped—a gasp, a sob, Carl couldn't tell which—but it was stifled in an instant. Carl Clawyn observed that her eyes matched her daughter's—yet not entirely. Hers held heat. Sparks. Hatred.

  She set down her buckets; the soft thud was nothing against the rhythmic rise and fall of the maul. Eyes blazing with vengeance and fury darted between the Friez and Carl. Despite her blood boiling with rage, an ordinary farmwife had few means of exacting revenge in such circumstances. What confused her most was Carl. She recognized the Empire's insignia he wore, placing him on the same side as the Friez who had murdered her husband and now desecrated his corpse. Yet this knight, having noticed her presence, made no move to capture or harm her—made no move at all. She craved vengeance while the Friez remained unaware of her, but without understanding the other knight's intentions, her precarious gambit could end disastrously.

  Carl Clawyn's hand still rested on his hilt; this kept her wary. From her half-crouched posture and the curve of her spine, Carl read her intentions—like a cat preparing to pounce. He removed his right hand from his sword and deliberately relaxed his expression. Let her kill him. He even managed the faintest hint of a smile. (He took her husband, and she has every right to avenge him.)

  Reassured by Carl Clawyn's silent approval, the woman crept forward with painstaking care, using the tall weeds for concealment, until she reached a fallen Friez soldier. (She wasn't like other women. Most would have screamed. Her grief was a single flash, instantly replaced by rage and vengeance. No screams, no hysterics.) Carl watched her with a kind of awe, as if she were a new species entirely, one that deserved both study and respect. She retrieved a spear from the corpse.

  The would-be assassin positioned herself at the Friez's right rear—perfectly in his blind spot. With matching deliberation, Carl Clawyn raised his hand before his chest, signaling her to circle around to the Friez's back. The spearwoman complied.

  "You don't need to do that," Carl repeated, his voice steadier now. The Friez ignored him. "He's dead. There's no purpose in this."

  "You spoke again?"

  "I did. I'm addressing you, Friez."

  "Continue." His hammer crashed down on the farmer's upturned wrist with a sickening crack of bone. "Speak on, knight."

  "He's dead. This serves no purpose." The spearwoman inched closer.

  "I won't let him rest," he spat onto the ruined flesh. "This animal insulted me. He insulted all of House Friez. He butchered my men. So I'll give him no quarter, not even in death. I'll shatter him. When his spirit comes wailing back, it won't find a single recognizable piece of itself to inhabit."

  The spearwoman gripped the ash shaft tighter. "Desecrate a dead man and you risk Oris's wrath—for this farmer may descend into Hell as nothing but... minced meat, or worse. Oris will take offense at that. She'll be enraged. The Goddess of Death's fury—I doubt even a Friez would wish to provoke it."

  "Oris? Hell?" He stopped, turning his head with a sneer. "You summon that bitch-goddess down here, and I'll fuck her like a sheep. We'll see then if I become the King of Hell, and if the bastard we make becomes its prince. Hah."

  "That's blasphemy..."

  "Shut your mouth, knight," the Friez snapped, his tone suddenly dangerous. "Unless you want Oris preparing another bed in Hell." Carl Clawyn fell silent, fear and fierce anticipation churning in his chest. The spearwoman launched her attack.