Haddie awoke to an unsettling silence. The barn was empty, save for Caesar, who stood chewing a clump of hay with an indifferent gaze. Sometimes it seemed so intelligent, as if touched by a divine force, and sometimes it seemed so disappointingly ordinary. In this moment it was the latter.


    She lifted herself from the blanket and headed to the exit, the faint glow of the early sun seeping through the slats of the barn and casting long, pale streaks across her form.


    She used one hand to pull her cloak tight to stay warm and the other to push open the barn door. She emerged into an empty street.


    She paced the inn, moving through the halls and doorways inspecting every room. The inn was bereft of a single soul. Everyone was gone. Haddie then walked outside to search the shops across the street. They too were empty. Their windows shuttered and doors latched.


    The town was quite beautiful in the daylight. Fresh flowers rested in planters beneath each window. White walls were sandwiched between the dark timber framing of each building. Many were painted with murals. Some were simple designs like ribbons and vines, while others were story-tall figures of animals, knights, and creatures from mythology—winged gryphons and prancing statyrs.


    She followed the cobblestone street to a fountain at the center of the village. It was in the shape of an octagon with eight equal-length sides. A dark mold crept up at its base, giving it a dark blue-green patina. At its top was a full-breasted mermaid—the water poured from her nipples. Her sculpted hair trellised down her shoulders and back, and her scaled fish tail wrapped around her pedestal and descended into the water. She was all the vision of vanity, as all mermaids were.


    Haddie perked up as a familiar sound came to her. The breeze carried muffled voices, a humming. No, Haddie thought, a hymn.


    A stone chapel stood across from her. The chapel was modest but beautiful in its simplicity. Its walls were crafted from gray granite, weathered and pitted by centuries of Alpine winds. A pair of wooden doors, carved with depictions of saints and angels, shined from beneath a recent application of clear lacquer. Above them, a circular stained-glass window depicted Christ surrounded by lambs, glowing softly in the morning light.


    Haddie pushed one of the heavy doors open, just a crack, so she could slip inside. The interior was dim, illuminated by shafts of light filtering through the stained glass. Rows of wooden pews faced an altar of simple yet striking design—polished oak adorned with a single brass crucifix. Candles flickered along the walls, their flames casting dancing shadows that seemed to animate the carved figures of saints.


    At the center of the gathering was Felix, his head bowed, kneeling before a priest clad in a simple habit. Haddie’s breath caught at the sight of him, his usually stoic form now radiating humility. Around him, the townsfolk and mercenaries were gathered, even the innkeeper woman, standing and leaning against misericords carved into the back of their folding seats.


    The priest placed a hand on Felix’s head, murmuring a benediction. The words were inaudible to her, but the ritual was unmistakable—an affirmation of purpose and a vow of obedience. When the priest stepped back, Felix rose and crossed himself before turning to face the crowd. His gaze briefly caught Haddie’s, and she felt a flicker of awkward trepidation. She was an outsider. An apostate. She did not belong here.


    Thankfully, their mass had come to an end. As the congregation began to disperse, Haddie found herself approached by the captain of the Swiss mercenaries. He was a blond, broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that glinted with a sharp intelligence.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    “My lady,” he began, bowing his head slightly. “I am Oswald, captain of this miserable lot. I must apologize for the behavior of my men last night. They are good fighters but often too quick to indulge their baser instincts, especially after a drink.”


    Haddie inclined her head, unsure how to respond. Before she could find words, Felix joined them.


    “I must also offer my apologies,” Felix said. “My temper often outpaces my judgment.”


    Oswald nodded, his posture softening. “All is forgiven. It’s what Christ would want. You carry yourself like a true warrior. A knight? A soldier?”


    Felix hesitated but then spoke plainly. “I am Felix DeWinter, a witch hunter in service of the Pope and the Holy See.”


    The captain’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion but in thought. “A witch hunter, you say? I commend your work, though it must be a difficult calling.” Then he looked to Haddie. “You did not attend mass, m’lady. A late night?” And he smirked at Felix.


    Felix laughed and Haddie shot him daggers.


    Felix abruptly ended his laughter and cleared his throat. “Speaking of work, may I ask who you and your men serve?”


    “We are pledged to the French,” Oswald replied. “But our enemy is not the English, but the Burgundians. They were the ones who delivered Jeanne d’Arc to the English, and their alliance has made this war far bloodier than it might have been. The French are beset on both sides.”


    Felix’s expression darkened at the mention of Joan of Arc, but he said nothing. Instead, he pressed on. “Do you know of Mont Saint-Michel?”


    “Of course. A small island that was turned into a church that was turned into a fortress. It’s the only French holding in Normandy—the English can’t force the bastards out. But its days may be numbered. The Baron of Scales has been tasked with its siege. It’s been a thorn in their side for too long—a symbol of resistance. Scales is a formidable foe, though his appointment was as much political as it was strategic. He commands loyalty through coin more than charisma, yet his results are undeniable. The Baron has a reputation for persistence—he will not rest until Mont Saint-Michel is ground to dust and every man and every thing there is destroyed.”


    Felix’s jaw tightened. “Thank you for the information. It may yet prove invaluable.”


    The captain extended a hand, which Felix clasped firmly. “Safe travels, witch hunter. May God guide your path.”


    As the mercenaries began to depart, Haddie and Felix stood side by side in the chapel’s shadowed doorway. Haddie glanced at him, her expression one of concern. Not for him, and not for her, but for them.


    “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked softly.


    Felix hesitated, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “I didn’t think you’d want to join me here. Faith is a personal matter—for me, and for you.”


    “You could have told me,” said Haddie. “I thought you vanished.”


    Felix turned to her, his eyes softening. “I won’t vanish, Haddie. Not without a word.”


    She nodded, though her heart felt far from settled. Together, they left the chapel, and with Caesar in tow, they left the small Swiss town.


    Felix was set on reaching Normandy as fast as possible, which would mean less diversions. But fate loves providing good people with endless obstacles. In this instance, the road stopped.


    “Christ in Heaven,” said Felix.


    “What does it say?” asked Haddie.


    Felix raised an eyebrow. Then he pointed at a sign. “Can you read that?” asked Felix.


    “No,” replied Haddie. She squirmed on her saddle, uncomfortable with the question.


    Felix pointed at another sign posted to the felled trees that blocked the road. “What about that one? Can you read that one?”


    “No,” said Haddie. “I cannot read the signs.”


    “You cannot read the signs, or you cannot read?”


    “I cannot read.”


    Felix drew a heavy, contemplative breath. Could his mission bear to take on another task? He looked back to the road, and how far they’d come, and decided that she was not truly free from the shackles of her upbringing until she had the freedom to read. “I’ll teach you, then. This is your first lesson. Would you like to learn German or French?”


    “Why German or French?”


    Felix motioned to the signs, “Because that sign is in German, and that sign is in French.”


    “German… But we are heading to France, so maybe French is more appropriate.”


    “They say the same thing,” said Felix. “Sound out each letter, then put them together.”


    Haddie did her best, pursing her lips and puffing out air and then flicking her tongue. “P—p…”


    Felix nodded approvingly. The word was nearly the same in both languages. It mattered not which sign she read.


    Haddie did her best, and Felix waited patiently. Her champion, her companion, and now her teacher. Eventually, she put the sounds together and it formed a word.


    “Plague.”