Amidst a sea of white and red crosses, Duke De La Bradfrey’s knights rode under a banner of a black shield with a white chevron and three divided stars, a defiant symbol against heresy, towering above the Templar cross and Vasierian purple. On his newly gifted white stallion, Bradfrey sat tall, though his body was as much bandaged as armored. His arm hung in a sling, and his stiff neck forced him to steer sideways, constantly scanning his blind side for danger.


    “Do I look that pretty?” Amos asked, his white armor standing out sharply among Bradfrey’s black-coated knights.


    “Just wondering if that smirk rubs off,” Bradfrey muttered through a swollen lip.


    “Like these scars, it’s a tale of adventure inscribed deep into this gorgeous jawline,” Amos said with a self-satisfied grin.


    “Isn’t it just,” Bradfrey sighed, the kink in his neck seeming to worsen at the sound of Amos’s gloating tone. “What are we to do with you when all is done? Does Amos dare lay down the sword, retire a pious man?” Bradfrey asked, his words carrying a note of dry amusement.


    “You asked me that back in Keesh,” Amos replied. “It got me thinking about humanity and its many frailties—how we’re bent toward evil. The need for pious men to straighten out the seams.”


    “Such is life,” Bradfrey sighed, tugging his reins to quicken his pace and leave Amos behind, trading banter for focus.


    He gauged their progress by the thinning vegetation and the scattered patches of late summer snow dotting the vast plateau until the dreary skies gave way to a faint shimmer—the distant silhouette of the pagan monastery.


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    Inside Bradfrey’s war tent, scouting reports lay strewn across the commander’s desk, detailing the pagans’ positions. The cone-shaped ridge looming in the distance—was marked on the tabletop by wooden blocks and black marble chess pieces. Between swollen knuckles, Bradfrey flicked white marble pawns onto the board, his eyes tracking the squires as they scrambled to adjust the formations on the map.


    “Why the gap?” Grand Templar Eberstein gestured toward the open space in the battle plan.


    “He’s giving them an escape route,” Bishop Arcadius said from his seat at the head of the table. “A choice that leads to the same fate.”


    Amos studied the board, then moved the queen from its perch over the castle marker representing the Temple of the Last to an unexplored mountain range. “What if it’s another Pragian?”


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    Bradfrey toppled the remaining black castle markers, dragging part of the map with them. His gaze flicked to Arcadius’s twiddling thumb. “Our goal isn’t to provoke battle, but to dislodge them—drive them into the open fields, where you, Amos, and your knights will be waiting. When the trickle becomes a flood…” Bradfrey paused. “Take whatever discretion you need.” ““It would be my honor”” Amos said with a wry smile.


    “What of their trickery?” asked Davos “If Sir Tristan taught us anything?”


    Bradfrey shrugged off the comment. “He wasn’t a man of faith.”


    The remark appeased the zealous nobility, particularly Bishop Arcadius, who nodded in approval. The room shifted as fervor spread, bolstering the unity of the gathered nobles until even the hesitant fell in line.


    Bradfrey leaned over the table, sliding rows of white pawns closer to their black wooden counterparts. “I want our infantry close enough for the enemy to feel our breath as they sleep with one eye open.”


    “Any sign of wizardry?” Eberstein asked.


    “None. Just gypsies,” Amos replied.


    “Sounds vulnerable,” Eberstein noted, drawing Bradfrey’s glare.


    “Thoroughness over haste,” Bradfrey snapped. “No mistakes, no survivors,” he declared, slamming the table. “That’s all.”


    As the nobles and zealots filed out, Bradfrey’s healer wove her way through the departing crowd. With warm oils, she massaged his pinched neck, allowing him to turn his head toward the lingering Grand Templar.


    Eberstein had been flipping through the overlapping scripts on Bradfrey’s desk. His fingers paused on controversial titles: Bjarke the Demon Slayer, Folk Laws of Nomadic Wizards, and Chronicles of Rowan against the Barbarians. His gaze caught shimmering grains of sand spilling from an empty sack. “Your father was never one for planning. A blunt instrument with enough force does the same job,” Eberstein said, gesturing to the desk’s contents.


    “What good did that serve him?” Bradfrey replied coldly.


    “Redemption is more than paying gambling debts. It’s the restoration of honor that kept your name intact. This,” Eberstein said, gesturing around the opulent war tent, “though well-earned, speaks to your father’s enduring qualities: his bravery, his devotion, and—”


    “Honor?” Bradfrey interrupted.


    “Yes, honor.”


    “Funny,” Bradfrey said bitterly. “I always valued responsibility, accountability, and compassion—qualities my father never possessed.”


    Eberstein chuckled. “There’s Castell—the old war dog remains outspoken even in death. Did he ever tell you how a flawed man is shaped by society’s ills?”


    “Are you telling me my family’s bankruptcy wasn’t his fault?” Bradfrey said, his voice rising. “Let’s cut to the chase. I don’t need to forgive my father. I’ll raise his banner over the temple’s ashes and call it a day.”


    Eberstein furrowed his brow, his tone softening. “What if she’s there? The wizard girl. Which set of virtues will you uphold in her presence?”


    “The same ones inscribed on my spare blade. I don’t have it on me, but if you’d kindly retrieve it from Cestmir’s side, it might just jog my memory.”


    Eberstein laughed, though tension lingered in the air. “Castell might dominate your headspace, but your father’s blood runs through your veins. That much I’m sure of,” he said, flicking the queen piece from the table before turning and walking away.