Anthrak and Harrold followed the priest across the square, their boots squelching in the sodden grime. The old church loomed ahead through the morning mist, a huddled fortress of grey stone, its weathered door scarred with carvings and rusted hinges. Then a faint wind whistled through the village, stirring the branches of nearby trees and carrying the distant howl of a wolf—or perhaps something worse. Inside the church, the air was cold and musty, tinged with the scent of woodsmoke and candle wax. An oak table stood near the entrance, flanked by a scattering of crooked chairs. Ahead, benches lined the walls, worn smooth and dark by years of faithful arses, and a simple pulpit rose at the far end. Harrold’s sharp eyes immediately latched onto a large wooden chest that rested on the table, its iron hinges glinting faintly in the dim light, almost like it was calling him.


    “This is a nice church,” Anthrak said, his voice soft with reverence. “I’m always at my calmest when I’m in a church. Something about the quiet eases my soul.”


    “I’ll just wake my nephew to stable your horse,” the priest replied, brushing past them toward the back. “He lives in a hut in the garden. I won’t be a moment.” With a creak of hinges, he slipped through a small door at the rear of the church, leaving the two alone.


    “Do you think there’ll be biscuits with the tea?” Anthrak said, fidgeting with the hem of his mud-streaked cloak.


    “How the hell should I know?” Harrold shot back, already prowling the room. “Do I look like the sort who nibbles biscuits? Anyway, let’s have a look around while the old man’s gone.”


    “Look for what?”


    “Gold,” Harrold said, a sly grin spreading across his face. “I’d wager this priest has some stashed away. These preachy types love their treasures—gold, silver, maybe even a diamond or two.”


    “You want to steal from the church? You can’t steal from anyone, let alone a church.”


    “I’m not stealing, I’m borrowing. And a prince has rights, you know. Now, go outside and stand by the door and keep watch for that old codger.”


    “Keep watch?”


    “Yeah, be my lookout. Give me a warning when he comes back.”


    “What kind of warning?”


    ‘Oh, I don’t know. Try and make the sound of a crow or something.”


    “This doesn’t feel right,” Anthrak muttered, wringing his hands. “Stealing’s wrong—it just feels so wrong.”


    “It isn’t wrong when you’re the prince of Dymoria. I can do whatever I damn well please.”


    Then a sudden, loud knock rattled the door, cutting through the stillness like a fighting hammer on stone.


    “The priest’s back,” Anthrak whispered.  “He knows we’re stealing!”


    “Why would he knock on his own door?” Harrold scoffed, prying at the chest’s lid with his dagger. “Just ignore it. They’ll bugger off soon enough.”


    “Maybe he forgot his keys?”


    “Or maybe it’s the gods that come to smite us.”


    “Don’t joke about that,” Anthrak snapped. “You know my faith means something to me.”


    “Sure it does.”


    The knocking grew louder. Insistent. After a moment, Harrold’s patience snapped. “Open the bloody door. Maybe the old fool did forget his keys.”


    Anthrak shuffled over and cracked the door just enough to peek outside. A young woman stood in the cold, her long red hair catching the faint sunlight, cascading in loose waves. Freckles dusted her rosy cheeks, and her blue eyes flickered like wet stones.


    He shut the door quickly. “There’s a girl out there. I don’t know what she wants.”


    “Of course you don’t, you haven’t asked her,” Harrold snapped. “Were you born this stupid?”


    Anthrak hesitated, then cracked the door again. “Hello,” he said meekly. “Can I help you?”


    “Hello,” the girl replied gently.“Is the priest here?”


    “He was. I mean…he’s just stepped out, but he was here.”


    “Ask her what she wants,” Harrold hissed from across the room.


    “May I ask what you want?”


    “It’s fine, I’ll stop by later,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear.  “I just need to speak with the priest about my brother.”


    “Shall I tell him you came by?”


    “No need. I only wanted to let him know I’m taking my sheep into the woods to graze. It’s not urgent.” And with that, she smiled, turned and walked off.


    “What the hell did she want?”


    Anthrax closed the door. “She’s a shepherd girl, I think. She mentioned sheep.”


    “Sheep? Who gives a damn about sheep? You should’ve brought her in—might’ve been worth a chat.”


    “Women make me nervous,” Anthrak whispered, his cheeks flushing red. “They really do.”


    “Nervous!” Harrold barked a laugh. “Pathetic.” He finally got the chest open and began rifling through it—old scrolls, a tarnished candlestick, a few moth-eaten cloths, but no gold. “Look at all this old crap!”


    Anthrak shifted uncomfortably, wishing Harrold’s tongue weren’t so sharp. “Next time a girl comes by, I’ll invite her in,” he said, forcing bravado into his voice. “I’ll talk to her, you’ll see.”


    “Yeah, sure you will,” Harrold snorted. “When we get home, you can watch me charm Ava. Of all the girls in Dymoria, she’s the one who adores me most.”


    “Oh, I’m sure she does,” Anthrak replied, a faint trace of sarcasm slipping through.


    Just then, the priest suddenly reentered through the back door, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Harrold at the chest. “Is everything alright in here? Are you finding what you need?”


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    “All fine, priest,” Harrold said, slamming the lid shut. “Just looking for a bite to eat. Very hungry, you see.


    “Hmmm…I see. Well, no need to rummage further. I’ve fresh rolls and ale in my bag.” The priest set a brown leather bag upon the table with a soft thud.


    “Where’s my horse?” Harrold demanded. “Have you stabled him?”


    “No worries there—my nephew’s tending to him now. He’ll be fed and watered.”


    “Can I have a cup of tea?” Anthrak asked politely.


    “Of course, my boy,” the priest said, crossing to the hearth where a black iron kettle steamed over a low fire. “Would you like sugar and milk?”


    “Yes, please.”


    “And you, Prince Harrold? Tea and sugar?”


    “Just ale for me,” Harrold replied, slumping into a chair. “And a few of those rolls.”


    Anthrak settled beside Harrold at the creaky wooden table, its surface scarred from years of use, as the priest rummaged in his worn leather bag. With a faint grunt, he pulled out a handful of crusty bread rolls—golden-brown, still warm from the oven—and set them down. “Help yourselves, lads,” he said, turning to the hearth where a black iron kettle hissed over spitting embers. He gripped its handle with a rag and poured two steaming cups of tea, the dark amber liquid swirling faint.


    “I’m bloody starving,” Harrold declared as he tore into a bread roll.“Haven’t eaten since Flangor. Fucking Anthrak lost our supplies crossing the Nord River.”


    “Must you swear so much?” the priest sighed.


    “Yes, I lost the supplies,” Anthrak admitted quietly. “They went under when we forded the river.”


    “No matter,” the priest said kindly. “Eat as much bread as you like. I only wish I had more to offer.”


    “Got any ale, priest?” Harrold said.


    The priest placed a wooden tankard in front of Harrold, then uncorked a large leather flask, pouring a frothy brown stream into it. “Here you are.”


    Harrold downed it in one long gulp.


    They sat in silence for a stretch, the crackle of the fire filling the room. Harrold broke it first, turning to the priest. “So, what do you know about Domfloor?”


    The priest let out a heavy sigh, his gaze drifting to the flickering flames. “A long time ago, I lived there. It feels like another life now. Domfloor was different then—more like Dymoria in its prime. People were free, life was prosperous. A golden age, you might say.”


    “Domfloor like Dymoria?” Harrold scoffed. “Hard to swallow that.”


    “Many would agree,” the priest said, “but I recall when Domfloor shone. Its cities drew travelers from across the world—art, music, culture, all thriving with a vibrancy you’d hardly believe. Then… things changed.”


    “What changed?” Harrold pressed, lighting his pipe with a match.


    “The goblins of Thrakka invaded from the north. A brutal time—blood and fire and ash. Many a poor soul perished..”


    “Goblins took Domfloor?” Harrold asked, puffing out a cloud of smoke in the priest’s face.


    “Didn’t you study history, lad?” the priest replied, wafting away the smoke with his hand “The goblins were repelled by Domfloor’s armies…but not without cost. Then afterwards, the goblins left ruin in their wake—towns razed, thousands dead. King Sloane, who ruled then, borrowed gold heavily from foreign kings to rebuild. A noble intent but poorly executed.”


    “I thought Lord Mudrak ruled Domfloor,” Anthrak said.


    “Schools teaches you boys nothing, eh?” the priest said. “This was before Mudrak’s time! Sloane was king when I lived there, struggling to mend a broken land.”


    “So what went wrong?” Harrold asked.


    “The debts mounted beyond repayment. Sloane’s advisors were fools, and the kingdom slid into decay, and then…economic collapse followed.”


    “How’d Mudrak take over, then?” Harrold asked, tapping ash from his pipe onto the floor. “What happened to Sloane?”


    “Mudrak—Kristian, as he was known then—was a royal knight, one of Sloane’s finest. A brave and brilliant knight, held in highest esteem. A true soldier. Then…Kristian led a rebellion against Sloane.”


    “Why rebel?” Anthrak asked. “If he was such a good knight?”


    “He blamed Sloane for the countries ruin—borrowing gold the kingdom couldn’t repay. Kristian rallied the army around him, claiming they’d restore order and make the kingdom rich again. And he had plenty of support. Half the army stood with him. The king and his loyalists fought back and they met at the Battle of Boddington Field. And there…Kristian’s forces triumphed. He even killed King Sloane himself. Even plucked the crown from the mud and placed it upon his own head.”


    “And then?” Harrold prompted.


    “That’s how Kristian became Lord Mudrak. He took the throne and promised renewal, and the people loved him for it—hope after despair.”


    “Was he a good ruler?” Anthrak said.


    “For a time, yes—very good. Things prospered… until they didn’t.” The priest sighed deeply. “Power warped him, as it does all men. Good intentions faded, madness crept in, and the kingdom declined again. Now, he’s allied with Thrakka’s goblins—even the bracken tribes, they say.”


    “Thrakka goblins hit Tandor last night,” Harrold said, his tone darkening. “Burnt it to fucking cinders.”


    The priest fell silent, staring into his tea.


    “A terrible sight,” Anthrak murmured.


    “Bastard Mudrak,” Harrold growled. “He’s why I’ve got to cut my holiday short and haul arse back home.”


    “Are his armies really at the border?” Anthrak pressed.  “Will they invade?”


    The priest met his gaze, his eyes heavy and bloodshot. “I fear so, lad. They’ll swallow us whole.”


    “We’ll drive them back,” Harrold said confidently. “Send the scum scurrying back to their wretched holes.”


    “I hope so,” the priest replied softly. “I truly do.”


    They sat quietly for a time, the fire’s glow casting long shadows across the stone floor. Harrold broke the stillness. “A girl knocked earlier, looking for you.”


    “A girl? What did she look like?”


    “No clue,” Harrold said. “Anthrak?”


    “Long red hair, blue eyes,” Anthrak said. “Very pretty. I liked her.”


    “That’s Jenny,” the priest said with a faint smile. “She’s the local shepherd girl—helps me out now and then. Checks in on me.”


    “Maybe I’ll pay her a visit,” Harrold mused, winking at Anthrak. “Just a quick one.”


    “She’d love that,” Anthrak said dryly. “Might fall head over heels.”


    “Is that sarcasm?”


    “Sarcasm? Me?” Anthrak turned to the priest. “So, why have raiders been hitting the village?


    “Don’t fret over it, lad,” the priest said, a touch too quickly. “It’s a small matter.”


    “Why shouldn’t we fret?” Harrold said. “What are you hiding?”


    “I’m no strategist,” the priest said, “but I believe it’s tied to Mudrak’s plans—sowing chaos before his armies march. Weakening us.”


    “Smart bastard,” Harrold said, puffing smoke. “Wear us down first.”


    “Listen, lads,” the priest said, rising, “I’ve no more tales to tell. If you’re still hungry, take more rolls.”


    “Anywhere to sleep around here?” Harrold asked.


    “The inn’s just across the road. Beds there if you fancy staying. Leave when you’re ready,” the priest headed for the door. “Your horse—Brutus, was it?—is stabled next door.”


    “Not ‘Brutus,’” Harrold corrected. “Basileus.”


    “Beg you pardon. I’m truly terrible with names.” He stepped out, the door thudding shut behind him.


    Harrold and Anthrak sat in silence for a moment. “That’s fucking strange, you know,” Harrold said finally. “Him just leaving us here.”


    Anthrax sipped his tea. “I don’t think it’s strange.”


    “It’s bloody strange. He clammed up when you mentioned raiders and wolves. And when I brought up Tandor, he barely flinched. Something’s fishy.”


    “Yes, very fishy indeed,” Anthrak said, a hint of mockery in his tone.


    “Exactly. That priest’s hiding something—I can feel it.”


    “Shall we head to the inn?”


    “Yeah, let’s go. Grab the rest of those rolls.”


    They left the church, stepping into a biting wind that swept across the road. The cold gnawed at their bones as they approached the inn, a squatted timber building with a sagging thatched roof and a creaking sign. A cold rain started to pour. They walked up the stone steps and Harrold pounded the door with a clenched fist.


    The door creaked open, revealing a large burly man with a brown bushy beard. “Are you the innkeeper?” Harrold asked.


    “Who wants to know?” the man grunted, stroking his beard.


    “We do,” Harrold said, shoving past him into the warmth.