As the first pale fingers of dawn crept over the horizon, we broke camp and began our march into the swamps.

  A thick, cloying mist hung low over the fetid water, swirling around twisted roots and gnarled branches that jutted up from murky depths. Strange, eerie calls echoed through the gloom—the cries of unseen creatures that lurked just beyond the edge of sight.

  I led the way, my hand never straying far from the hilt of my sword as we picked our way along the narrow, winding path. The men followed close behind, faces grim and set with determination. Despite their earlier unease, they were soldiers of the Empire—trained, disciplined—and they would not shrink from their duty.

  We had not gone far when we saw the first signs of the horrors that awaited us.

  A body lay half-submerged in the salty water, bloated and pale in the wan light. Its face was a ruin, flesh torn and ragged as if savaged by some terrible beast.

  I motioned for the men to keep moving, jaw clenched tight against the rising bile in my throat.

  As we pressed deeper into the swamp, unease grew more pungent—a palpable dread that seemed to seep from the earth itself. The mist thickened, swirling around us in eerie tendrils that clung to our skin like clammy fingers. Strange shapes lurked at the edges of my vision, glimpsed from the corner of my eye—only to vanish when I turned to face them head-on.

  Suddenly, a scream pierced the gloom—high and shrill with terror.

  I whirled around, my sword leaping from its scabbard, to see one of the men thrashing in the water, his face a mask of pure horror. Something held him—dragging him down into the murky depths with inhuman strength.

  I lunged forward, hacking at the thing with desperate fury. Black ichor spurted from the wounds, sizzling where it struck my blade—but still the creature would not release its grip.

  All around me, men were fighting for their lives as more creatures burst from the water—hideous forms all grasping claws and gnashing teeth.

  I slashed and hacked with a berserker’s rage, black blood spattering my armor as I carved through foul beasts. But for every one I felled, two more seemed to rise in its place—an endless tide of horror surging from the fetid depths.

  “Fall back!” I roared over the chaos of battle. “Defensive formation, now!”

  The men obeyed with the desperate discipline of those who knew they fought for their souls. They formed a tight circle—shields locked, swords jutting out like the spines of some armored beast.

  I took my place at the fore, grimly determined to sell our lives as dearly as possible.

  The creatures surged forward in a writhing mass of putrid flesh and snapping jaws. They threw themselves upon our armor, scrabbling and clawing with mindless ferocity. Men screamed as talons found gaps in armor, flesh parting in bloody furrows.

  I lost myself in the madness of battle—hacking and slashing until my arms burned with fatigue and my blade dripped black with ichor. Time lost all meaning, the world narrowing to the next parry, the next desperate thrust.

  We were an island of steel adrift in a sea of nightmares.

  Just as I felt my strength beginning to fail, a clarion call cut through the air—pure and bright with holy purpose.

  The creatures faltered, some shying back as if burned by the sound.

  I glanced over my shoulder to see a lone figure standing atop a rocky outcropping.

  He was clad in shining armor of purest white, a long cloak billowing in the fetid breeze. In one hand he held aloft a great golden icon blazing with searing light. The other gripped a long, keen-edged blade that seemed to shimmer with inner fire.

  “In the Savior’s name!” His voice rang out, clear and commanding. “Back to the abyss, foul abominations!”

  He leaped into the fray like an avenging angel, sword flashing in glittering arcs. Where he struck, the creatures burst asunder in gouts of flame—death-screams shrill and piercing. The light of his icon seared through the mist, and where it touched the creatures, they crumbled to ash and blew away.

  Emboldened by his presence, we surged forward—hope kindling in our hearts like the first embers of a blaze. We drove the monsters back, their numbers thinning under our onslaught.

  We rested on bits of dryland.

  Out of our company of fifty, we had lost a good dozen men—several more wounded.

  The stranger who had saved us was clad in the armor of the Order of the Black Griffon. Tall and imposing, he removed his helm to reveal a young face—saddled with grim experience, yet still possessing fierce vitality. His eyes were a piercing blue, seeming to hold within them the sorrows and triumphs of a hundred battles.

  “Well met, brothers,” he said, voice a low rumble. “I am Siegfried of the Black Griffon. It seems we arrived just in time.”

  I stepped forward and clasped his arm in the warrior’s grip.

  “Your arrival was most fortuitous, good sir. I am Captain Kaelitz, and these are my men. We owe you our lives.”

  He inclined his head in acknowledgment.

  “Think nothing of it.” He formed a grin.

  The grin held a hint of arrogance, making me wary despite his timely aid. My instincts, honed by years of battle, whispered caution even as I clasped his arm in gratitude.

  “What brings a knight of the Black Griffon to this accursed place?” I asked, tone carefully neutral.

  His piercing blue eyes met mine, a flicker of something mysterious in their depths.

  “The same as you, I imagine. Duty. Honor. A sacred quest to purge the land of evil.”

  His voice was challenging—as if daring me to question his motives.

  I let the moment sit, weighing what I’d say next.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked. “I rarely see Imperial soldiers this deep inland. Save for marauders—and deserters.”

  I bristled at the implied accusation, hand tightening on my sword hilt.

  “We are no deserters,” I said, voice low and fierce. “We march at the Lord-Commander’s order to seek out and destroy the traitorous Black Band.”

  Siegfried raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk playing about his lips.

  “I see. I do believe I’ve heard of them.”

  “Truly?”

  Siegfried nodded slowly, gaze distant as if lost in memory.

  “Aye, I’ve heard of this Black Band. A bunch of uppity Polovanian peasants who do not understand who their betters are.” He grinned. “Not to mention—led by that traitor Duclaire. A shame to the Valtorean race.”

  He said it while looking at me—speaking as if he wasn’t one of us.

  “Ah,” I said. “I didn’t realize—you are a Baltzer.”

  “Correct.”

  I studied Siegfried carefully, noting the haughty cast of his noble Baltzer features—no different from the rugged Volkian faces of my men. We were of the same blood, yet these Baltzers persisted.

  “The Black Band are more than mere peasants,” he continued with disdain. “They are a formidable foe. When Lord Commander Duclaire ordered Polvanians and Lithurians to be armed, I knew they would turn on us.”

  He spoke as if stating a law of nature.

  “It would seem my Order was right.”

  I blinked.

  I had passed the Black Band on occasion during our march to Freydich’s Pass—chalked them up as little more than rabble and mercenaries. Yet it was understandable why a Polvanian and a Lithurian would desert our cause.

  Were we not their subjugators?

  I considered Siegfried’s words carefully, a pensive frown creasing my brow. His casual disdain unsettled me—even as his warning about their strength gave me pause. Our mission had become far more difficult if they were as formidable as he claimed.

  “You speak as if you know much of these rebels,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “Have you faced them in battle before?”

  Siegfried’s lips curved in a mirthless smile.

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  “Indeed I have, Captain. The Black Griffons have clashed with Duclaire’s little band on multiple occasions. They fight with the desperate ferocity of cornered rats, knowing they can expect no mercy from civilized men of the Empire…”

  “Captain—we are gentlemen, are we not?” I said. “Surely, that is a bit far.”

  Siegfried’s eyes flashed with a zealous light.

  “It is the Savior’s will that the Empire should rule over the lesser peoples. To rebel against that divine order is heresy of the highest sort.”

  “Regardless of their reasons,” I said, steering the conversation to safer ground, “the Black Band must be dealt with. We cannot allow their rebellion to spread further.”

  Siegfried nodded, grim smile playing about his lips.

  “On that, at least, we can agree. My Order has tasked me to hunt down these traitors and bring them to justice. Perhaps we might join forces in this endeavor?”

  I glanced back at my wounded men—faces worn and weary.

  We had lost too many already.

  If the Black Band truly was as formidable as Siegfried claimed, joining forces might be our best hope of success.

  And survival.

  Yet something held me back—a nagging doubt, an instinctive wariness of this haughty Baltzer knight with his talk of divine right and lesser peoples.

  I thought of the Polvanian peasants I had seen on our march—gaunt, hollow-eyed, well used to the turmoil Baltiva seemed to hold in endless amounts.

  I turned back to Siegfried, weighing my words.

  “I appreciate the offer, Sir Siegfried,” I said at last. “Perhaps the two of us can work together—for a time.”

  Siegfried’s smile widened, a hint of triumph in his eyes.

  “Excellent. I believe our combined forces will make short work of these rebels.”

  He clasped my arm, grip firm.

  “Together, we shall bring the Savior’s justice to these lands.”

  I returned his grip, meeting his gaze steadily even as a flicker of unease stirred in my gut.

  There was a zeal in his words—a certainty that bordered on fanaticism. I had seen such men before: knights who believed themselves the Savior’s chosen instruments, anointed to purge the world of all they deemed unclean.

  They were dangerous allies—just as likely to turn on their own as the enemy, if they perceived any hint of wavering conviction.

  “We march at dawn,” I said, tone brooking no argument. “I’ll not risk my men’s lives by blundering through these accursed woods in the dark.”

  Siegfried inclined his head, a faint smile playing at his lips.

  “As you wish, Captain. My men are not too far away—we shall make camp nearby. We can discuss our strategy further in the morning.”

  With that, he turned and strode away, black cloak billowing behind him.

  I watched him go, foreboding settling like a leaden weight in my stomach.

  I had bought my men a brief respite—

  —but I felt as if it came at some grave cost.

  The Order’s troops were far worse than ours in every metric.

  Conscripted peasants of distant Volkian heritage, disdained by the noble Baltzer knights leading them. Instead of breastplates, they wore chainmail—almost archaic in these times. They resembled men-at-arms of old from arming manuals.

  As the Order’s troops filed through our encampment, their presence cast a pall over my men.

  The Baltzer knights marched with haughty bearing, polished armor and fine cloaks a stark contrast to mud-spattered uniforms. Yet for all their finery, something unsettled me about them—cold ruthlessness that seemed to emanate like a miasma.

  I watched Siegfried confer with his lieutenants, heads bent together in quiet conversation. Occasionally one would cast a disdainful glance toward my men.

  “So. We’re working with the Imperials,” one of the knights spat.

  The words were clear to my ears, and anger flared in my chest.

  It was one thing for Siegfried to offer aid, however condescendingly.

  It was another for his men to mock mine openly.

  I strode over, my hand resting casually on my saber.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” I asked, voice deceptively mild.

  The knight turned, sneer twisting patrician features.

  “No problem at all, Captain,” he drawled. “We were simply marveling at the… rustic charm of your encampment. Did you find those men in the wild—or were they brought here in a dung cart?”

  I fixed him with a steely gaze, voice low and dangerous.

  “These men have fought and bled for the Empire, sir. They have endured hardships that would break lesser soldiers. I’ll not have them mocked by the likes of you.”

  The knight’s eyes narrowed, hand dropping to his sword hilt. For a moment, he might draw on me.

  Then Siegfried stepped between us, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

  “Enough, Wolfram,” he snapped. “We are all servants of the Savior here. We do not question the courage of our brothers-in-arms, no matter their origin.”

  Wolfram looked as if he might argue, but a sharp glance from Siegfried quelled him. With a final sneer in my direction, he turned on his heel and stalked away, hand still gripping his sword.

  Siegfried turned to me, expression apologetic.

  “Forgive Wolfram’s intemperance, Captain. He is young and headstrong—but a true believer in our cause. He will learn respect in time.”

  “See that he does,” I growled. “I’ll not have my men insulted—even if they may be scum.”

  Siegfried inclined his head, contrite.

  “You have my word, Captain. It will not happen again.”

  I gave him a curt nod, jaw still clenched.

  “See that it doesn’t. We have enough enemies without fighting amongst ourselves.”

  As Siegfried moved off, I let out a slow breath, trying to quell the fury still simmering in my veins.

  The Baltzer knights might be skilled warriors—

  —but their arrogance would be a problem.

  I could only hope Siegfried could keep them in line.

  We marched through the swamp in a long column, trying to maintain some semblance of order and discipline even as sucking mud threatened to swallow us whole. The air was thick with the stench of decay—a miasma that seeped into our very pores.

  My men slogged forward with grim determination, faces set in hard lines beneath the rims of their helmets.

  Beside me, Siegfried rode at the head of his column, black destrier picking carefully through mire. The Baltzer knights followed close behind, armor gleaming dully in diffuse light filtering through overhanging branches.

  We had marched for hours, yet the swamp seemed endless—fetid water, twisted trees, gray breath of the world.

  The rebels were lurking in shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  I could feel their eyes upon us, a crawling sensation that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  And finally—after half a day of walking—we found it.

  A stone, ancient-looking fortress deep in the swamp.

  Its origins were a puzzle to me. It hardly seemed to be an Imperial castle built by the Order—and it was so deep inland that I questioned its use.

  There were no roads leading to it.

  No signs of recent habitation.

  It seemed to have risen from the swamp itself, a relic of some long-forgotten age.

  As we drew closer, details sharpened: weathered stone walls drowned in moss and lichen; narrow windows, little more than dark slits in masonry.

  Unease crept over me as I gazed upon the forbidding structure.

  “What is this place?” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else.

  Siegfried reined in beside me, gaze fixed on the fortress.

  “I know not its name or history,” he said, voice low and thoughtful. “But there is an old legend among my people of a cursed castle deep in the swamps—built by a mad tribe in the days before the Savior’s grace saved us all.”

  He swallowed.

  “They say it was a place of great evil, where unspeakable rites were performed in the name of dark gods of these lands.”

  A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the damp air.

  “You think this could be the place from your legend?”

  Siegfried shrugged.

  “Who can say? The swamps hold many secrets. But if the rebels have taken refuge here, we must root them out—whatever the cost.”

  I nodded grimly.

  We had come too far to turn back.

  “Then let us proceed with caution,” I said. “If evil exists here, we must be prepared to face it.”

  We formed into a tight column—my men in the lead, the Baltzer knights bringing up the rear.

  As we approached the crumbling gatehouse, dread settled over me like a shroud.

  The very stones seemed to exude malice—as if the fortress was aware of our presence and resented our intrusion.

  The portcullis was raised, rusted teeth like fangs in the gloom.

  Nothing greeted us.

  Only silence.

  “Oh lord,” one of the men mumbled. “Ain’t that something. They’re just waiting for us; they are.”

  I nodded grimly.

  The dark aperture of the gatehouse yawned before us like the maw of some slumbering beast. Every instinct screamed to turn back—to flee this accursed place and never look back.

  But duty compelled us onward.

  “Steady, men,” I called, surprised at the calm in my voice. “Remember your training. Keep your wits about you and watch each other’s backs. The Savior is with us—even in this forsaken place.”

  Some touched crudely carved Savior symbols at their necks, whispering prayers. Siegfried and his knights made the sign of the Savior’s Flame across their breastplates.

  The gestures offered a small comfort.

  Still the dread remained.

  With a deep breath, I drew my sword and stepped into the shadows of the gatehouse. My boots squelched in damp moss and decaying matter underfoot. The men filed in behind me, weapons ready, eyes wide and scanning the darkness.

  The tunnel through the gatehouse was low and narrow, forcing single file. Slimy stone pressed in on either side, as if the fortress sought to swallow us whole.

  And then we emerged into the courtyard.

  It was a scene unlike any other.

  An abattoir.

  The stench of death struck all at once as I saw rows of decimated men laid upon the grass.

  Dozens of bodies lay strewn across overgrown ground—limbs twisted at unnatural angles, lifeless eyes staring up at gray sky. Many bore blackened veins. Their mouths were filled with bloody froth crusted around their lips.

  Retching sounded behind me as some men lost the contents of their stomachs.

  Even Siegfried looked pale beneath his beard, knuckles white on his sword hilt.

  “Mother of mercy,” he breathed.

  “What?” I asked, looking at him.

  He seemed alert—yet said nothing, only staring at the courtyard with a kind of dread I had never seen in a man’s face.

  He trembled.

  “Look,” he whispered. “Look at what… look.”

  I followed his gaze—and noticed then the positioning.

  The bodies were not strewn haphazardly.

  No.

  There was a purposefulness to the arrangement, a sickening symmetry that spoke of twisted intelligence behind the carnage.

  The corpses were laid out in a precise grid, splayed arms almost touching—forming a macabre lattice across the weed-choked courtyard.

  And at the center of that grisly tableau stood a raised dais of crumbling stone.

  Upon it: a massive blazing brazier.

  The flames danced and writhed, casting shadows across the butchered dead. Noxious black smoke poured upward, carrying a stench that made my gorge rise.

  “This is no rebel hideout,” I managed through clenched teeth, fighting nausea. “This is something far worse.”

  Siegfried nodded grimly, eyes fixed on the dais.

  “An altar,” he spat. “To what dark god, I dare not guess.”

  “Captain!” one of my men called, voice quivering with barely restrained terror. “Over here!”

  I turned.

  A soldier pointed toward one of the crumbling walls with a trembling hand. There, daubed in what looked like dried blood, was a strange symbol—a jagged sigil that made me sign the Holy Flame.

  It was the Sign of the Unholy.

  The mark of the Dark One.

  Unmistakable.

  A shudder ran through me at the sight of that foul sigil, and the icy touch of fear brushed my soul as Siegfried stepped closer.

  “We must burn them,” he said. “These bodies—they carry the Plague.”

  My blood ran cold.

  The Plague.

  A scourge so vile that even the bravest of men quailed at its mention—a disease born of dark sorcery, a contagion that twisted flesh and corrupted souls before granting an agonizing death.

  “Are you certain?” I asked, voice hollow.

  Siegfried nodded, grim.

  “I’ve seen it before—only once, and that was enough. The blackened veins. The bloody froth. There can be no mistaking it. We must burn the bodies before the contagion spreads.”

  I swallowed hard, mind reeling.

  If the Plague was here, then we were not safe. It could already be in the air—riding the swamp’s breath, clinging to our clothes, settling into lungs with every inhale.

  “We cannot tarry then,” I said, surprised once more at the steadiness of my voice. “Gather the bodies. Build the pyres. We will send these poor souls to the cleansing flame—and pray it is enough to halt the spread of this unholy pestilence.”

  The men leaped to the grim task with alacrity born of fear. They hauled twisted corpses onto heaps of broken furniture and rotting timbers scavenged from the ruined keep.

  All the while, I kept a wary eye on the hellish brazier, its flames crackling and popping as if in gleeful anticipation.

  As the pyres caught and the first wisps of greasy smoke curled upward, I turned to Siegfried.

  His face was drawn and haggard, eyes haunted.

  Now he stared past the courtyard—

  into the castle proper, looming beyond.

  “Now…” he murmured, voice tight. “What awaits us in there, I wonder?”

  I stared into that yawning darkness.

  And I could only fear what lay inside.