The wheels of the enchanted carriage churned steadily over the moss-cracked stones of the King’s Road, its gold-bound wheels trailing dust and sound in equal measure. Trees bent in arching shadows above, branches etched like claws against the gray-laced sky. The road wound like a serpent through the Weeping Pines, and all around it rode the men of the Empire—Draumbean’s personal escort, clad in polished steel and bearing the royal sunburst on their cloaks. They were not many—just a dozen knights and a captain—but their presence drew deference from every passing soul.

  Within the velvet-lined interior of the carriage sat four of the most curious travelers in the realm.

  Draumbean, sat reclined in the center couch of the moving salon. His robes of cobalt and ink rustled faintly as he turned a page in a floating tome, the glyphs on its surface shimmering and vanishing as they were read. Opposite him sat Mathias Blackthorne, his long coat unbuttoned and legs crossed, one boot tapping with restrained restlessness. Beside him, Cassandra Greystone scribbled with quill and parchment, her ink-smeared fingers twitching with thought. Across from her, Roland the Witch-Commander nursed a silver flask with one hand and a map of the Riverlands in the other, its corners dog-eared with decades of use.

  Outside, perched atop a spare supply crate tied behind the rear axle, rode Viktor —silent, armored, and unmoving as a carved figurehead. Even the horses seemed wary of him.

  The silence within the cabin had lasted the better part of an hour, broken only by the creak of the wheels and the occasional murmured spell from Draumbean as he adjusted the weather wards. Then, the wizard lowered his hand, let the tome shut with a whisper, and looked up at the others with a faint smile behind his orange beard.

  “So,” he said, voice like velvet drawn over granite, “your silent friend. Viktor, was it? Does he not speak at all?”

  Mathias looked up, brow raised.

  “No,” he said plainly. “Not since the fall of his house.”

  Draumbean’s expression deepened into one of polite curiosity. “Ah, Grandia. I thought I recognized the crest etched into his greaves. A serpent impaled by a spear. Their lands were vast. Orchards, vineyards, and some of the finest horse stock in the east. I had occasion to meet King Egrim Morvain once. Gruff man. Proud. Always wore red.”

  “He wore red,” Mathias echoed grimly, “because he’d spilled plenty of it.”

  Cassandra lowered her pen.

  “They were all taken,” she said. “Overnight. Viktor's family. Turned, most of them. By a coven of bloodsuckers posing as minor lords. When the Witch Hunters were finally summoned, it was too late. Only Viktor was left. Half-turned. They’d… toyed with him. Fed him blood and madness. Then left him alive. Or something like it.”

  “And now,” Draumbean murmured, eyes gleaming, “he rides with you.”

  “He helped us kill their master,” Cassandra said. “A creature with black wings and a laugh like iron on bone. Viktor took a wound to the throat during that fight. Nearly died again. He hasn’t spoken since.”

  The wizard leaned back, steepling his fingers. “And yet he follows you.”

  “He saved our lives,” said Mathias. “Twice since then. And we saved his.”

  Draumbean gave a low hum. “And the nature of his condition? Any… residuals?”

  Cassandra glanced at Mathias, who gave a single nod.

  “He’s stronger than any man I’ve ever seen,” she said carefully. “And wounds don’t linger on him. Not for long.”

  “Blood?”

  There was a pause.

  Roland coughed and took another pull from his flask. “To a degree. He’s never drunk the blood of man or woman, so far as we know. But… he has a taste for meat. Raw meat. Deer, oxen, wolf. He prefers it fresh.”

  Draumbean gave a thoughtful nod. “I see. I must admit I’m surprised the Order accepted him in his condition.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Mathias smirked, but it was a bitter thing. “It took every ounce of goodwill Roland had. And a small mountain of political favors. There are still plenty in the Guild who think he should’ve been put to the torch.”

  “And what do you think?” Draumbean asked.

  Mathias didn’t blink. “I think he’s saved more lives than some of the Grand Inquisitors. And I think I trust him more than I trust half the bastards in the capital.”

  Roland chuckled. “We tried breaking them up once. Thought it’d do them good, you know, a little distance. We assigned Viktor elsewhere. Let’s just say… it didn’t go well. He nearly tore through three door-wards and a battlemage to get back to her.”

  Cassandra didn’t smile, but she flushed slightly.

  Draumbean gave a soft laugh. “Well then. Perhaps fate has chosen its own trinity.”

  At that moment, the carriage gave a sudden lurch. The horses whinnied. Mathias cursed as he bumped his head against the wooden wall.

  “What in the nine bloody tongues was that?” he muttered, rubbing his scalp.

  Before Draumbean could speak, a shadow appeared outside the shuttered window. The door opened, and one of the escorting knights bowed his head. His armor bore road-dust and sweat, his visor lifted to reveal a bearded face etched with tension.

  “My lord,” the knight said. “A force blocks the road ahead. Oathkeepers. Heavily armed.”

  Roland’s eyes sharpened. “Oathkeepers? Here?”

  Draumbean nodded, brushing a hand through his beard. “That would be General Bhraime Montclef. He was recalled from the border two weeks past. He marches to the capital.”

  Roland grunted and stood. “I’d heard whispers. I see now they weren’t just rumors.”

  One by one, they disembarked. The cool air of the road kissed their skin as the carriage door opened, and Draumbean descended first, robes trailing behind him like the tail of a comet. Roland followed, his boots crunching gravel. Cassandra and Mathias stepped down last, the former adjusting her coat, the latter scanning the tree line.

  Ahead, across the bend of the road, a great force had gathered. Banners bearing the Oathkeeper sigil—two silver swords crossed beneath a broken crown—flapped in the wind. Hundreds of men stood in orderly rows beside massive wagons and armored beasts of burden. Field tents were hastily being raised nearby.

  From the center of the formation came a tall man astride a broad-chested charger. He dismounted before drawing near. Salt-and-pepper hair clung to his scalp beneath a silver helm, and his mustache was exaggerated to the point of arrogance. His armor was masterwork—layered steel, polished bright, with a lion’s head on each pauldron.

  “Well met, wizard!” he boomed, striding forward like a storm given legs.

  Draumbean offered a polite nod.

  “General.”

  Before another word could be said, Bhraime embraced him in a crushing bear-hug, lifting the wizard clear off the ground.

  “Put me down, General,” Draumbean managed through gritted teeth.

  With a hearty laugh, Bhraime obliged. “Still as light as ever.”

  “And you’re still as loud,” Draumbean muttered, brushing his robes straight.

  Bhraime clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to rattle his bones. “Five years it’s been, hasn’t it?”

  “At least.”

  “Well,” Bhraime said, looking over the rest of the group with curiosity, “we’re just about to take our midday meal. Why don’t you and your lot join us? You can tell me what’s got the emperor’s robe in a twist.”

  Draumbean smiled. “It would be an honor.”

  The mess was crude but efficient. Soldiers knelt around cookfires in small circles, sipping broth or gnawing through salted meat and bread. Steam rose in thick clouds. Bhraime’s table, a long stretch of oak set between two wagons, sat beneath a canvas awning. There, Draumbean, Roland, Mathias, and Cassandra joined him and his captains. Viktor stood near the carriage, refusing food, as always, but keeping his gaze trained on the perimeter like a hound left on watch.

  “This green skin problem,” Bhraime said, chewing on a smoked leg of lamb, “how bad is it?”

  “Worse than the usual,” Draumbean replied. “And it looks plenty bad. Blacktooth clans stirring from the southern marshes. Orcs in full warbands crossing the Blackreach. But it’s not them I fear.”

  Bhraime wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then what?”

  “There’s something moving behind them. Something old. And clever.”

  "The lich,?" asked Bhraime.

  Draumbean had a surprised look upon his face.

  "Orlach has filled me in on what little he knows."

  The air seemed to chill. Even the fire crackled lower.

  “I thought him dead,” Bhraime said quietly.

  “He was,” Draumbean replied. “And yet he walks.”

  Mathias glanced to Cassandra, whose face was pale.

  “I’ve heard what follows him,” she said. “Entire villages emptied. Fields salted by shadows. He turns men without touching them. Whispers in their sleep.”

  “And the Emperor knows?” Bhraime asked.

  Draumbean nodded. “Hence our return to Struttsburg. There’s a council coming. One that will decide the shape of the realm’s future. You should be there.”

  Bhraime looked away, jaw tense.

  “I am loyal to Gregor. Always have been. But if he’s keeping this from the lords…”

  “He isn’t,” Draumbean said. “But if we fail to act quickly, there may be no lords left.”

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then Bhraime slammed his fist onto the table. “Then we ride together.”

  Draumbean lifted his cup. “To the Empire.”

  The others echoed him.

  “To the Empire.”

  By sunset, the two groups had joined. Bhraime’s Oathkeepers fell into protective formation alongside Draumbean’s retinue. A hundred banners swayed like tongues of war.

  Viktor still rode alone.

  Draumbean watched him from the window, his silver helm gleaming under the dusk.

  “He is alone,” he murmured.

  Roland, sitting across, gave a grunt. “He always is.”

  “And yet,” said Draumbean, voice low, “I wonder if he is lonelier among us… or more at home.”

  No one answered.

  The carriage rolled on, and night swallowed the King’s Road whole.