The enemy within—shackled and bound, confined to the barracks they once called home by white knights of red crosses. As the failed uprising unraveled, the Church’s hidden dominance was laid bare, undeniable in its reach.

  At the gallows, a cleric presided over an unending procession of prisoners, his voice cutting through the restless crowd.

  “Next.”

  He barely glanced at the condemned. The noose, swaying in the breeze, tightened around a young soldier’s neck.

  “Plead your innocence?” the cleric asked, his hand hovering over the lever.

  “It was Cestmir! I was only—” The name rang through the hushed crowd before the trapdoor dropped, silencing him mid-sentence.

  “Please! Cestmir threatened my family!” another begged, desperation rising in his voice, clinging to the illusion of mercy.

  With every utterance, his name pulled tighter around his fate, a noose woven from fear and blame, branding him the source of all heresy.

  “Hang ’em!”

  The chant swelled into a frenzy. The gallows, no longer just a place of execution, had become the Church’s banner of judgment.

  Blame. Guilt. Rage. All coalesced into a single scapegoat. The Church needed order. Vasier needed blood. And Cestmir—Cestmir was convenient.

  But the hysteria did not stop there. Vasier became a city of wolves. A mass psychosis gripped its people, their suspicion turning inward, their fear growing bold. The faithful openly questioned their rulers, their moral authority splintering under their unhinged paranoia.

  Wild accusations became riots. Riots became the destruction of monuments. Institutions that had once upheld a fragile peace now stood as symbols to be defiled, purged. Loyalty to the queen no longer defined innocence. Only devotion to the One True God could absolve.

  There were no fences to sit on. No neutral ground to take refuge in.

  Only sides.

  Only judgment.

  For Sir Bradfrey, the chaos overtaking Vasier felt a world away. The tyranny of distance afforded him both immunity from the mob hysteria and the clarity to focus on his immediate objective: Kulum’s capture. His forces had pursued the fiery wizard deep into the northern trade routes, tracking a trail of destruction to a cluster of enclaves hidden within the mountain ranges.

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  Victory was close. One more triumph to his name before the winter solstice. Yet, the closer he came to his goal, the more unstable his world became.

  Hunched over his desk—two inverted tree stumps hewn into a massive surface—Bradfrey rubbed his temples, weary from the unending demands of command. Maps and reports lay scattered around him, charting an empire yet to rise, a vision of the future blurred by the disorder of the present. But his attention was fixed elsewhere.

  The salvaged Rekinvale chessboard before him. Its marble castles and ivory knights were worn, scratched, yet intact. All but one piece—the black queen—missing.

  A sharp knock was immediately followed by the slamming of doors. Davos entered, brushing past Amos with the practiced ease of a man who never waited for permission. In his hand was a letter, sealed twice—once by the queen, and again by the Church.

  “A message from the royal court,” Davos announced, breaking the seals with a flick of his wrist. “They’ve spotted the traitor, Cestmir, within your lands. The queen expects swift action if we are to ensure Gideon’s return.”

  Bradfrey let out a slow, measured breath. “Because pacifying the north isn’t enough. I’ve got Kulum torching villages, Vikings testing our borders, and in my nonexistent spare time, assimilating Keesh. But sure—why not?”

  Davos scoffed, unimpressed by the wealth on display, but it was the shelves that truly soured his expression. Lined with ancient Rowan texts and Greco philosophy, they reeked of pagan wisdom dressed as scholarship—a quiet defiance against the very faith he served.

  “And the girl, Anneliese?” Davos asked, his voice laced with condescension. “Shouldn’t she be spreading the word of God? Not hidden away?”

  Bradfrey’s jaw tightened. “She’s overwhelmed. More than we dare admit.”

  He grabbed an empty inkwell and slammed it against the desk, the shattering sound startling Amos.“Perhaps—No. She needs time.”

  Davos smirked, his tone as sharp as ever. “Then perhaps reassignment to the Ministry of the One True God would provide her the mentorship she needs?”

  Bradfrey leaned back, pressing his fingers against his temples. With a dismissive wave, he muttered, “Sure. No. I don’t know. You want me to hunt Gideon or not?”

  Davos’s smirk deepened. “Perhaps I’ll ask her myself,” he said smoothly—a challenge thinly veiled as courtesy.

  Bradfrey exhaled through his nose. “Fine.”

  As Davos wandered off, amusement barely concealed in his stride, Bradfrey caught the bewildered shrug from Amos.

  “Really?”

  Bradfrey sighed. “She’s done her disappearing act again.”

  He pushed himself away from the desk, his offhand seemingly grafted to his temples. “I don’t know where she is, and I doubt Davos will figure that out before our next problem lands on my desk.”

  Right on cue, the doors burst open again. A Templar messenger stormed inside, boots caked in mud, his face gleaming with breathless excitement.

  “My lord, we’ve located the Phoenix,” he announced, his optimism crashing against the tense air of the chamber. “Your orders?”

  By the door, Amos clenched his fists and struck his thigh in frustration, his bitten tongue barely restraining his disgust.

  “The queen mandates we redirect all efforts to rescuing Gideon,” he said bitterly. “Consequences be damned if Kulum kills a thousand more while we save one fool.”

  The messenger hesitated, his excitement fading as his gaze flickered between them, the silence settling heavy in the room.

  Bradfrey nodded slowly, his eyes drifting to the chessboard. What had once been an idle distraction now felt like prophecy—pieces already in motion, the endgame drawing near. The black queen no longer in play.