"How long has it been?" I asked, placing a hand over the girl’s forehead. It was cold to the touch and yet the clammy slickness of fever wetted my palm.

"A fortnight today," replied Fulco Lothway, Lord of Langteglos. "I’ve called upon the most renowned physicians and the most devout rectors in the province, but they all say the same thing…" He trailed off, voice quivering with a father’s worry.

Elinora Lothway’s pallid skin and shallow breath were common enough symptoms for any number of ailments. The way her veins faintly twinkled with ice that threaded its way towards a mark on her right shoulder was not. It gave her a faintly ethereal mien, as if she were an heir to Verglis, the Aspect of Rime – something born of winter itself.

"They say she’s been touched," I said. "I can imagine the more saintly among them petitioned for her death."

Lord Lothway’s face was the picture of grim. "Yes. Some did."

I decided to test the man, just to see on which side of saintly he landed on. Admittedly it would affect my evaluation of him. "It’s nasty work to put down a Touched, but I can see why you’d have invited me to do it. Did you have somewhere in mind?"

Lothway’s grim flickered into an angry disgust before righting himself, giving me the impression he believed I’d been informed by the decisions of men in similar situations previous. He was mostly right. "I refuse to abandon my daughter to an unhallowed life. Even should she turn, she will not be alone." He approached the window of his daughters’ chambers, shoulders hunched and fists balled. "How could this have happened…? She’s always been a model Lothway. She was due to marry in less than a month. What cruel timing for us all…"

I gauged Elinora once again. "Whatever Daemon did this, it was likely an infant," I started, bending down and circling the clawprint with my finger. "The mark isn’t big enough to be an adult, firstly. Secondly, Glace Daemons will dig deep into the ground in order to hibernate during the warmer seasons, usually in caves or natural quarries. If they don’t their flesh melts, being akin to ice. A Feral Glace may have become confused by the sudden turn in weather this year and dug too shallow a nest."

"It was a particularly cold spring, any ploughman can attest to that," Lothway agreed. I stood and he retook his place at his daughter’s bedside. She was barely conscious, and even during her waking moments her mind held to delirium like a babe to it’s mother. It was not unlike my episodes after I was touched all those years ago, though I couldn’t know exactly what she might be experiencing. Back then, I was given visions of blood, and it seeped out of my every orifice. I choked on it until I knew no taste but iron. Perhaps Elinora was suffering a chill she’d not be equipped to describe once the process was complete, if her appearance was any indication.

Lothway fussed over Elinora as she awakened and began to splutter, each wheezing breath accompanied by a vapour that would normally indicate a cold environment, and yet the Lord’s abode held a pleasant temperature. He held her head up and gripped her hand tight, his face wounded with worry. He was the very picture of a loving father and just as amicable as Izla had described. His household guard had opted to remain at the manor out of sheer loyalty to the man, and spoke of the deserting militia with acrid tongues. They were just happy to serve their lord with payment given in room and board. Lothway had rebuked their misgivings of the militia, saying that he couldn’t expect a man to provide for his family with devotion alone. This had proven an accurate assessment of the situation, for many of those household guards that slandered their comrades so easily were mostly young and lacking in any wife, children, or land of their own.

It was clear that Lothway placed a lot of stock in creating lasting relationships, from churl to soldier, to even someone like me. I had presented myself at his front gate as a Touched mercenary and he welcomed me into his home like any other guest. A stark contrast to the citizens of Serboda, and my own expectations.

I had hoped that his affable nature was a ruse. It would’ve made the mission my soul bade me a lot easier.

For now though, I saw an opportunity for more zatas in my pocket, and I couldn’t find it within myself to leave this girl to her fate, to become like me when there was a chance, however slim, of preventing it. Did I do it to sate my morals, or was it only because I thought it’d offer me some modicum of honour when the time came to meet the Vestige? You, dear reader, will likely already have your own impression of my character, for history is unlikely to be kind to the name of Vyde Embris. I will not try to sway those beliefs, what good would that do?

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Regardless, the facts as they are: I decided to help Elinora.

"Doctors and rectors can’t give alms to what ails Elinora. A Daemon’s mark is like a parasite, it suckles on the organs and disperses what most would classify as poison throughout the body, the effect depending on the nature of the Daemon that has done the touching. Once the change is complete there is enough of a difference in biology that most Graveminders consider us Touched a different species altogether."

Lothway stood and a handmaiden saw to Elinora. He gestured for us both to step to the window. "Then… the parasite can be excised, no?" His eyes flared open and bright, possibilities firing off in his head. "Surgery is counted among the Strictures as a violation of the body, though I hope the Numen would forgive the recipient of such treatment, and instead bring judgement upon the man who would order it." He looked back at his daughter, his brows turning upward and lip quivering slightly. "Even if I should be damned, so be it."

"I can’t speak for the Numen. What I can tell you is that it’s no ordinary surgery," I explained. "It has to be done at an altar, and with an instrument of a very particular material."

His face lit up. "Why, there’s a chapel close by. I wonder why none of the rectors mentioned this? And as for the material—"

I held my hand up to stop him. "My apologies, Lord Lothway. I meant not to raise your hopes. The altar we require is profane. Do you know of any entrances to The Bowels close by?"

His face soured with repugnance, before he once again regaining his composure. "I do. As the strictures and state command I have soldiers with consecrated blades stationed near a pit that was found in the woodlands a few miles east of here. Though I would wager they have departed since not receiving their last stipend. The area was host to a fertile hunting ground for any visitors of mine before the pit appeared, now it’s just referred to as the Pitswood."

"How apt. That makes things simpler, I won’t have to bribe any faithfuls. Entering The Bowels is against the strictures as well, as I’m sure you’re aware."

Lothway chuckled sardonically. "I’m coming to realise there’s not a lot the strictures do allow. It seems new restrictions are placed on how we govern ourselves every year. Perhaps the pontiffs believe piety will halt the invasion from the western continent." His expression darkened. "And the material for the surgery? I assume it is… equally abhorrent."

I sighed. "It must be made from the bones of a beloved. Familial or otherwise."

"By the Numen…" He peered out of the window, looking over the gardens and the training pitch to a small gated area at the rear. "My niece, Halynn. I took her in as a ward, a favour to my sister so that she would become a proper and well-educated young woman. Instead she became pregnant by an unknown knave and expired from the labour only four moons ago. Her child didn’t even survive the ordeal." He gestured to the cemetery, the view clouded by unrelenting rain. "She’s laid down there. She and Elinora were inseparable."

I nodded. "That should suit our needs."

Whatever reverie Lothway had entered while regaling the tale of his niece was dispelled by my practicality. What replaced it was a determined look. "I can gather what you need to fashion the implement. As for the excursion itself, I would have one of my own go with you, since they know the lay of the land, and for my own piece of mind."

"You’ve naught to worry Lord Lothway," I replied, throwing him a rare grin. "I don’t eat nobles. Too much fat on their bones."

Lothway had the good grace to give a genuine chortle whilst striding towards the door. "All the same, it would bring me comfort. Even if I believed your kind partook in “long pig”, Master Embris, I would harbour a suspicion that honour would stay your teeth."

"I can’t say much for my honour. We’ve still yet to discuss my payment after all. I’ll only ask for a small fee due to your current financial woes, and one other thing."

"Oh?"

A cast an eye toward the window. "A walk through your lovely gardens."

He cast me a sombre yet broad smile. "Consider it done, my good man." He opened the door and called down the hallway, his baritone carrying throughout the manor. "Kastyn! Hop to it, if you please."

In trotted a lightly armoured lad of not more than twenty summers, strapped with steel and a left pauldron dyed blue to symbolise his sanctified status as both rector and warrior. He had a handsome and earnest face which completed the compound of holy chivalry that many a lady would swoon over.

"Yes, my lord?"

Lothway slapped a hand on his shoulder. "You’re to accompany Master Embris here to the Pitswood. He will fill you in on the details, and you are to follow his every order... within reason." He lowered his tone to a whisper. "And do not speak to anyone of what you see, for all our sakes. Understood?"

Kastyn cast a brief and uncertain glance my way before saluting his master with immediate and habitual obedience. "Aye, my lord. If I may ask… is this concerning Elinora?"

"It is. If all goes well you’ll have your cards partner back."

Before Kastyn and I left that very eve he spent a long while both in the cemetery and at Elinora’s bedside, holding her hand and murmuring encouragement. Such was his devotion that I didn’t have an opportunity to apprise him of the particulars before we set off, but the implication of how he chose to spend what should have been his prep time was interesting nonetheless.

It was only when the sun dipped below the horizon and we were riding toward the Pitswood that he asked me: "We’re headed towards The Bowels. Why?"

I shot him the side-eye. "To save the girl you love, Sir Kastyn."

To his credit he didn’t deny it. "Will it work?"

"No idea," I said. "I still get paid either way."