The world should announce the grim event about to take place with booming thunder and bright flashes of lightning. Instead, the sky is calm, scant snowflakes falling softly. Without the knights conducting exercises on the field outside the estate nor the rampant foot traffic I saw before, the stroll is quiet and, though I’m hesitant to ever think such in this place, peaceful.

A large procession exits the James manor, headed for the Witness Circle. At the head is the duke himself, wearing a heavy, dark blue cloak lined with white fur and a helm done in the vague likeness of a wolf. A sword hangs at his waist, the pommel a gleaming silver and the sheath as white as the surrounding snow.

Flanking him are two of his three wives. On the right, Kalise, dressed in a similar cloak but her head bare. Resting on her shoulder is a short, thick blade that looks like it would be just as well suited to chopping logs as well as men. Another is sheathed across her back, the handle just peeking out from the edge of her cloak. She takes advantage of the rare lack of winds to whistle a soft but jaunty tune.

To his left is the stern Eleanor, of whom I’ve seen little and heard much. She is dressed the same as her husband, his greater height the only thing that separates them from behind. In her hand, she carries a simple spear, the shaft a dull gray, the tip a dark metal I’ve never seen. Even marching, she has impeccable poise if not the grace of a southern noblewoman. Difficult to be graceful while moving through ankle-high snow, I suppose.

The poor hunters truly had no idea what beast they poked when they invoked the traditions of Victory. The challenge, this March. They mean something to the people of the north. Something that goes beyond blood, honor, and death. Something so important, the lord himself has come to enforce and defend it. If anyone reneges on their word and makes mockery of their tradition, they will answer to the oldest generation of the James family, warriors to rival the fort’s most formidable knights.

Behind them is Zachariah and Jude, his bannerman, similarly armed and armored. From Alana’s words, should anyone disrespect or break the rules of the March, they will also be answering to the heir apparent. They’d be faced with the whole of his wrath since, as the instigator of this mess, it is his responsibility and any infringements against the March are a mark on his honor.

Behind them is my clan, as Kierra refers to us. Alana, wearing many layers, black leather gloves, and a brown cloak bought before our departure from Quest. Once again, her distance from her family is made apparent. Even Zach’s bannerman has the signature dark blue cloak and that strange helm. The insults never stop with these people.

The most incredible thing is that Alana doesn’t recognize it as insults or, at the very least, she doesn’t take offense. I don’t even think they mean offense. It is simply the way things are done. Luckily, for my waning patience, their attitude toward her is changing.

After today, no one will ever look down on her again.

Kierra and I are right behind her, both dressed in loose shirts and pants. Her for ease in shapeshifting, I bet. Me because this is likely to get messy and I wouldn’t want to dirty one of my good shirts.

Behind us are Geneva and Bell, Cloud walking between them, bundled up in a heavy coat made of thick brown fur and a matching hat. She is eager to get back home. Neither she nor her “brethren” are fans of the weather in the north. However, her interest in the March is enough to extend her to stay for another few days.

Poor woman. Doesn’t know she came this close to being used by a scheming succubus. I haven’t told her, no need to frighten her unnecessarily, but I do plan to do something nice for her once this is all over. Maybe organize another night of fun. We’ll probably have to stay in. I doubt we’ll be able to prance around the city like last time with my recent troubles. Or maybe we will. I might own half of it by then.

Our procession is not unusual. Many bodies are going the same way. Those before us give way, the knights and fighters thumping their chest twice while the rest bow their heads respectfully.

The benches of the Witness Circle are full but it doesn’t stop there. Towering pillars of stone have been pulled from beneath the snow, armored knights seated at their tops. A few more linger in the air, watching from on high. At a glance, there are hundreds of witnesses. I’m starting to understand the very appropriate name.

As we approach, a soft pounding starts. It steadily grows louder. A quick glance reveals the sound is coming from the crowd stomping, booted feet hitting the stone beneath them in time. Those seated outside the circle add to the noise, some by banging their weapons, some by mimicking the rumble of thunder through magic. It reaches deafening levels quickly.

In the center of the field, Emberton, dressed in the robes of a caster beneath his thick cloak, looks unnerved. His nervous eyes flick around the circle. I see doubt, maybe even fear, as he realizes how little he understands these people. But it’s too late for doubts. He’s stuck his hand in the beast’s maw. Struggle all he might, it’s gone.

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As we reach the field, Kalise, Eleanor, Zach, his bannerman Jude

, Cloud, and Alana stay behind as the rest of us continue forward. Alana went over the formalities of the event exhaustively. Because of that, my group is nonplussed as we stop behind the duke in the middle of the field. The representative for the hunters, on the other hand, is sweating despite the cold.

Duke James raises his hand and the noise stops, the resulting silence sharp and poignant. I grin at Emberton and he swallows heavily.

“The ancestors are watching.” The lord of the north speaks in a normal tone but his words are heavy. “Do not disgrace your blood. Do not disgrace this sacred tradition. Fight knowing you carry the burden of all that you are. Two enter, only one has the right to leave. Choose your champions.”

Emberton is frozen, the weight of the moment holding him captive. No such thing applies to my wife.

“I will be fighting for our clan,” she announces with clear amusement. Emberton’s eyes snap to her, taking in the multitude of blades she’s carrying, a dozen small knives with blades barely longer than a finger. When I asked why she hadn’t opted for her bow, she laughed and told me that it had been too long since she’d thrown knives and thought it would be fun since there were so many willing targets. She isn’t taking this seriously at all.

The duke turns to Emberton who jumps under his gaze. He tries to cover it by clearing his throat. “First to fight for the guilds is Jellings.” He yells the man’s name and he jumps down from one of benches in the first row, jogging across the field.

Jellings is a grim-faced, middle-aged man with silver creeping into his hair. Fighting monsters is a young man’s occupation. Someone of his age should be looking to retire, at least from the front lines. It fits our information that Emberton has recruited many less than ordinary hunters to wear us down and expose our abilities in exchange for a tidy sum to their families.

His grip on his spear is tight and his gait is stiff. Huh. I’ve never seen a man walking toward his death before but he doesn’t fit what my imagination might conjure. I’d expect more fear. More hesitance. Instead, there is nothing but resolution about him as he stops beside Emberton. Doesn’t look like an easy nut to crack. I wonder how Kierra is going to break someone’s who has already prepared themselves for the worst.

“Victory or death,” the duke says gravely before turning away.

“Good luck,” I whisper, patting her shoulder.

“Watch closely, my little conqueror,” she whispers. “Watch and learn.”

We retreat back to the entrance of the field, where the rest of our group is waiting. Cloud shuffles over to me, leaning against me as she shivers. “Those of flesh are not meant to tread in lands of harsh wind.”

I smile at her ridiculous speech. “You could just say you don’t like the cold.”

“I don’t, sister.” She jerks her head toward the circle. “Are you worried?”

“Not in the least. You don’t have to be either.”

On the other side of the field, Emberton reaches the opposite entrance. No one calls the match. The moment the field is clear of all but the champions, no one is allowed to intervene. They can come to blows any moment they choose. Yet, there is no action for several heartbeats. The hunter stands there, spine straight and stiff as he awaits the executioner’s ax. Kierra watches him, relaxed and amused.

“Will you not attack?” she asks finally. “We are meant to be killing each other.”

The hunter grunts. “You the one that killed the guildmaster, right? No point.”

“Is this the agreement you had with your employer, hm? You are meant to be testing me. Pushing me to my limits.” Please don’t sound so excited about that.

“Lady, I’m tired and it’s cold as Abyss out here. Just get it over with.”

“Perhaps a token resistance? Lest your clan be left with nothing for your sacrifice.”

“So you know about that? Heh. Don’t worry. We get paid a base rate for fighting, with bonuses for lasting longer or prying out a secret. My family’ll get what they need.”

“I see. Then, turn and kneel, little lamb. Submit yourself to your fate.”

Despite his words, the hunter hesitates. However, after a few heartbeats, he throws down his spear and follows her instructions. I can hear Emberton yelling curses but two men hold him back with hands on his shoulders, keeping him from stepping onto the field and earning the duke’s wrath. Suppose surrendering is very much not what Emberton expects of his fodder fighters.

Kierra approaches the kneeling hunter and places her hand on the man’s hair. “A lesson it is too late to learn. Surrendering does not entitle you to mercy. Only a fool leaves their fate to their enemy.”

She pushes him forward, face first into the snow. I expect him to jump to his feet and lunge at her. After all, she’s given away her hand. But he doesn’t. Instead, he starts scratching at his face, furiously. “What did you do to me?” he yells as his hands gravitate to the rest of his body. “Why am I so, fuck, itchy?”

My wife doesn’t answer. Instead, she slaps the back of his head with a faintly glowing hand. The hunter’s scratching intensifies. He swears as he rips off his gloves and coat. He peels off his shirt and his undershirt, leaving him bare chested. Shivering, his nails rake over every piece of exposed skin they can reach. His cursing intensifies as he attempts to reach his back and fails.

He eventually gives up in favor of shucking off his boots and pants. His stream of curses are broken by chattering teeth as he continues to scratch. Harder and harder until he breaks the skin but he doesn’t stop. He scratches at the bleeding wounds, opening them further. His voice becomes desperate as he continues to scratch.

What follows is the saddest death I’ve ever witnessed. The poor hunter scratches and scratches until he is bleeding from a thousand self-inflicted wounds. What finally kills him is scratching too long and too hard at his throat. The blood really starts to flow then. He falls on his side, drowning in his own blood, his hands still scratching his abused skin. It takes an agonizing amount of time for him to stop gurgling.

A quick drop of a film shows that the hunters are properly horrified. I watch as Emberton straightens up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

A job well done, I suppose.