For Anneliese, the journey back to Keesh was one of bitter winter cold and anxious avoidance. It was an enduring feeling, like the early onset of old age and a distant memory of home. A home that could never be again.

However, their return to Keesh came with a welcomed friend. Mother Simonet had made her home among the newly erected Church of Saints and the Divine Spirit, situated within one of the recently constructed wards dotted around the city’s former dilapidated fortifications. It was a modest dwelling resembling the necessities of the old orphanage. In many respects, it served the same charitable function, offering housing and food to the poor and unwanted children of the north.

Mother Simonet was still the compassionate disciplinarian, who despite old age and amputation had plenty more to give. Her contributions, though small, offered a second chance for those dispossessed and parentless. A disposition that still resonated with Anneliese, because Simonet immediately saw past the façade to the emotional exhaustion, to the stranger within Anneliese’s body.

‘A long campaign can turn fertile soils to stone. Where nothing grows, besides hardened walls that repels the world we once loved,’ said Mother Simonet as she excused Anneliese from the suffocating presence of her templar bodyguards to lead her to the riverbank. Far enough away to disconnect from her anxieties.

‘I’m, um,’ said Anneliese, fearful of sensitive ears that lingered around every corner.

‘Destined for great things, but afraid of what those things might be,’ said Mother Simonet.

Upon an overhanging stone ridge, they sat, overlooking the lives of the less fortunate. Simple peasants, repeating the same tasks, year in year out, for lords more interested in the product of their labor than the welfare of their people.

‘A serf might consider you unworthy of such abilities. But they don’t know what it takes. The politics, the ambiguity, the endless and exhaustive expectations. The fear of failure and what it means. A skilled sailor may devote half their life to learning the open sea and still come unstuck to unseasonal weather. And yet you, having never set foot into the open waters, have so far kept your head above it all. That is perseverance.’

‘What good is perseverance if I don’t know what I’m doing?’ said Anneliese. Her heart was bleeding out in all its frustrations.

‘You know, Father Bellamy took a year before realizing he wanted to run the orphanage. Not because he liked children, but it gave him the time for what he loved most.’

‘Alchemy?’ said Anneliese under her breath.

‘Then there was you … the little troublemaker. But for him, you were young, bright, with an appetite for knowledge and tenure under Coble. He didn’t set out knowing what to do, but he knew his destination. So, the question is, what’s your destination?’

‘To do them proud,’ said Anneliese with guilty admission, seeing how far she had wondered off the road they set.

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‘Perhaps you should follow in Bellamy’s footsteps and rediscover your roots? Find that free spirit within and see where it takes you?’

‘You mean my pagan roots.’

‘I was never concerned about your heritage. Just the world and how it treats people they refuse to understand.’

That night was one of insomnia. Sir Bradfrey’s bickering, though soft-spoken, still reverberated through the many rooms as it rang like sirens to Anneliese’s ears. Day or night, she unconsciously felt his presence, whether pacing the hallway or locked in his study. Her irrational thoughts kept her on edge for when he needed the ‘savior of the north’ to unleash her wrath once more. Like she was tied to the hip. A weapon drawn at the first sign of trouble.

Her only distraction was the distant sounds of argument causing ruckus a couple of streets over. For what sounded like a disagreement, soon broke out into crying. Pleads for help left unanswered, which rendered Anneliese weightless.

The sense of obligation guided her body into transcendence as she passed, unabated, by the physical world. Her feet travelled through the straw mat bedding, her body through walls with no resistance. The grimy, mud-filled streets were indented by her footprint, without stain or spec to her person. A ghost wondering the streets through the sleepy cottages and absent store fronts. Until she bore witness to the two templar knights harassing a defenseless woman.

‘Please, it was my father’s,’ the woman cried on her knees, clamoring for one small totem-like object.

‘Then he would be grateful that we relieve you of such heresy. Now go, before we enact the full extent of the law,’ said the templar before kicking her off into the pool of mud three inches deep.

Anneliese’s hands filled with rage, while her inner torment developed a thirst for vengeance. The pulsing orbs of conjured destruction were fighting against her grasp. The sense of moral authority to enact punishment without judgement or due process.

‘Is this not what you wanted?’ asked a familiar voice. The black wolf was on the prowl, sneaking up beside her like an inconspicuous observer among the shadow of the night.

‘It shouldn’t be like this,’ said Anneliese, her heart set in action, but her head clouded by doubt.

‘All societies are built on some form of coercion.’

‘With the right guidance.’

‘Like how you guided them from being massacred by Sir Bradfrey’s army?’ said the wolf, cutting her off as it circled in front. ‘If they wanted to convert, they could have done it a long time ago, but you forced their hand in order to save their lives.’

‘But if I set the example.’

‘Be realistic. You would do worse to those templars than what they did to her. For what? An example. This is not the conduct of a wizard?’ said the wolf, brushing past Anneliese as if to guide her away.

The guards moved on to their next post.

The sulking woman was left to her own mud-soaked misery, leaving the world’s injustice in place and a sense of culpability over Anneliese.

‘You said the next time we meet?’ said Annelise.

‘You met the ancient demon Id. What do you think?’

‘I see no difference between Id and Lascivious.’

‘You’re not wrong, but that doesn’t make it right. Now come, we have a long journey.’

‘What makes you think I’m coming with you?’ said Anneliese as she took notice of the charitable bystanders, risking reputation and persecution to aid the distraught woman. Their efforts escorted the woman off the street, where they could lay her down upon firmer ground and tender to her wounds. Both physical and emotional.

‘My master is not dead, and we need your help.’

‘I’m not interested,’ said Anneliese. Her focus was on the goodwill of Keesh’s lower classes. She turned translucent once more, intending on returning home to continue needlessly roughing the bed sheets under another sleepless night.

‘By we, I also mean Weddle.’

It caught Anneliese off-guard, as though another bond of trust was broken by association. ‘How is he involved?’

‘Ask him yourself. He’s expecting you.’