The descent was not as Jonathan Wicker Abhrams expected.

He was not quite sure what he was expecting to begin with, but it was certainly not twisting, turning, labyrinthine tunnels with no end in sight. It was certainly not low-hanging ceilings and flooded chambers, accompanied almost bizarrely by wet limestone walls, jagged rock formations, and the rhythmic dripping of water from way beyond in the dark.

And he most certainly did not expect the slippery floors beneath which had, on more than one occasion, threatened to rob his feat of purchase and plunge the Hunter towards a very messy, very pathetic, much too anticlimactic death.

Wrath and Little Red followed close behind, as was evident by the scuffling of boots, the brushing of uniform, and the clanking of what Jonathan Wicker Abhrams assumed were demonic steel blades against cold stone walls.

He was going much too fast for his liking, though slowing down was not an option at this point.

A few seconds could mean the difference.

A few seconds could mean life or death.

***

“Fuck that guy. Fuck this whole thing, actually — but fuck that guy in particular.”

“Who?”

“That fucking — the lieutenant colonel.”

“Oh. would you relax?”

“He called me a moron.”

“Wait — hah! Really, now?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, can’t say I disagree.”

“What?”

“I said, can’t say I—”

“I heard what you said, dumbass. What the fuck do you mean by that?”

“I mean. . . Look at you.”

“Yeah?”

“You look — I mean, I guess you look better than you usually do.”

“Shut up.”

“Hey, I’m just being honest.”

“Sangria, shut up real quick.”

“I’m serious, you normally rock the black — but now you got the whole face paint setup, and personally I think—”

“Shut — the fuck up.”

“Geez, alright. . . You don’t have to get so loud.”

“It’s not that. You don’t. . . Smell it?”

“Smell. . . What?”

“Rot.”

***

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams made the last squeeze past, tumbling out and through the little crack in the wall.

Very loudly.

Very painfully.

And very unfortunately still in one piece.

Which caught the attention of both Beauford and Administrator Grant standing close by.

As well as three Sentryman fiddling with their radios. From what little muttering and gesturing and cussing Jonathan Wicker Abhrams was able to discern, there were difficulties maintaining contact with the surface — something about the walls dampening the signal and whatnot.

They turned.

Stared.

Exchanged glances.

And resumed whispering amongst themselves.

The director spun on his heels, smiled, pulled his shades free, then picked his umbrella up by the middle, spinning it round and round and round in hand. He was his usual eccentric self, which did not at all sit well with the Hunter. “Slow down there, John. These rocks are awful slippery.”

John did not, in fact, slow down.

He was panting.

And gasping.

And looking very much so out of shape.

Which was not the least bit flattering.

“Where — where are they?”

“Who’s they?”

“Vanguard, Beauford — fuck’s sake! Where?”

“Why, doing their job, of course. Now, what’s got you all flustered?”

The Hunter didn’t answer.

He simply took in the scene.

Wiped his brow.

And found himself rather short of breath.

And not for the right reasons.

“Ask Vanheim,” was all he could muster.

“The doctor?”

“The doctor.”

“I’m more of a scientist, actually — though I prefer professor,” piped in the doctor-turned-scientist-turned-professor, who had somehow, someway, managed to sneak by a second time — and gotten far too close for comfort yet again. He was a quiet man, by all accounts, which was indeed an odd thing since his mouth was a constant dribble of chatter incoherent to all but himself. “Same field, different specialization — much better pay.”

Beauford reached; the two shared a handshake.

“So, what do you think?”

“Not quite sure. Mid-12th century. Gothic — if I had to hazard a guess.”

“That’s old, professor.”

“Indeed it is.”

“And it’s still standing — after all this time?”

“Indeed it is — if just barely.”

Beauford took a step forth.

And then another.

And another.

And another, still.

Until he stood at the edge, right before solid ground came to be thin air — right before the floors beneath came to be a bottomless chasm of black, that which echoed and whispered and tempted one to jump right on in. The director felt the rocks below crumble and crack and give way, before dropping off into the eternal abyss — and not once did he think to back off, to take a few steps in the other direction.

Instead, he simply stood there.

Unbothered.

Unmoving.

Uncaring.

With his arms outstretched and a child-like grin spread from ear to ear.

He spun the umbrella round and round and round some more, pressing his shades back into place with a free hand. They were missing their usual sparkling glamor entirely, and had taken on a slightly more dull appearance; the Hunter noticed there was no longer a crack or two streaking across the glass anymore, but rather an entirely missing lens altogether. “So, John. . .”

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John did not answer.

He was still very much so in awe.

“What do you think?”

***

The Hunter struggled to turn his thoughts into words, his words into sentences, and his sentences thereon into anything even resembling a sound.

A peep.

A voice.

Anything at all.

He was failing, of course.

And for better or for worse, he was speechless.

This was the first time he ever laid eyes on such glorious splendor. It was a thing of storybooks and fairy tales — an architectural marvel only the most adventurous dreamers could even begin to imagine, let alone bring to life.

And he was bearing witness.

One and all.

Probably for the first and final time.

Because he was never going to be back here.

Not tomorrow.

Not the day after.

Not ever.

But today he was here.

And he had a job to do.

So, first things first—

Evaluation.

He forced his eyes to look.

To see.

To remember.

And to commit every single detail, grand and minute, to memory.

From within the depths of his coat pockets, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams produced his much battered, much dirtied, trusty notebook — and a pencil snapped at one end. Where the other end went, he himself had no clue.

He started scribbling.

And scribbling.

And scribbling some more.

Until the page was full.

His lead was worn.

And all that’s left to do was to fulfill the contract — finish the job.

The castle itself was massive.

Gargantuan.

Simply much too big.

That no words at all would suffice.

There were perfect arches of stone decorating intricate bridges that twisted, turned, and dropped, spanning the entirety of the castle from front to back, top to bottom, in and out.

There were high, huge, impossibly tall watchtowers with windows on all sides, and though they were barren inside and all but dark, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could not help but feel as if something was watching from within — from beyond the shadows.

There were stone gargoyles too that stood perched, and other such classical additions of a castle.

A courtyard in ruins, overtaken by moss.

A gatehouse with no gate at all, and not much house left.

Rows of walls crumbling and forlorn.

And a grisly moat that had long since tasted the presence of water.

By all accounts, it was the textbook definition of an old castle.

Abandoned.

Forgotten.

Left to fester and rot.

Slowly succumbing to Mistress Time’s advances.

“It’s. . .” Jonathan Wicker Abhrams struggled to string three words together.

He failed quite miserably, of course.

The director, however, did not.

He had plenty of words.

And none of the struggle.

“Beautiful? Gorgeous? A work of art?”

“Yeah. . .”

“I concur — oh yes, I absolutely, most definitely do. I’ve lived a long life, John — far longer than you could possibly imagine, and even so I’ve never once bore witness to such magnificence. I suppose this is a first for both of us, and I see you’re taking it in well.”

“I. . .”

“Would love to stand speechless and admire such architectural genius? I don’t doubt it, though I must say — you were gravely concerned with the wellbeing of Vanguard just moments ago. Have you decided against such thoughts? Have you decided against their safety? They’ve lives?”

“Beauford, wh—”

Beauford draped an arm around the stunned Hunter, chuckling to himself.

“I suppose they can handle themselves. . .”

And then he stopped chuckling.

All too suddenly.

All too quickly.

And he stared at Jonathan Wicker Abhrams with a slightly crooked scowl.

Which jolted the Hunter straight from his daydreams.

Right.

Vanguard.

Hades.

The rest.

They needed to be warned.

They needed to be—

“Without their team leader.”

The director leaned in close; there was the faint scent of blood on his breath.

And Jonathan Wicker Abhrams swore he saw fangs.

“I suggest you go.”

The Hunter swallowed.

“For everyone’s sake.”

He blinked.

“Now, please — before I lose my temper.”

And he went.

Fast.

“Good boy.”

***

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams ran as fast as he could — as fast as his two legs would allow. He ignored the protests of his aching muscles and screaming lungs. He ignored his heart, pounding so very fast and so very violently it might as well have burst clean out of his chest and stopped beating altogether. He ignored, most importantly, the two other Hunters following close behind him; one demanding answers he most definitely did not have the luxury of time addressing, the other shooting him murked glances and questionable stares.

The path leading towards the castle was long, and rocky, and a landmine of loose rocks and terrible footing which threatened Jonathan’s swift approach with nasty, nasty falls. He had little time left, which meant Vanguard had none at all, and if he was going to make every second count, there was no choice but to make a run for it — however daunting the thought of broken legs and twisted ankles in times like these might be. Nevertheless, he managed anyway — unscathed and suffering a miraculous grand total of zero trips.

“John,” Wrath was by his side; the Divine was hardly sweating. “What’s the hurry?”

Little Red too managed to catch up.

She said nothing, as per usual.

“Hard to explain,” Jonathan said between breaths, gasps, and coughs.

“Try.”

“Bigger place — more Creations. Bigger place — stronger Creations. It’s either one.”

“Right, and. . ?”

“And Vanguard — cough — Vanguard found zero so far. Zero — zero Creations.”

“Meaning. . ?”

“Meaning — cough — very big place, and no Creations.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. . .”

“There’s something in there, huh? Something big.”

“Give me — give me a second.”

“Something finally worth my time.”

Wrath’s eyes flared alive.

So too did Syglas’ and Vas’.

They had begun whispering once more from within their infernal blade prisons.

“Come forth, inferno.”

“Come forth, hellfire.”

“Burn bright, burn eternal.”

“Burn brighter than bright, burn forevermore.”

***

“Isn’t this a bit weird, you think?”

“What is?”

“Big empty castle. Nothing inside.”

“And you’re complaining?”

“Not really. Just feels off.”

“Right.”

“Remember what Grant said? Unusual is bad, and this is definitely unusual.”

“Grant is an idiot who put that rat bastard Jonathan in the lead. I wouldn’t trust him with much fucking else, Sangria.”

“Still though.”

“Hey.”

“I would’ve expected something by now.”

“Hey.”

“A small one, at least.”

“Hey!”

“What?”

“12 o’clock. Dead ahead.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“That’s. . . Definitely something. Should we wait? Beorthwulf’s wandered off.”

“Beorthwulf always wanders off; he likes to go at it solo. I say we go on ahead. I say we let him do his thing, and we have some fun ourselves.”

“Well, I do like fun.”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Just the two of us, then?”

“Always has been, baby.”

***

Before long, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams had managed his way through the crumbling gatehouse and into what little remained of the courtyard. There he stood, glancing from side to side, steadying his knees, calming his heart, trying so very desperately to catch his breath — and an inkling of Vanguard’s trace. It was indeed an unfortunately large place, and he hadn’t the time to waste.

“We’ll never fucking find them in time,” he said, wheezing. “Fuckers could’ve gone anywhere by now.”

“Agreed. If only we had a tracker with us,” Wrath turned, stared, let a smile take hold of his face; Little Red seemed slightly more agitated than usual. “Would be awfully convenient right about now.”

“I don’t suppose your Divine magic can do any of that shit?”

“Oh, no. I wasn’t thinking of me; I was thinking of someone else.”

“What?”

Little Red sighed.

“Someone quiet.”

She shrugged her bow off the shoulders.

“Young.”

And shot him a nasty look.

“Likes the color red.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams watched as the girl took several steps back, glared at the castle top to bottom, then started mouthing off words — words he didn’t quite understand, he never once heard, and was pretty certain sounded a lot like incantation.

Magic.

Sorcery.

Wizarding and whatnot.

Something the Heimer Republic was not particularly fond of.

Her wrist flicked.

Her fingers twitched.

And her hand moved.

There was a small glow at first, then a flicker of light — here, there, everywhere — reminiscent of fireflies. They came together, shimmering bright, flashing golden, then, all at once, dissipating in one big spark.

In her hand was an arrow.

Twinkling.

Glimmering.

Glinting.

Almost as if it was made of pure light.

And Jonathan Wicker Abhrams supposed it was, in some sense.

It hurt just to look at.

“Perfect.”

Little Red nodded, passed the arrow on to Wrath, then conjured another from thin air. This one she stabbed straight into the ground.

This one, she left where they stood.

Two more — black and white.

She shot both forth, and slowly, surely, as they sailed through the air, began to take form.

Ghastly.

Ephemeral.

Wreathing, writhing, roiling.

Like shadows given life.

There came paws, at first.

Then jaws.

Canine eyes.

And wicked claws.

Fur white as snow.

Dark as night.

And blowing in the breeze.

She whistled, high and shrill, and for the first time since Jonathan Wicker Abhrams came to know her, she spoke.

Not to either of the two Hunters, no.

Rather, to her wolves.

“Hunt.”