The darkest of moods held Kyembe of Sengezi as he returned to The Lovers’ Paradise. Cold stung his body, his feet had long numbed and within his belly stoked a fury as strong as hellfire.

He had fruitlessly pursued the black-coated beast until his lungs began to burn. Dawn had brightened to morning, then noon yet he had found not a single step of their trail. As the streets grew crowded upon the turn of midday, he forced himself to admit that his quarry had long escaped.

All he had gained for his trouble was a mounting ire that found no release. It was by no means improved by the cries of lament that struck his ears as he approached the pleasure-temple

His countenance soured further.

The front gates lay open, but blockaded. Guards swarmed the grounds; at last, the Duke’s Battalion had come.

Their bronze breastplates gleamed, inlaid with a twin-headed griffin - its wings spread beneath the Anemoi of the four cardinal winds. Red tunics contrasted sharply with dull coloured furs wrapping their shoulders and legs. Scarlet crests rose above their helms and their hands hovered close to the hilts of their broad-bladed falcatas.

Some stood about Paradise’s doorway, guarding its entrance or muttering grimly to each other. Others dragged forth the stiffened corpses of cultists to pile in a bloody heap on the grounds.

Many of Paradise’s patrons sat outside, wrapped in wools and nursing bowls of hot broth. Their eyes turned away from the heaped dead and they shivered from cold and strain. Some wept openly into their steaming dishes. Kyembe’s jaw tightened.

As he strode toward the entrance, many eyes fell upon him.

Two members of the Duke’s Battalion came together to bar his way.

“Move along, outlander,” one barked. “The pleasure temple is sealed under the duke’s order.”

Kyembe’s crimson eyes rose to meet the guardsman’s flinty gaze. The man flinched.

“I am a guest here and a patron.” His deep voice bore his weariness with a hint of steel. The Sengezian rose to his full height, towering over the soldiers. “I ask that you let me pass.”

Gloved hands fell to sword hilts. Other soldiers began to make their way over, crunching over the snow. “Whatever you are - I told you once to move along,” the first man barked. “Now I’m telling you twice. There won’t be a third time.”

“By the stars.” Kyembe gave a bitter laugh, his eyes flicking toward the heavens. “What foolishness must I bear now?” His voice grew hard. “I am cold. I am thwarted. And I am in no mood for this.” He eyed the approaching guards. “I asked once to let me pass. I will ask once more. Try me a third time, and I will break all of you over my knee before I enter.”

The guardsman’s face purpled. “Who do you think-”

“That’s enough!” an iron voice brought them short.

Heads turned, and quickly the guards parted to allow a lean form to pass among them; Jeva spared them not a glance while they stepped away with upmost respect in their movements. Kyembe’s brows rose.

“Were it not for the brave efforts of Master Kyembe, there would be thrice as many slain in last night’s attack,” the seneschal’s voice never rose, but it struck as a mace. “He is welcome here. He is always welcome here.”

He gestured, his gloves creaking. “Walk with me, Master Kyembe.”

Kyembe looked to the soldiers as they grudgingly parted. He stalked past, sparing them no more attention. “How is it that you can command members of the duke’s army so completely? They look ready to line up and wash your shoes.”

Jeva looked up at the Sengezian carefully. His eyes seemed distant. “One’s life can take many routes, Master Kyembe…and I was not always a temple’s seneschal.” He sighed. “But, more to the point, I see your hunt bore no fruit.”

“It could not have been a greater waste,” Kyembe growled in disgust. He glanced to the heap of corpses. None of Paradise’s patrons lay there, but no doubt they had been left inside. His belly twisted as he remembered a certain bloody scene from the night before. “My comrades…” he began with dread. “Ippolyte and Thesiliea of Vestulon…are they…”

He paused.

“They are fine, Master Kyembe,” the seneschal smiled weakly. “The saint saw them hale once more.”

Kyembe let loose a great exhalation. “Thank the stars for that.”

Jeva’s countenance grew pained. “Indeed: a small blessing in all of this tribulation.”

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The Sengezian winced, glancing to the crimson-stained entrance way. “I am sorry. …how many fell?”

The older man’s eyes closed and his iron-straight posture bowed as though he were twice his years. He gazed sadly over the grounds. “A score, but it would have been much worse were it not for Saint Cristabel’s healing touch - may her god bless her eternally. I fear that ours shall not.”

Kyembe frowned. “What do you speak of, Master Jeva?”

Jeva sighed. “This ground is no longer under their favour. Too much violence happened here. Terrible, terrible violence. Many sacrifices must be made to soothe the deities once more.”

Crimson eyes narrowed. “And why would that be? Is now not when you need them most?”

The Seneschal gestured all about. “Look at this. All of this.” He said in disgust. “Master Kyembe, this a temple of love - physical and spiritual. It is a sanctuary of joy. Yet joy has fled here. Now there is only death, maiming and bloodletting. The deities will have turned their gazes away from such things.”

Kyembe scoffed. “Then they are useless. Keep your sacrifices.”

Jeva stiffened. “You blaspheme!”

“Do I?” the Sengezian laughed bitterly. “Your deities have taken your praise for many a summer now, yes? You built this great house to them, let their spirits dwell in its stones and when you need them most, they flee like cockroaches under torchlight! Let them stay gone, I say!”

“Master Kyembe! Such talk will not make our appeasement any easier! Please, I beg for your courtesy!”

The Sengezian gave a wry look. “It appears I have been a poor guest.” He bowed his head slightly. “I shall leave you to your deities and apologize to you alone. Now, I must find my friend. And the beasts…” His eyes narrowed. “They and I are due for a reckoning.”

“They and we as well,” Jeva’s countenance turned steely. “Such despoilment cannot be unanswered. I shall assist you in any way I can.”

“Kyembe!”

St. Cristabel emerged from Paradise, pushing through the throng of guards. Though her massive blade, armour and shield were absent, she had dressed in her gambeson, trousers and boots. A great dagger was thrust through her belt and her eyes burned with blue balefire. “Did you find little Wurhi? Or the villains?”

“No.” He shook his head bitterly. “We must find another way. Jeva told me you healed Thesiliea and Ippolyte. Are they within?”

“No longer. They departed for the enclave of the City of Glass near as soon as they could stand.” St. Cristabel pointed to the east. “In light of this vile attack, they thought their charge in need of more protection. They asked after you and Wurhi though, and wished for you both to see them as soon as you are able.”

“Hrm,” his brow furrowed. “They might see me soon, then, but first…”

Kyembe strode toward the piled bodies, past the line of guards. Without a word, he began to sift through them.

“Oi!” a soldier barked. “What in hells are you-”

“Let him work,” Jeva said quietly.

The Sengezian flipped through the corpses of black-robed men - now unmasked - until he found what he searched for. A single body - unclad and left discoloured by death. He remembered it from where it lay beside his blade the night before. “This is one of the wolves, unless some our enemies thought to strip before they died.”

“Aye,” St. Cristabel knelt beside him. “Something finished him while we fought downstairs, though I could not discern what.”

He glanced to her. “Did Thesiliea or Ippolyte witness anything?”

“Unfortunately, no: their own battle occupied them utterly.” She sniffed in distaste at the corpse. “I thought to examine this wretch myself with more care, but the Duke’s Battalion moved it while I tended the wounded.”

Kyembe shrugged. “It is good that they did not move him far, then. His body may still have tales to tell…such as this. See these wounds?”

“Indeed,” She squinted. “They never closed. Amitiyah’s Tears, do you think one of these thrusts finished him? Perhaps the enchantment on your sword or Wurhi’s proved his doom?”

“Hrm. Perhaps.” His crimson eyes narrowed. “Look here. My blade is thin, but it bites somewhat broader than Wurhi’s. This is its wound.” A lean finger circled one of the punctures. “The flesh around swelled before he died: it was healing and seeking to force out my blade. Yet here…”

He touched the wound left by Wurhi’s sword. “It is clean. A perfect thrust. No healing.” He tapped the wound. “Something about the Wizard-King’s sword finished him.”

“Some of its magics, perhaps?”

“I cannot be so sure for now.” He looked to his own sword. Its sky iron blade seemed to shimmer in the grey light, but Wurhi’s blade was crafted of a different metal. “But I may have something we could try for now.”

She snarled viciously, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good enough! We draw one step closer to dispensing their doom!”

“Yes, but we must take the other steps at a sprint.” He stood, looking to the saint. “That creature would not have bothered taking Wurhi if it simply meant to kill her right away, but every moment they have her is a moment they could end her life.”

He gazed grimly upon the crimson snow. His eyes narrowed. White coated the earth instead of green and brown, but it yet reminded him of a scene from a certain village long dead. One nestled on the edge of the Sengezian rainforest, with milk that had been as sweet as berries and water that sparkled like sapphires.

A young boy had wandered into the trees with a curious ring in his hand many seasons ago. He had sprinted back hours later, drawn by the dying screams of his home. For the first time, a certain ring had gleamed like fire on his hand.

The boy had been so small. And so slow. So utterly, utterly slo-

Crunch.

St. Cristabel cracked her knuckles. “Amitiyah’s wind to glory blows swiftly. So does his wind of vengeance. I shall not rest until little Wurhi is made safe and those devils are pushed back into their spawning pit.” She looked to the Sengezian. “We will recover her, Kyembe.”

Kyembe’s look turned warm. He touched her shoulder. “Thank you, Cristabel.”

She cocked her head. “For what? I merely state truths.”

He chuckled, despite himself. “Please never change. Alright, I say we go to the enclave of the City of Glass: the wizards gather lore on many things. Perhaps they have knowing of these lupine devils, and perhaps I can convince Ku-Hassandra to share their knowledge with us.”

“Then that is where Amitiyah’s wind blows.”

Jeva stepped forward. “I pray you move with some care,” he looked down toward the ashen faces within the black robes. His look turned dark. “I know some of these faces: sons of old, powerful families. They will have an interest in ensuring that this tragedy becomes…obfuscated. But Paradise has not stood this long without gathering its own allies. If you need aid, please ask, and we shall be at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Master Jeva. I will ask now.” The Sengezian glanced at the corpse a final time.

“Bring me something made of silver.”