"Ah, madam Katarina, a pleasure," Brother Amand reached out and shook the witch's hand, leading her inside the Gray Order offices in Loseine.

Klober followed, bowing his head in greeting as he stationed two of his men to stand watch, the gesture drawing a wary glance from the old witch hunter.

"I wish I could say the same," the woman said calmly, "Unfortunately, the order of the day is less than friendly."

"The unfortunate business of Orrin Skye no doubt," the old man said innocently.

"Yes, yes indeed," Katarina nodded as she was ushered into Amand's office, "Though I wouldn't waste my breath honey-coating things too much, we both know how you and your order felt about Orrin."

The man frowned but said nothing, preferring to keep his mouth shut on the matter, instead indicating a seat for Katarina. The room was cramped, and the small piles of books and other materials scattered about gave the impression that it had not been cleaned in some time, clashing heavily with the otherwise refined décor.

“Shall I have a chair brought in?” he asked Klober.

“There won't be need of that,” the officer shook his head, “I can stand.”

The graying witch-hunter nodded his understanding and turned back to the witch before him.

“Tea?" he offered, indicating the small pot that sat on his desk.

"No, thank you," she dismissed him with a wave of her palm.

Amand shrugged and poured himself a cup, taking a cautious sip before replacing the fine porcelain on the table.

"Where is Father Parrou?" she asked.

"Away, at the royal court," Amand said simply.

"Pity," Katarina stated, though her voice suggested anything but.

For a brief moment, she glanced over the man before her, as if reading him, judging him.

"A witch hunter killed Orrin," the witch said pointedly.

"Not one of ours, I can assure you of that," the old man stated, a note of indignation creeping into his voice.

"No, not one of yours," she said coldly, "A Malthorian."

"That's not possible, they were purged, what remains of the order has been eradicated in the last years," Amand insisted, “If any remain, they are deep in hiding.”

At that Katarina snorted derisively, casting a cruel smirk in the old man's direction.

"I have heard that from many, yet one of them is very much alive. He murdered Orrin with a runic projectile. A bullet inscribed with the Kutovny," she pulled the lead ball from a satchel at her hip, handing it to Amand to examine.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"Strange," he said calmly, turning the bullet over between his fingers, "It looks new."

"It is," the witch said frostily.

"It was fired from a long rifle. The marksman evaded not only detection but Orrin's sixth sense. He was a skillful shot and the weapon used was likely the same as the one used at Tarva. The same man then escaped my agents at the border by Loseine," she continued, "Some may doubt, yet I find it all but undeniable that we are dealing with a Malthorian."

"Madam, with all due respect," Amand raised an eyebrow, "The Malthorians do not have a monopoly on witch hunting, much less runic imbuements. I think pursuing a likely myth is a grave mistake."

"Who then would it be? Pray tell brother Amand," the witch asked coldly.

"I am unsure, could be a secular assassin equipped with the correct munitions. Could be a man from the Troia. Even a man of the more radical corners of the church," the man shrugged, "All I am saying is that you should be wary of making premature assumptions."

"Really? Perhaps then it was, after all, your man?" the witch asked calmly, her face taking on a mocking smirk.

"I can say with confidence it was no member of our order," Amand held her gaze without flinching.

"Ha! That would be rather unpleasant wouldn't it?" Katarina steepled her fingers and leaned forward.

The old witch-hunter pulled away from her, glancing back toward the papers on his desk. Klober in the meantime examined the gryphon's head that hung above the fireplace mantle, the discussion was no business of his, and he did his best to appear disinterested.

"And what of the runes, witch-hunter, what of those? Tell me please, do any of your ilk use the Kutovny? When was the last time such a crude symbol was utilized by your order?" her voice took on a false, saccharine tone.

"The Kutovny is old, positively ancient really," the man shrugged, "But one never knows who may have access to munitions imbued with its power. It is relatively simple to manufacture after all."

"Is that the case?" the witch raised a dubious eyebrow, "Tell me, truly, is that the case."

The man hesitated for a brief moment, unsure and undecided.

"It is," he said finally, warily, averting his gaze from Katarina's cold scrutiny, "The Malthorian orders smiths may have perfected the art, but they were far from the only ones to have retained it."

“And yet none used it. It's an archaic rune. It shatters magical barriers with the power of a sledgehammer. Sunders the victim's connection to the wyrd even as it destroys their body. A cruel, inhumane weapon. Unsubtle and brutish. A relic, lacking all sophistication. So old even the inquisitors of the holy church can't recognize it,” the witch said, letting out every word with painful slowness, “Yet I recognize it. Oh, I recognize it well. And you know why, Master Amand?”

The old man slit his eyes yet remained nonchalant, merely shaking his head and taking a sip of tea.

“Because every Malthorian I fought alongside. Every single one I met. Carried at least a pouch of those same projectiles. Every. Single. One,” she said, “And I've only seen them twice since the purge. Once at Tarva. And now here, at Brachsenburg.”

“I see,” the old man answered.

"And so, you understand now, why I doubt your testimony on this, Tobias," she said cynically, “So humor me, old man. Humor my curiosity. Even should you be correct. Were the killer of that order, where would he hide? Where would he go? Where remains safe for his kind?”

“Fine, let me humor your curiosity, Katarina, let me humor this foolishness,” Amand said sarcastically, the old man's acrimonious tone taking Klober aback with its vehemence, “Where would he go you ask? Even as we stand in Luttenia, a coastal duchy? A day's ride south-east of Loseine lies the port of Tarlone, from there it is easy enough to take a ship out of reach.”

The dragoon captain could have sworn he heard the witch's teeth grind together in agitation as the man described the witch-hunter's likely route.

“And from there, who knows, perhaps east to Thyrria, they've stayed aloof of the affairs down here for decades. Or maybe to the city-states of the far north. Maybe even the backwater charter colonies,” the old man shrugged and leaned back in his seat, “Only God knows, and who am I to try and find further reason.”

Silence. Not a word was spoken as the man finished his speculation. Klober stood motionless in the corner of the room, only his eyes flitting back and forth between the two individuals before him. The witch sat quietly, head bowed slightly in quiet contemplation, brows furrowed as she took in the hunter's words.

The captain felt his gaze sliding away from the tense scene, eyes drawn to the fine hardwood floor. It was in impeccable condition, all except for some faint boot-prints, stamped in powdered mud across the panels. Klober frowned to himself at the sight, to track mud in such a refined office. Odd. No doubt some poor assistant would soon find themselves scrubbing the floors.

“Interesting conclusion, Brother Amand, interesting indeed,” Katarina nodded with finality, as if satisfied by the elder witch-hunters' proposition.

“I don't consider it interesting at all,” the old man said with a shrug, “It's pure speculation, no more, no less.”

“So it may be,” the witch said, “But it is a lead regardless. The port authorities have, I trust, already been notified of the dangerous fugitive.”

“The duke has not seen fit to notify our order of the measures taken,” Amand replied, “I would assume so though, yes.”

Klober crouched absentmindedly as the two continued to talk, the outline of a riding boot in the offices really did stand out. Rather similar to his own. Self-consciously he stood and checked the underside of his boots. Clean. Strange things indeed.

“Good,” Katarina said abruptly, “We will make our way there immediately.”

The old man shook his head at the notion, clearly unimpressed, “With all due respect, Madam Romme, given the success of your agents at this nation's borders, I find it highly unlikely you'll reach the port in time.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps it is so,” Katarina smiled, the expression cruel and unsympathetic, “But I will take my chances Brother Amand.”

“Do as you please,” the witch-hunter shrugged, “It is no concern of ours.”

“Perhaps,” the woman said simply as she made to depart, “But if you hear any further news, do be sure to make note.”