Orrin Skye. Dead.

Metterlich couldn't believe it. The man was a legend, a paragon of the Sorcerers Conclave, to think he had been felled by assassin's bullet at the moment of his greatest achievement- It seemed impossible, the mere notion setting the young wizard's mind on edge. Fear. Shock. Disbelief. It hung heavily in the air as he strode inside the Brachsenburg City Hall, pervading the latent thoughts of all around him, echoing his own emotions.

Well, almost all. He corrected himself, forcing a calm expression onto his features as he caught sight of his mentor's cold, scrutinizing gaze. Katarina Romme said nothing, her impassive demeanor in stark contrast with the sickened, nervous faces of those around her. Yet it was in the wyrd where she stood out like a sore thumb, the light-hearted hint of private amusement flickering in her naked thoughts, a stark departure from the emotions of the others, a levity matched only by the darkened anger of the man who knelt before them, knife and forceps burrowed deep in the dead mage's chest.

“Ah, Hubert, excellent,” Katarina remarked, “Quick to the scene, also here for the sage's blessing no doubt.”

“No doubt, as were you,” the man responded with tangible acrimony.

Truly, there was no love lost between the two.

“It's a mage-killer. A strange one, but no doubt about it. Punched through his wards like butter. Orrin never stood a chance,” Hubert Krem said coldly, glancing at the tall woman standing behind him.

Katarina Romme did not deign to glance back down, her rigid face staying locked on the cathedral tower domineering the city skyline. Her appearance was no doubt not a welcome one for the man.

“What form?” she asked.

“I'm not sure. Never seen these runes before. It isn't the Korotian, nor Danimilian.” the inquisitor shrugged dispassionately.

Neither wept at the man's demise, not to the world, and certainly not in the wyrd. The brief, analytical talk mirroring the flickers of their thoughts in the sixth.

“Give it to me,” she said frostily, reaching a hand out for the bullet.

It was perfectly clean, deformed only by its impact, the dead mage's lifeblood recoiling away from the tainted lead.

“Go ahead,” Hubert snorted and began to pack up his extraction kit.

Katarina made no retort, simply taking the projectile from the inquisitor, her nose twitching slightly as the runic bullet touched her hand.

It was a mage-killer beyond doubt. In spite of its deformation, the pain it caused her flesh with mere touch was more than enough proof of that. She held it gingerly between her fingers as if it were made of molten steel, trying to make out the compressed etchings on the bullets outside.

“Odd,” she mused, her eyes lighting up with fel power as sudden recognition dawned upon her.

“What?” Metterlich asked, the junior wizard's robes flapping in the wind as he discreetly glanced over her shoulder.

“What is it? You recognize it?” Hubert echoed the man's sentiment.

“It's a Kutovny rune,” the woman said definitively, as if it answered everything she wanted to know, “The symbol is old, a bit dated. But this is it, clear as day. It is strange that the killer should use such a- relic.”

“A relic it may be, but the weapon used, the projectile, far from it. See the rifling, the caliber?” the inquisitor indicated.

Metterlich couldn't see what the man was indicating, or where he was headed with his line of thinking.

“The rifling is hexagonal. Well machined. It's an excellent firearm the likes of which few can afford. A Reisman if I were to wager,” Hubert said, as if he were lecturing a student at university, “Whoever we're dealing with has money, and quite a lot of it.”

“And that means?” the captain of the dragoon bodyguard asked in his turn.

What was his name? Metterlich tried to remember. Klober? It definitely sounded about right.

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“Means we're hunting someone with serious backing,” Katarina smiled coldly, "A witch hunter."

“Or perhaps someone who purchased the tools. Runic weaponry is not, after all, limited to the orders,” Hubert noted, his hand gliding along the hilt of the long cavalry saber at his hip, “Or perhaps they dug it up somewhere. There are old caches still scattered, undiscovered.”

“You said so yourself, this isn't some old forgotten leftover. It's well-maintained. Perhaps even forged recently,” the witch stood up, tossing the projectile back to the man, a smirk forming on her previously inscrutable face, “No. This is a professional.”

A moment of silence passed as the small congregation digested that information. The thought of such a killer made Metterlich nervous, and the notion that they'd have to pursue him even more so. Yet he said nothing, hoping nobody noticed him lick his lips in consternation.

“Remember the bullet used at Tarva? It was the same, was it not,” the witch indicated the sides of the deformed projectile, “It may very well be the Executioner himself.”

“It was indeed. It was-” the inquisitor said, pursing his lips in contemplation.

“What is it?” the witch raised an eyebrow.

“The Executioner was killed, wasn't he?” Hubert asked, suddenly doubtful, “He was a Malthorian. The one caught in Tramo, trying to flee port.”

“He insisted innocence. Looking at this, he may have been innocent of that crime after all,” Katarina noted, “It was just that nobody bothered to listen.”

“That was years ago though,” Metterlich said dubiously, unconvinced by his elder's musings, “What are the odds that any of them are still alive.”

“There are always survivors,” Hubert dismissed the young man's words without a second thought.

“So you're saying there's a living Malthorian? One of those zealots is still around?” Klober shook his head in disbelief.

“Not just around, practicing the craft,” Hubert said with a shrug, unbothered by the revelation.

In all of it, Katarina stayed silent, her face set in a mask of silent contemplation.

“We're hunting a hunter, that's always- interesting,” the woman chuckled finally as she began to pull on her riding gloves, “Did he leave anything behind in the tower?”

“No. Nothing,” the captain shook his head, “We just know he left through the North postern.”

“Odd. Odd indeed. And nobody witnessed this man? Nobody saw him?”

“No, I can't say anyone- unfortunately not.”

The young officer's trepidation was clear, yet he held Katarina's gaze regardless, the witch simply nodding in acceptance. Strangely, she didn't even seem agitated by the thought. As if such lack of information were of no import.

“We should begin to make our way to Loseine,” Katarina said simply, the matter-of-fact tone bearing precisely the thought Metterlich had been worried about.

She intended to pursue the man.

The mayor of the town made way to babble some apology as she swept past him, his fine clothes spattered with Orrin's blood. The man was a nervous wreck, his uncontrolled emotion clouding Metterlich's wyrd sight. The woman shoved him aside with a flicker of thought, not bothering to speak any words to the man as he yelped and staggered back across the crimson carpeting.

“Why Loseine? Why there?” the younger wizard raised an eyebrow, “Luttenia isn't under the King's jurisdiction."

“Do you really need to ask? There's soldiery crawling over every alley, dirt path, and outhouse south of the Dvina. Where else is there?” the woman snorted, tightening her silver hair and replacing her tricorn, “Fortunately, Duke Lisy isn't going to refuse our dear King Charles.”

He could already see Hubert shuffling toward the doors, mind fixated on the pursuit at hand. The man really wasted no time, did he?

“And what if he dumps his things and blends in, how will we find him then?” he asked warily.

“He didn't do so before. I see no reason he should do so now. It is not in this man's nature,” Katarina said with a smug smile, “No, he will keep his things, and if this Malthorian has any sense, he will be retreating where he thinks it's safe. He'll be confident he needn't worry for long, just wait us out. Or wait until we lynch the wrong person. After all, he got away with this before.”

That was an unwelcome reminder of the threat the man posed, though Metterlich did his best to mask those nerves.

“Klober, round up a half dozen of your best men. You will be coming with us. Make sure you bring your carbines and plenty of ammunition, you aren't coming to be honor guard. We're hunting a dangerous individual, and we need your aid,” she nodded at the officer.

“But madam, Klober, the dragoons, they serve the city. You can't just-” the mayor sputtered, seemingly having found his voice all of a sudden.

“Shut up,” she spat at the mayor, for once allowing anger to taint her tone, “You and your city failed its duty, and this is your opportunity to fix that mistake. Be grateful that your city's aid is all I'm calling for.”

The man's eyes grew wide with fear as he backed off, muttering something incorrigible. Hubert laughed at the sight, a harsh, mocking sound that seemed all too unnatural. Klober made no reply, bowing stiffly in acquiescence and vanishing with the bewildered mayor in tow.

“Hubert, I want you to send a message to the border, informing them of developments. Eris is waiting, and she'll be itching for the hunt,” the witch continued, “We all have to move quickly and move efficiently.”

For once, the inquisitor offered no remark, disentangling himself from the conversation to make his report, vacating the city hall with the rest of its occupants. Only Metterlich remained, still hesitant, eyes locked on the corpse before him, sensing the last echoes of its bonds with the wyrd dissipating before him. It all seemed so wrong.

He never heard Katarina as she strode past him, taking her turn to kneel alongside the fallen wizard, muttering some harsh recrimination under her breath.

“Strange,” she said quietly, fumbling through the corpse's robes with seemingly no concern for decorum.

The junior wizard hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should comment or question her decision.

“What's this?” the witch proclaimed as she withdrew a small, silver medallion from an inner pocket, “A trinket from Frolingen? Your studies finally catching up with you?”

It was a strange emblem, a leering skull bedecked in winged helm, the old man's crimson blood still trickling down its edges.

The woman winced in agitation as she examined it, but he could sense no surprise in her mind's eye. Only annoyance, disgust even.

“No wonder you were excited to dig through those catacombs,” She rose slowly, pocketing the token.

“What's wrong, Metterlich?” Katarina's voice carried a tone of concern as she glanced at him, still fixated on the body atop the stretcher.

“This- this is all- Orrin of all people-” he stammered, his silent contemplation disrupted, “I just don't really know what to say, madam.”

“The price of hubris. Let it be a lesson in caution. Orrin will be missed. His is a great loss to the Conclave. A great loss to the kingdom,” the witch shook her head in sympathy.

It was a pity echoed neither in her eyes nor her mind. He nodded wanly in response, struggling to tear his eyes away as he slowly followed her toward the street.

“Come Met. We shouldn't linger any longer. You need to be at your best these coming days. I need you at your best,” Katarina said encouragingly, “Now let us hurry, we must send a message to the king. Let him know we will need a writ of free conduct to Luttenia. There's a killer to catch, and we've tarried here long enough.”