An Eye stared down to the Earth through a ragged hole torn across the clouds. The hole remained for a moment, fueled by the souls of its creators, tunneling under the fabrics of reality into the realms of madness. The hole collapsed, burning the sky with its passing. A moment stretched into time untold as the Eye beheld a dimension new to Its understanding.

Otherworldly hate came with it, from beyond the far edge of the sky. The Eye was vast, terrible, without description. The Eye of an alien god, an alien god of an Eye. Vaster than existence, greater than the faith of men, more than any mortal mind could understand and remain whole.

From the other side of existence, a world unknown to the Thing became Known. Once Known, it could not be forgotten. And once Known, the unknowing Eye reached out, inside the new world. A Nation fell before it, immaterial under the weight of Its attention.

The apathy of eons. Flesh, wood, stone, iron. All dust before the barest acknowledgement of the being outside of mortal spaces and above the passage of time.

All came to pass in the time between one heartbeat and the next. The Eye watched the world shudder under Its attention, and the world recoiled at the touch of the Eye. The Eye shifted, even as the portal between mortal realms and this place beyond knowing closed, and It looked upon a mortal man. The End of All Things shone in Its gaze, falling on Bla-

The first thing Blake saw when he opened his eyes was the tilted head of a boy no older than ten. Long curled brown hair covered one eye, and dirt was smudged across his dark chin. The boy jumped when he realized Blake was looking back at him.

“Ma! Ma, he’s awake!” The boy disappeared from view before Blake could ask him anything, presumably in search of his Ma.

The second thing Blake saw were the symbols floating above his head, burnt into wooden prayer slats suspended on silver chains. He recognized the runes for safety, protection, and healing, but some were foreign and strange. Pain spiked through his head as he lifted it to investigate his surroundings. The heavy blanket pulled to his chin hampered the movement a little.

His belongings lay in a pile next to the door the boy had closed in his flight to find Ma, and Blake noted with relief his bag appeared to be unopened. There were things in there the untrained should not touch. His coat had been hung from a hook with his clothes folded beneath, boots to the side.

The rest of the room was plain, white painted wooden walls, bare of adornments save a square quilt and dark curtains covering what he assumed was a window. A simple dresser of three drawers, a gray pottery bowl perched on top with a small mirror. He could not see above his head, but it was likely the headboard of the bed he was lying on matched the crossed wrought iron of the footboard. A farmhouse, if Blake had to guess. His mysterious rescuer could not have brought him back into town, not with the inhabitants all under the sway of Mistress Kingston.

Pale blue light suffused the room from the elymis lightstone set in the ceiling. A well-to-do farming family, if they could afford an elymis anything. And to use it in what appeared to be a side or guestroom meant they had more.

The boy had closed the door behind him so Blake could not see further into the house. With nothing of interest remaining in the room, he turned his attention to himself. The wound in his side burned, and his ankle throbbed. The rest of him did not hurt, so long as he did not move. When he moved, muscles screamed and bruises announced themselves.

“Ow. At least I am alive.”

It had been a close thing. The succubus had surprised him with the poison, and the revenant. He was lucky to wake at all, with the trauma his body had gone through. At least he had gotten some sleep without the ever present Eye, even if it was because of injury.

His head throbbed at the thought of the Eye and Blake shifted his attention back to his bedridden self. His Knightly constitution had cleared the poison by now, and whoever had rescued him had been kind enough and skilled enough to clean and bandage the wound left by the revenant’s hand. The risen dead filled wounds with Dark miasma and ill humors, often killing days after the wound’s infliction rather than at the moment of injury. Even a Knight would die without treatment.

Kathryn was a powerful succubus if she could raise a revenant. Spirits or ghasts could be summoned by even an untrained child, but the more corporeal the summon, the greater the difficulty. Blake had never heard of an imitator demon able to summon more than a lesser devil. Though, how had the succubus herself arrived here? He did not believe for a moment she had “wandered by”. Perhaps she was something kept by the late Mayor in his dark house, and only recently escaped. Or-

Musings into the origin of his deadly opponent were interrupted by the door opening to admit the young boy and his Ma. A handsome woman in her thirties, Ma was short and wide, plump in the belly, dark blonde hair tucked behind her head with a broad blue strip of cloth. She had a smile on her face, but she could not hide the strain in her eyes as she looked at him. It was a look most farmwives gave him, if he had reason to be around them.

For all her hesitation, the tray in her hands smelled inviting. Steam rose from a deep bowl and a pitcher of unseen liquid called to his parched throat.

“Glad ta see ye awake, Sir Knight.” She lifted the tray higher. “I brought refreshments. Not much, m’fraid. Granny said no but broth and milk.”

“I-,” Blake croaked out. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I thank you, kind woman.”

The boy dragged in a stool behind his Ma, and pushed it next to the bed. The woman sat and set the tray on the small table next to the bed.

“Granny also said no talking. Keep yer strength up.” It was likely the Granny she kept referring to was the missing Granny Woman Blake had been hearing about. Or another Granny Woman from a further region, but if the Grannies were anything like the Wise Women he had known in his past, they would not step into each other’s territories unless death was on the line. Whoever Granny was, Blake reasoned the best thing to do was listen to her advice, second hand though it might be.

He smiled and nodded, keeping his lips pressed tight. The woman’s tight smile loosened a little at the sight. “I gotchu heated chicken broth, fresh. Been brewin’ since she brought ye in. Hoolerin’ up such a racket on that cart o’ hers.”

The woman driving the wild cart firing a rifle the size of her body was the Granny Woman? No wonder this town was strange.

“Ye was white as a sheet, mister!” piped the boy at his mother’s elbow. He stared at Blake through the gap her bent arm made with her body. The boy jumped but did not run again when Blake smiled at him. His mother shushed him.

“Quiet, Jerome, he needs ‘is soup and rest. Go, help Pa wit’ the cows.” As little boys do when told to abandon an interesting thing and attend to chores, Jerome protested.

“But Ma! I helped this mornin’, an’ ye said the mister needed lookin’ after an’-”

“Jerome Harper,” his mother cut him off. “He’s ‘wakened now. Go. Cows need tendin’.”

The boy ducked his head and walked out, casting looks back when he thought his mother would not be watching, and jumping when she was.

“Jerome, do ye got yer Star?” Mistress Harper asked the boy, lifting her own from the high neck of her dress. The Star of Yeshas, symbol of his devotion and sacrifice, bane of demons and things of the Dark. If one knew what they were doing with it. But it channeled the untrained Intent and Beliefs of the mundane, and for them, it was usually enough.

Until Mistress Harper had pulled hers, Blake had not seen a single Star in the town of Quincy Hill, a fact he felt should have tipped him off to the demonic presence in the valley, if he had given the town more than a passing thought before encountering Kathryn. The preacher, dead under mysterious circumstances, was a good indicator as well.

“Uhhm,” the boy said, and scuffled his foot in the way of all boys unlucky enough to be caught by their mothers.

“Get it immediately! Granny said never be without, no with the demon in the manor!”

“Yes, Ma!” Jerome said and ran off, to get his Star if he knew what was good for him. Small boots clomped against the wood floor then faded away.

“Sorry ‘bout th’ boy. Ye know how they can be.” Blake nodded and shrugged to show his agreement, and acceptance for the unneeded apology. “Let me help ye up, and we’ll get some soup in ye.”

Between the two of them, they managed to get Blake into a halfway upright position, with thick pillows between his back and the iron frame of the bed. His side flared in pain, but it was manageable. The center felt almost numb, and he hoped it was due to the medicines Granny must have packed in there instead of the other, more serious, reason. Mistress Harper lifted the bowl and stirred, pushing his worries from his head. Blake’s mouth flooded with saliva as the aroma touched his nose and he licked his lips.

“Granny will be here soon,” Mistress Harper said as she lifted a spoonful from the bowl and held it out for Blake. He accepted with pleasure, the rich warmth of broth washing away the cold he had not known he was feeling. Close brushes with the Dark could do that. “She’ll get ye on yer feet in no time flat.”

Blake nodded as he swallowed more broth, enjoying the heat spread further to his extremities. Too quickly, the broth was gone. Mistress Harper followed it with a glass of milk, as rich as the broth. They had good livestock here. Blake would be sure to give the home a Blessing in thanks, and check for the Wards. It was the least he could do to repay this life giving sustenance the Harpers shared.

When the tray was empty, Mistress Harper smiled at him and patted his shoulder. “Now ye rest up, Sir Knight. Granny’s got some tasks for ye when ye’re feelin’ better.”

With that, she gathered the dishes and left the room, closing the door behind her. Not moments after the door had closed, it opened again, allowing the slight figure of Jerome into the room. He checked outside the door then closed it slowly, easing the latch into place. When he had accomplished his task without alerting his mother, Jerome spun and replaced Mistress Harper on the stool she had vacated.

The boy sat there and watched Blake, curious eyes wide, scanning every visible part of the stranger in his house. Blake lay quietly, indulging Jerome’s curiosity. It possessed none of the hostility of an adult’s questing gaze. Jerome looked at Blake’s face, at his scars and lopsided facial features, the results of ill-healed breaks from Hunts gone awry. He did not meet Blake’s eyes. He did not blame the boy, most grown men could not do so for more than a moment.

It was when the boy’s eyes fell on the tattoos, the ancient runes, hexes, and spells in a dozen languages long since dry from men’s tongues, running up his bare arms to meet in the middle of his chest, that Blake spoke.

“They are for protection.” Mistress Harper had said Granny left instructions to remain silent, but what she did not know could not hurt her. And the boy would not tattle, Blake hoped.

The boy tilted his head at Blake’s words. “Even them?”

His slender finger pointed at the runes across Blake’s knuckles, thick angular writing, all sharp lines and corners. Nothing soft about them.

“No,” Blake chuckled, “no, those are not. Monsters are scared of them.”

“Ye must be strong to hurt a Wildman.”

“What is a Wildman?” Blake asked with more interest. Perhaps the boy knew of the black thing he had encountered in the forest. “Is it a shadow the size of a man? That leaves no tracks?”

“Wha’? No, Wildman’s leave huge feet tracks behind. They’re tall as the trees an’ hairy an’ have sharp claws’n’teeth. They eat boys and girls whole,” the boy said, leaning forward to whisper the last. “Have ye seen one?”

The Wildman seemed like nothing more than a Sasquatch, from Jerome’s description. Not eating humans, Forest People were strict vegetarians, but they were a favorite scary story of mothers across the continent to force their children to behave.

“I have. She was nice.”

“Oh.” The boy cast about for another item of interest. Being a young child, it did not take him long. “Ye’ve got nice boots, mister.”

“You need good boots in my profession,” Blake told the boy.

“That’s what Pa said an’ he were a soldier. He says yer a Ferret. Ferrets ain’t soldiers, is they?” The oft repeated nickname had not bothered Blake coming from the mouths of adults, but from a child told by his parents, Blake felt he had the opportunity to correct the record.

“Why can people not understand we are trying to help them?”

“What were that, mister? Ye mumblin’.”

“I am a Knight of the Ordis Ferrum. We are not Ferrets. And we are soldiers, fighting a bigger war than any nations can wage.” Blake waved his hand at the room and surrounding house. Carefully, to avoid copious amounts of pain. “Nations fight nations. Men fight men. Knights? We fight demons. Monsters. The undead. Witches and warlocks. We keep the souls of the world safe, so you can sleep comfortably in your bed and know there is nothing going bump in the night.”

The boy watched with his eyebrows near his hairline. “Could I be a Knight? I can fight monsters!”

Blake hesitated. It was one thing to leave the boy with a healthy respect for the people who safeguarded humanity, but it was another to recruit him. He did not have time to take the boy to the nearest Order outpost in Shikagho; he needed to make it home soon. But he could not turn the boy down too harshly. He showed an interest, and that was more than most did.

The arrival of the boy’s mother solved Blake’s problem, but brought another.

“Jerome! What did I tell ye! Git out! Go!” The boy suffered a bottom swat for his efforts at conversation with Blake. Mistress Harper rounded on Blake, finger raised like a dagger. “And ye! I told ye, ye… shouldn’t…”

She trailed off, perhaps realizing exactly what kind of man she was admonishing. Then her eyes hardened with determination and she lifted her finger again. “Granny will have words with ye! She said no talking, and ye talked!”

“Abbey, dear, no need to shout so. Mister Campbell feels awful enough, I imagine.” The voice from behind Abbey Harper was like the great roots of the mountains, ground to gravel by the crushing weight of relentless time. The weight of experience, of terrible knowledge, and indomitable will filled the voice. Blake knew without a doubt this was the woman who had saved him from the succubus’ lair.

This was the Granny Woman.