The Broken Perch tavern on the edge of The Stack hadn't changed much in all these years and was thankfully untouched by the recent arson.

A thin elderly man stood behind the bar while a short woman tended to the relatively light number of patrons. There was a grand feast at the castle's great hall in lieu of the ogre's defeat and much of the tavern’s usual patronage flocked there instead.

Alric ran his bare fingers along the side of his tankard as those he sat with continued in their exchanges. The moon was high and he had uttered the final words of the Rite of Arming not long ago, meaning he was free from his steel tomb of plate armour.

Many of the corpses on the battlefield were beyond recognition. Heads crushed, bodies flattened. A large number of them were so mangled that they were impossible to physically identify; the local clerk would have to cross-reference the names of the surviving soldiers with every name on the garrison roll to discern who exactly perished. Those who lived in Kristantin were laid to rest in the city’s cemetery. Anyone else, identified or not, was cast into a mass grave a fair distance outside the walls.

No matter the method of burial, Alric ensured that every single fallen man had the proper prayers uttered so that they could pass into the afterlife. Heaven or Hell, it was their deeds in life that determined which.

The barmaid came to the table, a pitcher of mead in her hand.

"Quiet tonight, aye Jane?" said Langdon Miller.

She set the vessel onto the table and shook her head. "Feasts'll do that. Not ta worry, they'll come back. They always come back."

Jane then looked to Alric, spotting his Thestor surcoat. "What's a holy man doin' sharin' drinks with this pack of idiots?"

"I beg thy pardon," Alric replied monotonously, voice seething with sarcasm. "I know myself to be in the company of a great and honourable party."

A gargantuan burp, unleashed by Oliver Thatcher, echoed through the empty tavern.

"Oh fer fuck's sake!" yelled Mattias Wright, who happened to catch the brunt of the foul smelling eruption. "Yer fuckin' disgustin'! Fuck off!"

A feast attended by nobles and lined with gourmet dishes did sound more appealing than all of this rudeness...but Alric knew that if he attended without a helmet to mask his visage, someone there would recognise him. He did not want to deal with that at the moment.

"Settle down, ya little bastards! Want me ta cut ya all off?" Jane hollered.

The party of soldiers continued swearing and carrying on as the barmaid sauntered off. Alric shook his head. He thought it charitable to invite the diligent men who toiled alongside him with the dead bodies to a drink at his expense. Immediate remorse, Alric thought to himself.

"Bloody ogre,” Thatcher muttered to himself in disbelief. “I guess everything else is real too, brother Thestor?”

Alric nodded solemnly. “More often than not.”

"Woulda liked ta see tha Lacron take that fat blighter down, I'll tell ya that," quipped Miller as he stared daggers about the place.

Wright swallowed a mouthful of mead before replying, "Well, we sorta did, didn't we? Montefon got his legs smashed in by the thing. Poor bastard."

Most of the men reacted seriously to the remark.

"He shall be lucky to survive such an injury," said Alric. He took a meager sip of his mead and set the tankard down gently. "But alas, I know not of any knight who would suffer themselves life as a cripple. The glory and honour of battle is all they crave."

Wright shifted uncomfortably at Alric’s words. “Life is still life...isn’t it?”

Alric huffed in amusement.

Oliver Thatcher shook his head. "Whatever happens, he'll be remembered for slaying that bloody ogre, we'll make sure of that."

Alric started, "It might have been we who shed blood in the fight, but those witches were truly responsible for the creature's downfall."

"They're druids, not witches,” Wright corrected.

"What they would like to be called is of no interest to me," Alric scoffed.

"Witches are servants of the devil, right. The Mnem'non aren't like that. They’re peaceful. Strange, sure...but peaceful," explained Thatcher.

Alric huffed in frustration. They did help to slay the ogre. Witches generally looked to any dark beast as things to be worshipped, as they were aspects of the devil and manifestations of Hell itself. But still, they practised black magic. The words of the Mnem’non speaker echoed in his mind. The wretch was simply trying to manipulate me with lies. I cannot be swayed by her silver tongue.

“Whatever they are, they’ll be wise not to defy Lady Katheryn a second time,” added Wright.

With a chuckle, Miller pushed to his feet to procure some more beverages for the table. “There won’t be a second time. She’ll put ‘em in place.”

Hours passed as the group continued drowning in mead. Alric was never one for drinking so profusely, but he noticed that it helped with his inner turmoil. The voices and the swelling discomfort within him quietly slipped away. Only then had he the courage to leave the tavern.

The night sky was a deep purple, painted so by the light of the full moon. He needed no lantern to see and quite frankly, he was certain that such an implement would spoil the night’s beauty. To wander a city after dark without a light was a crime, but on such a night...Alric cared not.

Countless pillars of stone stood sentinel on the final resting place for hundreds of Kristantin’s former residents. Among the markers was an unremarkable block of granite.

The inscription read ‘Count Freydian of Danecaster’.

Alric came to a halt at the tombstone and stared spitefully at it. Perhaps if thou hadst lived a life of honour, I would have bothered to make thy headstone a grander affair.

“Thou art so incredibly predictable,” called a voice so cold that it very much suited the graveyard. “What better den for the ghost of a man than a field of graves?”

The knight was startled, at first thinking it was Freydian’s voice answering him, but was only slightly relieved to see that it was just Katheryn. She wore a royal blue kirtle, just as expensive in appearance as the houppelande she wore earlier that day. In her hand was an oil lantern.

“When did such sickening cowardice infect thee, brother?” she spat.

Many people called Alric ‘brother’. It was befitting his status as a servant of the Church and the Order of Saint Thestus. However, there was only one person who could use the word and truly mean it.

“Surely, thy designs were not so ill-conceived as to assume that I would need to behold a face to tell the man,” Katheryn continued bluntly. “Or, pray tell, doth thou think me a fool?”

Alric sighed.

Katheryn’s pale aqua eyes seemed to flicker as the silence continued.

Alric finally said with a nod, “Thou best seek a husband before the sun sets upon thy beauty.”

“Thou art speaking the way mother did. Know this; I shall not die empty and longing the way she did,” she said scornfully and mockingly.

Alric furrowed his brow. "What?"

“Worry not thy simple mind. Thou would not understand. Thou would not comprehend being deemed unable to wield power. It was bestowed to thee from the day of thy birth. Only one so privileged would have the audacity to discard it all. For what, Alric of Danecaster? Servitude to God?”

“I no longer hold that name.”

“Indeed. It fell to me, along with everything our parents worked to achieve. That which thou so thoughtlessly tossed aside, I have worked decades to prevent from being stolen,” Katheryn continued coarsely.

When Alric swore himself to the Order of Saint Thestus, everything he owned was to be bestowed onto his closest kin. No knight of any holy order was permitted to possess personal belongings. Selfishly, Alric had never considered what happened to his House until now.

Alric’s eyes narrowed. “This is not the place for a woman. Alas, I see now that it was my doing.”

Katheryn scoffed at the remark as she sauntered over to the dying tree that overlooked the graveyard. “Do not flatter thyself. This is the station I have earned for myself. I waged wars against naive lords laying claim to House Danecaster through some remote sharing of lineage. Others were vassals who believed a woman was not worthy of their direct servitude, or simply easy prey. None of these knaves lived long enough to speak any further ill of me.”

Alric shook his head. “Avarice so unchecked as to have drawn blood is sinful.”

“As is patricide, little brother.”

These words slammed into Alric’s chest like a crossbow bolt. His eyes lit up like twin suns in the blackness of twilight.

He stomped towards his sister, crying, “The fool brought it upon himself! I acted on God’s command!”

Standing inches apart, Alric could see now that Katheryn stood at the same height he did. She didn’t buckle despite his clear frustration. She said to him, her voice not wavering, “These are the words of one who is seeking to convince himself. How goes it, Alric? After slaying him, vanishing, and tossing all thy responsibilities over shoulder without regard, has lying to thyself helped to quell the pain?”

Alric’s arm tensed moments before a clenched fist fired itself into Katheryn’s face. Her head was forced sideways, but she was not staggered or otherwise displaced by the blow.

Slowly and forebodingly, she turned back to face her brother. She dropped her lantern and snapped forward with the speed of an arrow. Quite frankly, Alric was completely unprepared and crashed into the decrepit tree. Katheryn held him by the collar and her right arm turned into a blur.

The next thing Alric knew, a fierce impact crashed into his cheek. Followed by another, then another. His efforts to raise his hands to defend himself were deflected.

With a growl, Alric mustered all of his strength and pushed against the trunk of the tree with his foot. All of his body weight came down upon Katheryn, and the two nobles came crashing into the dirt. Alric rammed his forehead into Katheryn’s head, plunging himself into a sea of blurry sights and swirls.

Katheryn emitted only a single gravelly cough in lieu of the strike. She then sent a knee into her brother’s gut. Alric reeled over and gagged, presenting Katheryn with the chance she needed.

She seized Alric by the shoulder, shoved him onto the dirt, and leapt onto him. Multiple punches found their marks on his face.

His vision blurred as the pain seeped through his skull. Alric started to stretch his hands outward in an attempt to find something lying on the ground that he could use. His fingers secured themselves around a disc-like object. Without hesitation, he sent the thing into the side of Katheryn’s head.

The clay dish, seconds ago laden with offerings of fruit, shattered into shrapnel as it struck her in the temple.

With his foe dazed, Alric propelled his right foot forward as hard as he could.

Katheryn was thrown back-first into Freydian’s tombstone with a ‘crack’.

Alric scrambled to his feet, possibly a bit too quickly. With his head throbbing with pain and his senses disrupted, the knight ended up stumbling and falling onto his face. The ground struck his forehead with as much force as Katheryn did.

Hazily, he lifted his head and looked towards Katheryn. She sat with her back against the headstone, groggily laughing at Alric’s fall. In defeat, he dropped his head onto the dirt and exhaled heavily.

We would fight in the castle courtyard as children. Katheryn was a far more worthy opponent than the boys I played with, until father took notice. Thereafter, we were forbidden to do such things, for what manner of boy could not easily best a girl, and what manner of girl should be able to fight a boy?

“I would like to remind thee that I did not dispense the first blow,” said Katheryn, clutching the side of her face.

Alric snorted at the comment. “Harlot,” he jabbed.

Katheryn promptly retorted, “Fop.”

Alric found himself lying in the dirt and staring at the stars for some indeterminate amount of time. Katheryn hadn’t moved either. The pair of them just basked in the silence. Somehow, they both felt as if they were children once again looking into the stars and wondering what they were.

“Doth thou hold it against me?” Alric suddenly asked.

“Hold what against thee?”

“Father.”

There was a moment’s pause. “...He knew how vigilantly his son would enforce the laws of God, and all actions require consequence. He was a fool if he expected no punishment. As it was with father, as it is with Kent,” Katheryn said to him. “I do not regret exacting justice, but I do…acknowledge that he was a friend of thine.”

“He was no friend, simply a companion. Shed no tears for him, for he has earned passage to paradise. It should be he who mourns for us.”

The knight stared unblinking into the brightest star in the sky. I must admit that my dear sister has indeed impeded my search...but all occurs as God wills it. The heretics shall reveal themselves to me in time.

“That is what I always admired most about thou, little brother. Always so certain. In times of hardship, I wish to find such conviction.”

Alric finally sat upright with a groan, dusting off his surcoat. He looked to his sister as she leaned casually against the tombstone. In a most unladylike manner, especially in the dress she wore, she did not have her legs crossed but instead splayed apart. The aforementioned dress was absolutely caked in dirt and grass, probably ruined beyond salvation. Alric started to remember that this was a fairly common state for her when they were younger.

He pushed to his feet and approached Katheryn, holding out a hand to her. “It lies in the arms of God, sister.”

Most predictably, Katheryn ignored his hand and instead helped herself up by grasping the side of Freydian’s headstone. She didn’t bother patting the dirt from her dress. Alric could tell by the way she looked at it that she was going to just discard it altogether once she returned to the castle.

“The time has passed for me to cultivate my faith, Alric. I cannot see God the way thou see him. I cannot love him. I accept my position as subject to his will, but I cannot convince myself that he is just.”

Alric nodded. As long as she does not renounce the faith... “Thou best clean thyself up. Katheryn the Unbending best not be seen looking like a corpse.”

Katheryn knelt, plucked up the now completely shattered oil lantern that she had dropped before the scuffle and glanced at it with a cocked eyebrow. “Indeed.”

As she began to make her way back toward the keep, Alric called out to her. "I shall journey with the homeless to Phaenlake on the morrow."

Katheryn slowed to a halt and peered over her shoulder. "To the hospital?"

He nodded. "It is clear that thy resources are needed for the war. Best leave the care of the needy to the Church," Alric explained.

"Of course. Thou must uphold the Fourth Attestation."

Alric hesitated for a moment. "And...thou art my sister."

The very faintest glimpse of a smile appeared in the corner of Katheryn's mouth before she turned back toward the keep and disappeared into the night.