They rode beneath a sky the color of pale wolf pelt, the countryside stretching wide and quiet around them. Low hills rolled, fields broken only by stone fences and the occasional scarecrow left to rot after harvest.
Vesper's hooves struck the earth in a steady rhythm. Ventren sat easily in the saddle, silver-white cloak shifting in the wind. He looked like a true knight—save for his signature horned helmet.
Gwendolyn always wondered why he wore such an intimidating piece of armor, but perhaps that was the point. Ventren's strength lies not just with strength, but with fear too. Her white mare kept pace with Vesper despite being smaller. She rode with the posture drilled into her by years of discipline in the retinue, back straight, chin lifted.
Only Ventren noticed how her fingers looked on the reins when she thought he wasn't looking.
They had been riding since the celebrations.
A shadow passed over them. Ventren felt it before he saw it.
He turned his head just as a falcon descended, wings cutting the air with precision. It landed on his shoulder without hesitation, talons gripping the edge of his pauldron as if it had done so a hundred times before.
Gwendolyn startled. "Ventren—"
"I see it."
The bird tilted its head, black eyes sharp and intelligent. A small parchment cylinder was tied to its leg with red thread, carrying the Prince Regent's wax seal.
Ventren reached up calmly, unfastening it with practiced ease. The falcon lingered only a heartbeat longer before launching itself back into the sky, vanishing towards the capital.
Gwendolyn leaned closer. "More orders?"
"Looks like it."
Ventren unrolled the parchment as silence stretched. Neither of them could read.
They stared at it for a few minutes. Gwendolyn squinted, lips pursed in concentration. Ventren rotated the parchment slightly, as though angle might grant meaning.
"By Myriam, we should've read those damned picture books." She sighed. "There," Gwen said finally, pointing. "That word. I recognize it."
Ventren followed her finger.
"Eryn," she read aloud.
Knight-Commander Eryn, leader of the Royal Guard. Ventren rolled the parchment back up.
"We have to deliver it to the Commander, I assume?" Gwen said quietly.
"Most likely." He tucked the parchment into his satchel and urged Vesper forward.
Gwendolyn hesitated, then followed.
They rode on.
Ironhold City loomed in the distance by midday—its great towers visible even from kilometres away. Ventren adjusted their course without comment, steering them south, skirting the trade roads.
Gwendolyn noticed. "Ironhold's that way."
"I know."
"We could rest there. Resupply."
"No."
She glanced at him. "You're avoiding it?"
"Yes."
She studied his profile. "Why?"
"We can make it to the County of Menzo just as light goes out," Ventren didn't answer truthfully.
The Archduke had sent him as a spy meant for the Prince Regent.
Ventren had chosen a different master. They passed the countryside villages without stopping smoke curled from chimneys, farmers paused in their work to stare, children pointed, recognising the famous Royal Guard sigils. No one dared approached.
By the third village, Gwendolyn frowned.
"Are you not tired..? We don't have to rush to the county."
Ventren didn't respond.
"We've been riding all day. You're not even breathing hard."
"I'm fine."
"You're always fine," she said, irritation creeping in. "You never tire. You never—"
"Drop it, Shieldmaiden, Sir Gwendolyn."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. She clearly hated Ventren calling her by her full title. Ventren felt it too—the tension—and hated himself for it.
If I told her… If I told the Prince Regent.
He was a dullahan. A monster that still knelt in chapels and prayed. Bound by a witch's curse, forbidden from speaking her name—but not, technically, forbidden from speaking of what he was. He wanted to so badly tell others about this truth. He could not sleep or rest physically, stopping at a village would make him overthink. He preferred to keep riding on.
What would they do if he told them that truth?
Use him? Bury him? Burn him?
His thoughts shattered when Vesper reared.
"What in the name of Myriam—"
The horse crashed forward, nearly throwing Ventren as something struck against its chest. Gwen shouted, dismounting instantly.
A girl lay in the dirt.
She was small, bruised, clothed in brown rags. An iron collar ringed her neck.
Ventren was off Vesper in an instant, kneeling beside her. She flinched, eyes wide, breathing fast.
She spoke—rapid, panicked words Ventren did not understand.
"a-adiuva m-moi, sodes…"
Gwendolyn froze.
"That's the Imperial tongue," she said sharply. "Adiuva, I've heard that one. She's asking for help."
The girl pointed weakly towards the side of the forest, then tugged at Ventren's gauntlet, pleading. "M-mali homines là l-latent…"
"Slave trade," Gwen said. "Look at the collar. By Myriam—Ventren, this is a slaver's work. Probably remnants of when it was legal.."
"Seems so, but how come there is a child here?"
"If I had to guess… Probably bred in captivity."
Ventren's blood ran cold. They tried to calm the girl and communicate through gestures. She rose shakily and beckoned them to follow. "Sequisuis m-moi."
They exchanged a look, then they followed her.
Ventren saw it the moment the girl led them off the road—how the path bent unnaturally, how the broken stones rose from a shallow basin. Old kingdom masonry, half-collapsed, deliberately left just tall enough to block distant views. Trees and thorn scrub had been allowed to grow wild around it, forming a natural screen.
It was a ruin occupied by what seems to be illegal mercenaries—collapsed stone, ancient Valkraun banners rotted to threads. A place deliberately chosen to be hidden. Armed men stood watch with weapons ready.
At least a dozen, possibly more inside.
"Girl, hide in the thickets." He gestured towards the slave girl, who seemed to understand his instructions.
He exhaled slowly.
"Gwen," he said without looking at her, "stay here."
She stiffened. "What?"
"I'll walk up alone. You know I can handle it."
"Ventren, that's—"
"They're slavers, I'll gather them in one place." he said quietly. "If they panic, they might kill or torture the people. Probably thinking it's better than letting us free them."
She clenched her jaw. "Seems reasonable. Don't die."
"Not planning to."
He turned at last and met her eyes. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
"Use your crossbow," he added, tone shifting to command. "Cover me from here. Use the height. If they rush me, you fire."
Ventren twitched beneath his helm, thinking of the slavers. He took his axe from Vesper's saddle and walked forward alone. The mercenaries noticed him halfway across the clearing. At first, they went still. Plate armor caught the light. Silver-white cloak stirred in the breeze. And above it all—height and the horns. Seven feet of iron and horn, moving deliberately towards them.
Ventren stopped ten meters from the nearest man and planted his axe head-down in the dirt.
"I am Sir Ventren of the Royal Guard," he announced, voice carrying easily across the ruins. "By decree of Prince Regent Vaenir Valkraun, slavery is outlawed in all lands under his protection. You will cease operations immediately, lay down your arms and release those you hold."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then someone laughed.
Another joined in.
Soon the clearing filled with rough, barking laughter.
"Just one?" a merc sneered, stepping forward. "One big bastard thinks he's the law now?"
"No matter how tough you are you can't take us all, you dumbass."
Another spat, the glob striking Ventren's sabaton and sliding down the steel. "Royal Guard, my arse."
Ventren didn't react. He watched them.
They were mostly aged men with rusted kettle helmets and poorly maintained gambesons. Some with worn chainmail, ill-fitted, with scraped symbols of King Maershal. Weapons of convenience—woodcutter axes, chipped swords, makeshift mallets. Some of them had previous generation metalwork armour.
Veterans of the Valk-Tytia war. If I had to guess, they were remnants of Maershal's pillager regiments.
They began to move, spreading out, boots crunching on gravel as they tried to surround him.
Ventren shifted his stance.
The man directly in front of him slowly raised his blade—
—and Ventren surged forward.
The headbutt landed and the sound of bone crushinf could be heard. The horned helm smashed into the man's face, collapsing bone and cartilage in an instant. Before the body even fell, Ventren's axe came around in a wide, brutal arc.
Two men died screaming, Ventren didn't slow.
He pivoted, brought the axe up and down in a clean mittelhaw, splitting another merc from shoulder to chest. Blood sprayed hot across the stones.
From the ridge, Gwen fired her crossbow. A miss.
"Shit!" she hissed, already cranking the crossbow again. "Why didn't I practice more?!"
Ventren parried a wild strike, stepped inside another man's guard and smashed him backward with the haft of his axe. Two mercs pressed him at once—one hacking, one stabbing.
He turned blows aside, letting steel slide on steel, his size and reach denying them space.
Behind him—
—a third merc charged, mallet raised.
The crossbow twanged. The bolt struck the man's leg with a wet crack. He screamed, collapsed, maul dropping uselessly. Ventren didn't even look back when his sabatons came down hard, crushing the merc's skull. The screaming halted.
He turned back to the two remaining mercs and drove them down with relentless force.
"Gwen!" Ventren shouted without looking away. "Flank them! Free the slaves—I've got these dogs!"
She didn't hesitate and ran, vanishing behind the ruins, the mercenaries faltered. Some tried to regroup. Others looked to the shadows, fear creeping in.
Then a voice cut through the chaos.
"You!" The word burned.
From the shadow of a collapsed archway, fire bloomed.
A claymore ignited, its blade wreathed in living flame. Heat washed over the clearing as a tall figure stepped forward—black brigandine armor and a red houndskull helmet stared at Ventren with empty, hateful eyes.
The fighting stopped. The mercenaries backed away instinctively, forming a wide circle.
Ventren's grip tightened. He knew that helm.
"The Marauder," Ventren growled.
The man laughed, low and cruel. "Didn't think I'd find you playing royal guard, horned motherfucker."
Flames licked higher along the blade as he raised it.
"Time for my payback."