Two days passed in a blur. Alessia packed light, she didn’t need much anyway. She sharpened Silver Sister until the edge could split a hair, reviewed every detail about corpse ghouls and corpse feeders from the Book of Beasts: how they moved, how they fed, when and where to strike. Most important, she drilled the younger Sisters on defensive stances.

  “Your speed is your strength,” she told Alana, Kassandra, and Yara as they practiced. “Let the Brothers be physical. You wear them down.”

  The young Sisters listened, adjusted, improved. When they pressed their dried figs into her hands before she left, their rations, freely given. Alessia couldn’t imagine a greater payment.

  Scribe Willem provided a detailed map of the six-week journey north, marked with towns and villages where she could resupply. Master Tormund reviewed countermeasures against the monsters she’d face. Master Vickers stood silent, arms crossed, but Alessia caught the slight tremor in her jaw, the way her eyes glistened before she blinked it away.

  Master Vickers pulled her aside. “You’ve earned this, Sister. All of it.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes weren’t.

  Alessia embraced her. “I’ll miss you, Vickers.”

  “I will miss you too, Alessia.”

  The children all paid their respects, one-by-one, and then the doors to Last Pass closed behind her. Alessia was, in a sense, free for the first time in over a decade.

  The cold mountain air almost felt unfamiliar. It stung her nose and lungs on each inhalation, but had never smelled so fresh. It made her wonder, was it the Presence heightening her senses, or her own lack of hearing that made it more acute? Maybe it was just the months of confinement.

  The journey was long, but not arduous. The hardest part was the descent from Last Pass. However, six weeks north through Vivon Province stripped away any remaining illusions. The road taught her what Last Pass couldn’t, isolation, self-reliance, and the difference between training and survival.

  Bandits became more prevalent the further north Alessia got. Chaos, she realized, was a ladder, and the perceptive individuals seized on the lawlessness. She’d had to disable rather than kill, honoring the Third Tenet even when they didn’t deserve mercy.

  But what struck her most were the looks.

  They saw her silver eyes first. Always the eyes. Some gawked openly, nudging their companions and pointing. Others hurried their children inside, shuttering windows as she passed through their villages. None of them understood what she was. Hunters were already viewed with caution. Necessary evils. Dangerous but tolerated. But her? A woman with unnatural eyes and a rapier? They couldn’t place her in any familiar category.

  An old woman in Millford spat as she passed. Alessia didn’t need to hear to know what the crone called her. The lip movement was unmistakable: Witch.

  That was the moment she understood why she had Brothers and Sisters. Humanity would never accept her.

  She found Hunter Julian on the outskirts of Fort Ironhill, right on the border of Ascal and Esca. A point of contention for both sides.

  He sat by a campfire, playing what appeared to be a mandolin. He noticed her approach but pretended he hadn’t, instead plucking a string and adjusting the tuning peg.

  He looked far younger than she’d imagined. She’d expected someone weathered and scarred like Master Tormund, proof of twenty-seven years hunting monsters. Instead: black hair pulled into a tight knot at the crown of his head, slight stubble darkened his jaw, lean frame. His cloak was worn, but clean. His posture relaxed in a way that suggested either supreme confidence or dangerous carelessness. The mandolin rested easy in his hands like it belonged there. He could have been a traveling musician rather than a Hunter.

  Alessia stood on the other side of the fire, a light smoke rose and filled her nose. He knew she was there but instead focused on the mandolin.

  “Hunter Julian,” she said after a moment.

  He peered up to her, but immediately turned his attention back to the instrument. He said something but she couldn’t see his lips clearly enough.

  “I can’t hear you,” Alessia said. “You’ll have to look at me.”

  “My apologies, Huntress,” he said. “Forgive me, I forgot.”

  He studied her for a long moment.

  “I can’t believe my eyes,” he said. “Remarkable.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the first woman in The Order’s history stands before me as Huntress.” He rested the mandolin in his lap, giving her his full attention. “I don’t doubt Scribe Willem, but reading his letter was unbelievable. Yet, here you are.”

  “Here I am,” she replied, tossing her arms out to her side.

  He smiled, but didn’t laugh. “Sit,” he said as he gestured to a stump. “There’s much to discuss.”

  Alessia took a seat. Tenderness and fatigue made her wince as her weight shifted.

  “There’s a battlefield not too far from here. King Godwin’s and High King Jutan, as he likes to stylize himself, forces are camped.” He paused. “The bloodbath is tomorrow, from what intelligence I’ve gathered.”

  “High King?”

  “Ah, yes.” He smiled. “The politics of men. Long story short, Jutan is a legitimized bastard. After the death of his father, King Godfrey. He laid claim to Ascal, against his younger half-brother.”

  Politics are irrelevant, war is here now.

  “How has the Hunting been?”

  “Numerous feeders,” he said. “Larger packs than normal due to the death toll.”

  “Okay, so what about the ghouls?”

  “Not many, thankfully.” He tapped the body of the mandolin with a finger. “I’ve encountered maybe three since this all began.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Only three. For now. Alessia allowed herself a small measure of relief. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly.

  “Our battle starts after theirs ends,” he said. “The feeders will sniff it out within a few hours.”

  “I’ve never seen a battlefield before.”

  “Well, tomorrow you will. Unfortunately. Stay close to me, you’ll be fine. The worst part is the smell, I’d say.”

  Alessia nodded and exhaled slowly.

  “First Hunt always ignites the nerves. Just remember what you were taught. Keep the Presence in check.” He paused. “I’ve found it has just as much appetite for violence as it does emotions.”

  “How do you manage it?”

  “Largely by ignoring it,” he said as he picked up the mandolin. “Speaking of appetite, you hungry?”

  “No,” Alessia replied. She wondered if it would all be this casual for her one day. To talk and deal with it so easily, like a discussion over dinner. “I could use some water though.”

  “Of course,” he said, resting the instrument in his lap again as he dug through his bag. “Here.” He extended a waterskin to her. “There’s a stream nearby too. We’ll fill up before the battle.”

  Yeah. Wouldn’t want to drink the aftermath of it.

  Alessia took the skin and drank deep.

  “I swear I feel like that most the time,” Julian said. “Never thought I’d say it, but thirst is the worst part of the Trial. Always thirsty, never hungry.”

  “I used to love figs,” she said between drinks. “I can hardly look at them now.”

  “It’s a shame isn’t it?”

  Alessia tilted her head and looked at him.

  “It takes everything we love.”

  It did take everything.

  “I could only imagine what your Trial was like,” Julian said.

  “Like everyone else's, I’d guess.”

  Julian started laughing.

  “What’s so funny, Brother?”

  “You’re the first and you think it was like everyone else’s?”

  Alessia shrugged. “Does it matter, Brother?”

  “It absolutely does, Sister. You could be the key to more Sisters walking your path.”

  “This very well could have been a fluke.”

  “Or maybe it wasn’t. How many Sisters have failed?”

  “One-hundred percent attrition rate,” Alessia said matter of factly. “All one hundred fifty-eight of them.”

  The silence felt awkward.

  Julian stared at his instrument then back to her.

  “Until now,” he said. “So how did you do it?”

  “I was ready to die, Brother Julian.”

  She wasn’t sure he knew how to respond. He fidgeted for a moment before picking back up the instrument and strumming a few chords. Maybe the answer had satisfied him, or unnerved him. Or maybe he just didn’t want to press it any further.

  “So, how did you survive it?”

  He looked up from the mandolin, looked directly at her and spoke slowly so she could read his lips.

  “I was afraid, Sister. I didn’t want to die. So I fought it.”

  Alessia studied him. Two paths. Same destination. She’d surrendered to death; he’d fought against it. Both had survived. Maybe there was no single answer to the Trial, only the answer that fit who you were.

  “I was Awakening during my Trial,” he added as he adjusted another tuning peg. “I felt my humanity slipping, the only thing that saved me was not wanting to become the monster.”

  Alessia’s chest tightened. Love couldn’t save Damian, but fear had saved Julian. What if I didn’t give him the chance? What if he could have fought his way back, like Julian had, if she’d just let him try?

  What if I was wrong?

  “You okay, Sister?”

  “It was changing me,” Alessia said. “My body was becoming something else.”

  “Yeah,” Julian said casually. “It does that. Oddly it doesn’t remain long after Awakening though. Like it’s trying to hide itself from everyone.”

  “What is this damn thing exactly?”

  Julian shrugged. “Not even Scribe Willem can answer that. The only ones that may have known were the Alchemists that made it. The recipe remains, known only to the Scribes, well Willem.”

  “No more Grand Masters, no more Alchemists. We’re dying.”

  “Have been for a long time now. Ever since whatever happened at Last Pass during The Witching Hour.” He paused playing the instrument. “Been about ninety years ago now.”

  “Why is there no record of it?”

  Julian shrugged again. “Because no one survived to write it.”

  “Scribe Willem did,” she pointed out.

  “Yeah, luckily for him he was not at Last Pass during the time. Business at the Scholar’s College.”

  “He must have some idea though.”

  “Willem is clever, but walking in on that.” Julian shook his head. “Not even sure how he managed to process all the death.”

  “What could kill a Grand Master?”

  “What could kill a Grand Master, three Masters, eight Hunters, and all the Brothers and Sisters in training, you mean? Twenty-seven total.”

  Julian went quiet.

  Generations of Hunters. Gone. And now The Order barely had nineteen in the field to protect all of Trinovia. The Witching Hour hadn’t just killed everyone at Last Pass, it had crippled them for decades. They were still recovering from a wound ninety years old. And no one knew what did it.

  And we’re supposed to stop the next catastrophe with this?

  Alessia thought back to Grand Master Kelvin’s entry in the Book of Names, which mentioned a blood moon on the night of The Witching Hour. It didn’t match any creature she had read of in the Book of Beasts. There was no discernible pattern.

  Only a dragon could do something like that. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it?

  Julian waved to get her attention.

  Alessia straightened and watched his lips.

  “Been talking to you for a minute. You got a little lost in thought, didn’t you?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t help but to wonder what would be able to do something like that. Especially at Last Pass.”

  Julian shrugged. “No telling what exactly happened, but whatever it was… I’m not sure it’s in the Book of Beasts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know anything capable of doing that.”

  “A dragon,” Alessia casually said.

  Julian started laughing. “Yeah, but I doubt it. Nothing suggested it. The stone would still be scorched to this day.”

  Valid point. What then?

  “For all we know it could be a new species, something not yet recorded. A rare mutation. Who knows.”

  “Maybe,” Alessia said. “But we need to worry about tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he replied. “I’ll take the first watch. You need to rest after traveling.”

  She nodded and began laying her bedroll out next to the fire. “Goodnight, Brother.”

  “Night, Sister,” he replied as his full attention shifted to his instrument.

  As she lay down, sleep felt impossible. Tomorrow would be her first real Hunt. She’d trained for this. Studied for this. But lying here by the fire, feeling the vibrations of Julian’s mandolin softly resume, the reality of it settled heavy in her chest.

  Eventually, exhaustion won.