Amaril’s Gaze illuminated the stars as the radiant dawn engulfed Hawthorne Manor. The soil on Upper Oakheart bled bile, and the stench of decay burned into the night air. Adrian’s knights gagged, choking under the stench released from the earth.

  For Adrian, though, it smelled like winter becoming spring. The snow and rot faded and became the flush tones of grass and dirt. He could hear the grasshoppers chirp and feel the warmth against his skin. He inhaled deeply, and his eyes opened.

  “Nine lesser, one lord. Bart, lead the knights inwards. No civilian casualties. Do not separate from the rest—Elias will be looking for that moment,” Lord Skye read out.

  “I take it you’re separating then, Lord Skye?” Bart asked, drawing his kite shield and sword. The man looked like a fortress to Adrian, wearing plate instead of the smooth leathers and longcoat the Inquisition preferred.

  “No. Not if I can help it. But we have different roles to play,” Lord Skye responded, his attention shifting toward his men.

  Lionel and Lucas were much like Bartholomew and had elected for gear from the knighthood—heavy plate of lesser quality, but still heavy. Tower and kite shields, a mace and a hammer. The two of them looked like brothers, but underneath their helmets…

  Adrian loved the sight. He was living out a story of the [Templar], leading the knights into the charge. His heart was calm, and his gaze turned toward Maximilian.

  The only [Magus] among them, and one who had been promising to become the Words of Amaril. His hands were wrapped in cloth, and the beads of prayer spilled down. Even now, Maximilian chanted. The weapons that Bart, Lucas, and Lionel wielded started glowing with a gentle light.

  It, too, smelled like spring.

  Lord Skye stepped forward, and his knights moved behind. The wooden oak doors of Hawthorne Manor halted their ingress, and of course, they were locked. Adrian stepped to the side and leaned against the wall. He nodded at Lucas, who hefted up his massive maul.

  The heavy maul smashed into the center of mass, near the lock itself. It was always the weakest point of any breach.

  THUD!

  Three hits later, the door broke, splintered into pieces before falling. Bart pushed Lucas to the side and raised his shield, but nothing came out.

  The five of them stepped inside the great hall. The room was massive, and a candelabra hung above, adorned with diamonds. He could hear music coming from deeper within—violins and other instruments.

  “He’s really sett—” Lucas began, but Lionel touched his shoulder and shook his head. His finger rose to his lips and hushed him.

  “Not the time, brother.”

  Adrian and Bart both listened. “Violin, lyre, piano,” Lord Skye stated.

  “I’m hearing a harp as well.”

  Adrian closed his eyes and could hear the plucking of strings. There was a harp. Lucas tilted his head at the two of them.

  Bart paid him no mind, but turned to Lord Skye. “I thought you said there were no civilians?”

  “I said the help staff was let out. We knew there were civilians, which is why we’re doing it this way,” Lord Skye responded immediately. There was a certain strength in his voice which was unusual, but it made the knights around him nod.

  “Lionel, Maximilian.”

  “Yes, Lord?” they both asked.

  “If we find any, I want you to escort them here and tell them to stay put. Running out into the streets like this is going to cause a commotion. Maximilian, can you put a ward of protection here?”

  “Yes, Lord,” Maximilian stated, and his words began to chant.

  Radiant light poured into the room as a semi-translucent barrier covered the door, windows, and the winding stairs that led to the upper floor.

  Adrian looked upward and then to the branching hallways. He closed his eyes and focused.

  The world went black to him, ignoring boring features like scent and sensation, and more mundane elements like doors and walls.

  Behind him were four golden figures—that he already knew. Below him were… fifteen humans. Upstairs, the nine night-things waited in various rooms. But forward, toward the central ballroom, was just a massive, dark, looming entity.

  “...He knows we’re here. What is he doing?” he finally muttered, breaking out of his trance.

  He shook his head and turned to Bartholomew. “Fifteen prisoners below that need our help—at least from Amaril’s Gaze. I’m sure there are more civilians about. The nine night-things are upstairs, but Elias is… aware of our presence and waiting in the ballroom.”

  Bartholomew, the walking fortress of steel and iron, stood up properly straight. “He wanted the culling.”

  “The culling, sir?” Lucas asked—still a bit too impulsive for his own good. But more information in a situation like this was never a bad thing.

  “Vampire hierarchies are based on power. They often send their young on pointless, difficult tasks so only the strong remain. The Culling. I bet the bastard thinks this is just a footnote.”

  “My priorities are this: we help the villagers, we kill Elias, and finally, we kill any night-thing we come across. If you come to a decision point—follow that priority list,” Lord Skye told them. The four knights nodded.

  “Any idea how to get to the basement, Lord Skye?” Lionel asked, staring underneath his feet. Lord Skye glanced downward and then shook his head. “So, toward Elias.”

  Bartholomew held his shoulder for a moment. “Speak freely, Bart. We’re in enemy territory; all advice is needed.”

  “We should deal with the nine upstairs first. If this is a culling, and we just go toward Elias, they’ll make it harder for us by numbers. We don’t need to play fair and rush their head.”

  “Maximilian, will you be alright holding the back on your own, then?” Lord Skye asked.

  “Amaril himself is watching us. I will not let Him down,” Maximilian responded, stepping into the divine circle.

  Adrian led the crew upstairs, where the bedrooms for guests and workers lay. He knew this wasn’t where the night-things or counts slept, since it would trigger their blood-thirst far too often.

  Yet, as soon as they wound up the stairs and came to the landing, a shivering [Night-Thing] approached, his arms raised. Bartholomew lifted his sword, but Adrian stared the vampire down.

  “Mercy!” it—no, he—called out. His hand moved toward a weird collar around his neck. “Please, I beg of you, remove this and let me...” he began.

  He could see Lionel and Lucas tensing as well, preparing their own weapons. The only thing that had stopped them from turning the shivering creature in front into a fine mist was Adrian—and Lord Skye knew it.

  And Adrian would always win in these circumstances.

  “A man who is only kind to his friends, but not to his enemies, is not a kind man.” — The Wisdom of Amaril.

  It was one the church seemed to forget in crusades and inquisitions, since often the enemies would use it to their advantage. False calls for mercy and surrender were too, too common.

  Especially among these beasts.

  Even then, Adrian approached the creature and used [Inspect] on his neck.

  Lord Skye grimaced at the tip. There was in fact a [Vampyre] involved, and that was not good. His hand idly reached toward the night-thing’s neck, and divine radiance pooled out.

  Adrian felt the warmth of summer and heard the rustling of leaves. The burning light illuminated, pouring into the weird metal device. It cracked, and a green object just flew out into the air.

  A soul.

  Lord Skye pulled against the collar, cracking it apart and holding it between his fingers. He tossed it to Lionel, who immediately placed it into an evidence bag.

  “Wait downstairs,” Adrian commanded the night-thing, who nodded. Maximilian was in earshot, so he had nothing to worry about.

  Bartholomew turned toward Adrian but said nothing, and instead began the process of moving through. Most of the bedrooms were empty, but some of the human night staff had remained. Adrian found the bathing room, where a mixture of eggwash and charcoal was mixed with rosewater to use as the cleansing agent. It smelled familiar to him, but this was also the same mixture most nobles used.

  Probably from a party in the capital, he figured, as he turned straight.

  The next room was the Upper Study, and as they entered, the room was already wrecked. Eight [Night-Things] were locked in combat, seemingly in two factions. The more heavily armed, powerful ones were dominating the fight, as the scrawny remainder had to hold the defense.

  “Help us!” a female vampire shouted, her attention shifting toward the Inquisition as the four entered.

  “Asking for help from the church now, mutts? Father was right to call for a culling.” The brutish, powerful-looking vampire responded, his arms far too thick to be normal. He rose to the sky, cutting off the shimmering light of candles. He flew down, and Adrian could only watch.

  CLANG!

  Bartholomew’s shield [Interceded] the blow, and Adrian could hear the squeaking of metal and straining of the body. He could smell the sweat and see the kite shield begin to bend and break under the onslaught.

  A flash of white!

  Lionel launched himself at the [Night-Thing], his metal boots pressing down against the floorboards and making them creak uneasily from the force. But the meaty, heavy thud and smell of black blood pouring into the room retook Lord Skye’s gaze, as the sharp spikes found purchase in the beast’s back.

  Lord Skye shook the shock off and lunged toward the warring faction.

  The Brute, which was being handled by Bartholomew and Lionel, was over eight feet tall, and one of his arms was wider than Adrian’s entire body.

  The Siren was a slender woman wearing a black cocktail dress with a flared top. Her black hair moved on its own, and he could see her words chant into the Symphony. He whistled at Lucas, who broke out of his reverie. “Smash her face in—don’t let her get words out.”

  “Yes, Lord,” Lucas gladly responded, his own hulking frame and warhammer shifting straight. Adrian felt the brush of wind as his knight left to deal with that.

  Which left the two remainders.

  They weren’t special in any way, but that made them worse. They were candidates for ascension, whose claws could cut through iron and steel. Yet a group like this would have been led by someone far more powerful, actually. That thought troubled Adrian, since Elias would have his own Bartholomew, and that second-in-command wasn’t found.

  His arms instinctively raised his sword, and the heavy CLANG of claws coming at him reverberated, already drowned out in the din of combat.

  Damn it, Adrian, you spent too long thinking—you lose the element of surprise. It’s a good thing Lord Skye is well trained.

  The two—Lord Skye quickly named them Alpha and Bravo—were fraternal twins. The male, Alpha, had short black hair and a lithe figure, and the female, Bravo, had long black hair and a lithe figure. If he wasn’t concentrating, they’d look the same if not for the hair and subtle differences between the faces.

  The two worked well off each other. Each time Alpha swung his claws and Lord Skye felt the wind lash against his face, Bravo would circle around and aim to kick. Lord Skye’s instincts were well worn, and his sword met Alpha’s claws, while his footwork made Bravo’s crude attempts seem like a child flailing about.

  He couldn’t smell anything from them—no breath, no scent, not even the horrid aroma of decay. They were too close to ascension, no longer becoming monsters, but like mortals. Yet they were thinking like monsters, only in it for themselves. Sure, they worked together, but unlike Bartholomew and Lionel, they weren’t helping each other.

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  So Lord Skye ducked. Alpha screeched as his claws went farther than he suspected and tore into his sister’s face. Black blood poured onto his claw, but for his effort, Bravo “accidentally” kicked him in the ribcage. Adrian heard the bones shatter, and knew this was his opportunity.

  The silver longsword ignited with righteous flames, burning away and making all eight of the vampires hiss in fear. Well, seven—as the blade drove into Alpha’s throat and forced the creature to sputter and choke out black bile.

  Bravo’s eyes went wide at this, and her teeth came out with a screech. “HOW DARE YOU?!” she yelled, driving her claws into Adrian’s side.

  He didn’t have enough time to pull his blade out of Alpha’s throat and could only take the blow. He felt his skin tear away and red blood pour onto the ground. It burned, and it hurt. But he was clever.

  He released the sword hilt and quickly grabbed a folded device on his hip. With a flick, the gears rotated outward, and the repeating crossbow pointed at Bravo’s face. Her mouth spat at it, but it didn’t mean much.

  CLINK!

  The silver bolt went through her jaw and out through the back of her neck. The next bolt was immediately loaded, and another pull of the trigger meant her eyeball was impaled. She staggered, moving toward Skye—

  WHAM!

  Lucas’s giant maul smashed her skull, bringing the entire weight of his muscles right against her and forcing her into the floorboards. The room shook from the impact, and blood and brain matter splattered against Lord Skye’s boot. Lucas quickly grabbed Skye’s shoulder and launched him up, and Skye grabbed the hilt of his silver longsword with the inertia.

  Lucas was stronger than Skye, so it just meant the Inquisitor was slingshotted at the Siren, who was just as surprised as Lord Skye was.

  But Skye didn’t blink—he had trust in his companions. The sword launched forward into her bosom, carving upward to where that lack of a heart should have been and then coming through. She screamed, the foul stench of death wafting into the air, mixed with the black blood that splattered his face. It mixed with his crimson.

  Adrian was so glad he was immune to disease, or he’d have just gotten [Sanguine Hemophilia].

  He glanced toward Bartholomew and Lionel, who had chopped off one of the Brute’s arms and were currently in the process of breaking every bone in its ribcage. The thundering cacophony of a mace hitting that thing’s chest was oddly entertaining, but Adrian leaned over, panting.

  “You alright, Lord?” Lucas’s hand rubbed against his spine, pulling him up. Lucas’s attention turned to the gash. “Protector! Okay, hold still—I’ll see if I can find something to staunch the flow.”

  “Calm down,” Skye said, panting. His hand opened up, and glowing light poured out of it.

  The wounds stitched themselves, flesh being created and blood reformed. Lord Skye stood up, and Lucas steadied him. By now, the Brute was also destroyed.

  All that remained were the four vampires, who stared fearfully at the Inquisitors. Adrian approached one, and then looked at the collar. His fingers touched it, and the same radiant light poured free. Each of the collars broke, and Lionel bagged all of them for evidence.

  “Thank you, my lo—” the female said, but Adrian cut her off.

  “How do we get to the basement?”

  “...Through the Entertainment Hall. It’s where he keeps the farm,” she quietly responded.

  “Are there any more workers up here?”

  “Yes, ma—”

  “Lionel, Lucas, go with the four and rescue the rest. Bring them all to Maximilian, and wait for us.”

  “Yes, my lord.” They said, before taking the four on their trip.

  Bartholomew finally looked at Adrian when it was just the two of them. “You’re saving vampires now?”

  “...They didn’t do anything wrong and asked for mercy.”

  “You sound like the Phoenix Queen,” Bart playfully needled.

  “Amaril says to give mercy to our enemies too. I don’t see why it doesn’t apply when they ask for it.”

  “I don’t either,” Bart responded, and cracked his shoulder. “You ready to die, lad?”

  “I haven’t had my fifth child yet, Bart. You?”

  “Old missus would murder me if I got injured. So do a knight a favor and save one of those blessed touches for me.”

  “Katherine would have my hide too,” Skye responded, but the two of them went downstairs. One final confrontation.

  The two of them approached the hall, and Elias was seated at the head of the table. He held a claret filled with blood and sipped idly, as four mortals—scared out of their minds—continued to play behind him. They too had collars around their necks.

  “Only one of you will have the privilege of fighting me,” Elias said, pulling up a silk handkerchief to clean his lips.

  The man was tall, with combed black hair. He looked clean, and his pointed jawline and firm eyes were catching. His clothing was immaculate, with a cravat holding a blood-red gem in the center. As Adrian stared at him, he could tell that Elias was everything he was not.

  Attractive. Powerful. Capable of leading. Melissa would have never insulted his stature, and Ashley would look up to him.

  That thought gnawed at his heart. Both Melissa and Ashley would find this monster attractive, but Adrian would need to prove his worth to be attractive.

  Lord Skye stepped forward, not letting Adrian’s worry get in the way of his duty. That was minute, and he held himself to a higher order.

  “And why would we do that, Elias?”

  Elias placed the claret down, and then turned to the performers. “Slit your own throats.”

  All four of them stared in fear, but their hands moved on their own. Adrian—Lord Skye—saw the fear and hesitation, but he was too far to intercede. Each one of the performers leaned to something on their belts and pulled out a glistening knife.

  Bart shoved Lord Skye to the side and pulled out the repeating crossbow. With his left hand he shot it four times, impaling each of their hands to the wall. They screamed out in pain. “Skye, go deal with that.”

  Adrian shivered—again, lost in his fear. If it wasn’t for Bartholomew, that would have been far worse. He got to his feet and rushed toward the performers, who even now were trying to pull their hands free or use their remaining hand to grab the knives scattered on the floor. Their faces were relieved and in pain, but their actions were not their own.

  “And where do you think you’re going, ‘Lord Skye’?” Elias said, dashing forward in a flurry of mists and bats. Adrian heard the rustle and squeaks of those creatures, and instantly, Elias was to his front. His clawed hand sliced forward.

  Bartholomew’s kite shield blocked the blow, and this time, the iron broke apart. Bartholomew stared at his exposed arm. Adrian stared as well—if his shield, reinforced, wasn’t able to protect him from those claws, what chance would the armor?

  So Adrian took a breath. He was acting like a child.

  Amelia told him that a [Templar] was someone who went forward and put their past behind. They were there for the greater good. And he had to make that call.

  Lord Skye released the breath. “Bartholomew, knock the villagers out, then push downstairs. Knock each one out and bring them up. I’ll deal with it after.”

  “Bold of you to—” Elias began.

  “Shut up and fight,” Lord Skye responded, and drew his silver longsword. Bartholomew glanced at him. “NOW!” Lord Skye barked.

  The fortress ran off, and Lord Skye paid him no mind. Adrian’s weakness had already almost cost his group a few times, and there was no time for this in the heat of battle.

  The silver longsword engulfed in flame, and his longcoat fluttered in netherwinds. Elias stared at the Inquisitor.

  “I had thought they’d send someone of a bigger stature, with… more to himself, to face me,” Elias began.

  A flash of burning silver and heat. Burning, rotten flesh wafted into the air. Lord Skye pulled the flaming sword out of Elias’s hip, and the vampire glared down.

  “You were open,” Lord Skye stated, bringing the flaming blade to his arms and wiping the blood off. The flames didn’t lick his clothing at all, which couldn’t be said for the singed fabric the [Vampire Lord] sported.

  Elias hissed and began to shake. The human form, as Lord Skye knew, was social deception. They were monsters, each and every one of them—except, apparently, the few Adrian decided to save—and had something that the dark mother blessed them with.

  His body became massive and ancient, with white, mottled flesh. Bat wings tore from his shoulders, and his face became more… vampiric. Pale, white, no hair—and two curved horns. Black eyes that looked like the abyss, with yellow circles that represented the iris, stared down at the man.

  Lord Skye instinctively reached for his crossbow, but Bartholomew still had it. He grunted, but it would just mean he’d have to keep the distance.

  He dashed forward, his boots squeaking against the wood as the vampiric Elias stood tall. Elias’s arms reached out and grabbed Lord Skye’s skull. He could smell the fetid corpse stench wafting out, and the disgusting tone of winter.

  Lord Skye lunged his sword upward into the exposed bicep and then carved in. The sensation felt like when his arm was in mud, trying to pull something out that didn’t want to move. Elias’s grip tightened against Skye’s head, and he could feel blood spill from his eyes and nose.

  WSH!

  Bartholomew’s sword flew straight against the other end of the bicep, and with how muscular his second-in-command was, he hacked it off. Black blood dripped onto the floor as Elias screamed. His fangs fully extended, and his wings covered the span of the room in fury. His blood smelled like death.

  And then his arm dropped to the floor, releasing its grip on Lord Skye. Bartholomew panted, as the now one-armed vampire turned to face the two. He ran forward, ignoring the Inquisitor, and shoulder-slammed Bartholomew.

  CRUNCH!

  That sickening sound of bones breaking, and the smell of puke and bile now came into the air. Adrian—Lord Skye—felt cold.

  Again, he was a failure—needing to be saved, and causing someone else to suffer for his inactions.

  Adrian dashed forward and leaped. The flaming longsword came up to one of the bat wings and carved into it, and the weak cartilage was easier to break. It shattered away, causing Elias to hiss again, and release the crumpled form of Bartholomew onto the floor. Crimson blood stained his claws, as the vampiric menace turned to the [Inquisitor].

  “You’re outmatched, boy. Too small, too weak,” Elias began, staring him down.

  Lord Skye returned the gaze. He wanted to shift his head toward his ally, but now was not the time.

  “I know,” Lord Skye admitted, and opened his left hand.

  Elias stepped forward.

  “You know, I think I was approaching this fight wrong. Did you know I used to be a [Farmer], Lord Hawthorne?”

  Elias stopped, staring down at Adrian. Confusion drew on the [Vampire Lord]’s face.

  Adrian pulled down his scarf so the beast could see all of him. “I had a few spells back then—nothing too special,” the boy continued.

  Elias was barely a step away. It was clear that confusion was the only thing stopping him from attacking.

  True, radiant light poured out of his hands. A [Farmer] spell to bring the necessary light to a field to make sure it’d grow in hard times.

  Repurposed into combat. His hands burned, and he could smell the grass grow. He could feel the dirt under his feet, and the warm breeze of his childhood.

  The sunlight spread out of his hands and into Elias’s skin. Again, the vampire laughed. “We’re on blighted gro—”

  His skin became ash, and Adrian could smell the burning of flesh being cooked. Elias stared at the growing blackness in fear, and Adrian stepped forward. He moved away from the chest and aimed it at Elias’s skull.

  “Funny thing, huh? Being a plain ol’ nobody, salt-of-the-earth [Farm Boy]... you learn how to consecrate and kill out infections,” he commented, and drove the light in.

  Elias’s skull turned to ash, as the massive beast fell beside him. The daylight continued to burn his body, till the [Vampire Lord] was nothing but ash.

  And Adrian spat on it.

  His attention quickly turned to Bartholomew and his crumpled form. Lord Skye rushed over, leaning down and putting his head to his chest. The body moved up and down, and his ragged breathing barely came out.

  Good enough, as Adrian pushed his hand atop his frame. Golden light covered his body, and his breathing became more steady. Bartholomew stood up, looking about.

  “Go back to Maximilian, and ask him to tend to your wounds. I’m going to the basement,” Lord Skye said.

  The basement was cramped and dark, but Adrian kept hearing the sounds of money being created. It smelled awful—of feces and urine—and when he turned the corner he found out why.

  A [Vendor] farm.

  Fifteen people had been trapped in cells, forced to use [Vendor] to create currency for the sake of meals and being allowed to live. They all looked emaciated and in bad shape, only stopping when they realized two things:

  The glowing light on their collars was dull—having no master to command them—and Lord Skye was the Inquisitor. Missing people, all of them.

  Their arms stretched out of the iron bars, as Adrian glanced about. This was one way of making money, often outlawed. [Vendor] wasn’t a good trade, and required far too much effort and time. And for most people, they’d rather do anything else than constantly maximize the amount of time doing nothing—waiting for trash to become gold. It wasn’t hard work, but it was often the fate of those who couldn’t do much else.

  And even the small amount they made would be taken away at this point.

  Slavery, by any other name.

  Adrian broke the locks and let the people out. The group approached the entrance hall.

  Only four of the night-things remained—the first one, the one at the landing, lay dead at Lionel’s feet. Lionel, however, was stroking his neck, and approached Skye.

  “I was bitten… we had to kill one,” he began, and the remaining four night-things looked afraid.

  Lord Skye glanced at the wound and sighed. His hand opened up again.

  Lord Skye wasn’t a cleric. He couldn’t cure Dragonpox—that was a thing reserved for true healers, and any priest of Flora. But as a paladin, things like Sanguine Hemophilia, Lycanthropy, Mummy Rot, Fae Fever—things that could be found in their line of work—were easy to remove.

  Lord Skye looked at the remainder, but shook it off. “We’ve all had a long night. You four—disappear, or find a way to integrate into town normally. Otherwise, I will be back.”

  The four knights looked at Skye and nodded. The ward held, and outside of Bartholomew nearly dying, it was a successful raid.

  “Maximilian,” Lord Skye began.

  “Yes, Lord?”

  “Purification protocols.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  The sun’s gaze focused down on the manor, as the heat pressed straight. The Inquisitors finally left—each to their own homes.

  The house caught flame and began to burn.

  Adrian would have to relay this all to Melissa, and then talk about the future.

  But that was tomorrow’s problem.