The black carriage ascended the hill of the High District like a beetle climbing a velvet drape. Leaving behind the stench of cabbage and sewers from the slums, the air changed. Here, among the palaces of the Altdorf aristocracy, the night smelled of magical jasmine and fine charcoal. The streets were not paved with mud, but with clean white stones, magically purified every morning by the novices of the Light College.
Geneviève sat in the shadows of the cabin, her metal-gloved hands resting on the empty crate. Her plague doctor's cloak hid her armor, and the long-beaked mask, with its dark glass lenses, gave her the appearance of an anthropomorphic vulture. An appearance that, ironically, fit perfectly into Imperial high society.
"We have arrived, Herr Apothecary," the coachman grunted, opening the door.
Before her rose the Glass Palace. It was an architectural folly, an enormous Gothic greenhouse built entirely of steel and reinforced crystal. From within, thousands of candles and magical orbs projected a golden light that made the entire structure shimmer like an incandescent jewel in the rainy night. But Geneviève, with her senses sharpened by war and the Grail, saw more. She saw Count Von Korda's private guards—Tilean mercenaries in decorated but functional armor—stationed at every entrance. She saw the protection runes engraved on the doorposts to prevent the entry of demons... or agents of the law.
Geneviève stepped down, clutching the crate to her chest. Two servants in livery escorted her not toward the main entrance, where noble carriages unloaded ladies in crinolines as wide as boats, but toward a side entrance hidden behind a hedge of black roses.
"Go this way," said one of the servants. "The Count awaits the goods in the Zodiac Room. And try not to smell too much of sulfur in front of the guests."
Geneviève nodded, mute. They entered a service corridor that ran parallel to the main ballroom. Through the frosted glass walls, Geneviève could see the dancing silhouettes of the guests, swirls of color spinning to the rhythm of a string quartet playing a frantic, almost hysterical waltz. The smell in here was suffocating. Warm wax, expensive perfumes, and, beneath it all, the coppery scent of fresh blood. They were serving the "special wine."
"Stop," a guard said at the entrance to the Zodiac Room, blocking the way with a pike. "I'm checking the crate."
Geneviève halted. The crate was empty. If they opened it, her cover would be blown.
The servant intervened: "This is Groll's envoy. The Count has been waiting for this shipment for three days. Do you want to explain to His Excellency why his 'tonic' was opened and exposed to the air by a soldier with dirty hands?"
The guard hesitated. The fear of Count Von Korda was evident in his eyes. "Pass," he growled, lowering the pike. "But make it quick."
The door opened onto a circular hall with a domed ceiling painted with the constellations of the night sky. But the stars were wrong, shifted into positions that suggested dire omens. The room was less crowded than the main ball. Here was the elite of the Grey Circle. Men and women with gold and silver masks sat on velvet sofas, sipping a thick, scarlet liquid from crystal chalices. Their movements were languid, their eyes glassy with a chemical ecstasy. They had paid fortunes to drink the vitality stolen from the peasants of Untergard.
At the far end of the room, on a raised throne, sat Count Von Korda. He wore a "Sun King" costume, all gold and rays, with a mask depicting a laughing sun but with tears of blood painted beneath the eyes. Beside him, two beautiful, catatonic women massaged his shoulders.
The Count saw the figure of the plague doctor. "Ah! Finally!" he exclaimed, his voice thick but imperious. He stood up, his golden cloak rustling. "Groll has sent his crow. Bring it here to me, creature."
Geneviève stepped forward. Her heavy boots were muffled by the oriental rugs. She felt the gaze of the nobles upon her. Predatory, curious looks. In that room, she was just another type of entertainment or service. She reached the foot of the throne. She placed the crate on a low table inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
"Open it," Von Korda ordered, reaching out a ringed hand that trembled slightly from withdrawal. "I need to feel... eternal."
Geneviève placed her hand on the lid. Then, with a slow and deliberate movement, she unhooked the clasp of her cloak. The heavy black fabric fell to the floor. The sound was not the rustle of silk. It was the sharp CLANG of a sword scabbard hitting the floor. Geneviève stood there in her Gromril armor, stained with mud and soot—a tower of grey iron amidst the gold and perfumes.
The musicians stopped playing. The nobles froze with chalices in mid-air. Count Von Korda blinked behind his mask. "Who... who are you? Where is my extract?"
Geneviève removed the beak mask and threw it onto the empty crate. Her face was hard, lit by the candles. Her grey eyes fixed on the Count with the promise of inevitable violence.
"Groll had an accident," Geneviève said, her deep voice filling the silent room. "And your order has been cancelled."
"Guards!" Von Korda screamed, recoiling. "Kill her! She's an assassin!"
Four Tilean mercenaries detached themselves from the walls, drawing their swords. They were fast, professionals. Geneviève did not draw her common sword. She kicked the table toward the first mercenary. The fine wooden furniture flew like a projectile, striking the man's legs and knocking him down. The second attacked with a thrust. Geneviève caught the naked blade with her metal-gloved hand. SCREEECH. The Gromril gauntlet held. Geneviève twisted her wrist, snapping the enemy blade in half. With her free hand, she struck the mercenary in the throat with an armored fist. The man collapsed, choking.
The nobles began to scream, overturning tables and chalices in panic. The red "wine" stained the carpets, mingling with the actual blood that was about to be spilled.
Von Korda, seeing his guards fall, did not flee. He drew a thin, elegant rapier. "Do you think you scare me, bitch in armor?" the Count hissed. His eyes turned black; the veins in his neck bulged. The effect of the serum he had drunk for years gave him unnatural strength and speed. "I am immortal!"
He lunged at Geneviève with blinding speed. The rapier struck Geneviève's breastplate, searching for a joint. It found only the impenetrable hardness of Dwarven craftsmanship. Geneviève did not flinch. She grabbed the Count by the golden lapel of his ridiculous costume and lifted him off the ground with one hand.
"Immortality is a lie, Count," she growled in his face. "And tonight, your contract expires."
She hurled him across the room. Von Korda flew over the sofas, crashing against the large glass window overlooking the city. The reinforced glass cracked, but did not break. The Count slid to the floor, stunned, his sun mask fallen to reveal a face that, without the blood magic, was aging before one's eyes—the skin sagging like melting wax.
Geneviève marched across the hall. The nobles moved aside, terrified by the unstoppable figure. No one dared intervene. They were sheep dressed as wolves, strong only when they bought the violence of others.
Geneviève grabbed Von Korda by his thinning hair. She pressed him against the cracked glass. Outside, Altdorf shimmered in the rain.
"The Grand Master," Geneviève said. "Where is he?"
"Go... go to hell..." the Count spat, teeth falling from his receding gums.
Geneviève pressed the Count's face against the glass. "Look at your city, Von Korda. Look from where you fall. You have ten seconds before I push harder and you learn to fly without wings."
The glass creaked dangerously. They were on the fourth floor. The terror of death—real, final death—broke the noble's arrogance.
"The Cathedral!" he screamed. "He is under the Cathedral! In the crypts of the First Hammers! The ritual... it is tonight! At midnight!"
Geneviève pulled him back a moment before the glass gave way. She dropped him on the floor like a used rag.
"Thank you," she said. She turned toward the room. The nobles watched her, trembling, their expensive costumes now ridiculous. "The party is over," Geneviève announced. "Go home. And pray that Sigmar does not look into your chalices."
As she exited the Zodiac Room, she heard the palace alarm bells ringing. More guards were arriving. Dozens. Geneviève could not fight an entire private army and hope to reach the Cathedral in time. She ran toward the service corridor. Before her, a window. She did not hesitate. She covered her face with her arms and threw herself through the glass.
The cold night air hit her. She fell for two floors, landing on the roof of a stable below. The tiles shattered under her weight, and she rolled to absorb the impact, ending up in a pile of damp hay. She stood up aching, but whole. The screams from the palace above her were frantic.
Geneviève looked at the clock on the nearby tower. It was an hour until midnight. Sigmar's Cathedral was on the other side of the river. The Grand Master was waiting for the blood of a Saint. Well, he was about to receive it. But not in a vial. It would arrive with a sword in hand.
She adjusted her armor, ignoring the pain in her ribs, and began to run through the dark alleys of Altdorf, as the city bells began to toll the eleventh hour—somber funeral knells for an Empire that was eating itself.
The bells of Altdorf did not ring; they screamed. It was a physical sound, a vibration that made teeth chatter and armor vibrate. Geneviève ran along the Reikerbahn, slipping on the cobblestones greasy with rain and street grime, as the city plunged into chaos. The screams from the Glass Palace had triggered a chain reaction. Torches lit up in windows, dogs barked furiously behind iron gates, and the sound of marching boots approached from every direction. The Reikswatch was sealing off the district.
Geneviève turned into a narrow alley, knocking over a barrel of herring to obstruct any pursuers. Her breath was a white cloud in the cold of the night. Sigmar's Cathedral loomed against the black sky like a mountain carved by man. Its Gothic spires looked like claws trying to scratch the moon hidden by clouds. It was immense, oppressive, a monument to the brute force of Imperial faith.
But between her and the Cathedral was the river. And the only way to cross it at that point was the Merchant's Bridge. It was a massive structure, a stone bridge wide enough to house rows of shops and three-story houses on both sides of the roadway. And the roadway was blocked.
Geneviève stopped at the entrance to the bridge, hiding in the shadow of a portico. A phalanx of Greatswords—Altdorf's elite guard—had formed a wall of steel and feathers in the center of the bridge. Behind them, a Warrior Priest of Sigmar, bald and with a warhammer resting on his shoulder, was blessing the troops.
"No one passes!" the priest thundered. "The order is to isolate the Temple District! There is heresy in the streets!"
Geneviève gripped the hilt of her common sword. She could not fight them. These were not corrupt cultists or unscrupulous mercenaries. They were honest men, fathers, soldiers who believed they were protecting their city. If she killed them, she would confirm she was the monster they feared. But she couldn't turn back either. Twenty minutes to midnight.
She looked up. The houses built on the bridge had steep roofs of slippery slate. They were old, lopsided, leaning against each other like drunks. Geneviève sighed. "I hope the dwarves made these boots well," she murmured.
Instead of charging the roadblock, Geneviève climbed a stack of wine crates piled against the first house on the bridge. The wood creaked under her hundred kilos (body weight plus armor), but it held. She hauled herself onto the gutter, ignoring the gush of freezing water that ran into her sleeves. With an effort of biceps that made her shoulder plates groan, she pulled herself up to the roof.
Up there, the wind was stronger. The rain fell horizontally. Geneviève stood up on the ridge of the roof. Below her, the River Reik roared black and deep. She began to run. It was not the elegant run of an elf or a thief. It was the charge of a knight without a horse.
She leapt from the roof of a bakery to that of a tailor. CRASH. The slate tiles shattered under the impact of her hobnailed boots. She slipped. For a terrible instant, Geneviève felt the void calling her. Her hands clawed the wet stone of a chimney, stopping her fall a meter from the edge.
Below, on the bridge, the guards raised their heads. "Up there! On the roof!" someone shouted. A crossbow bolt hissed through the dark, hitting the chimney beside her head and filling her eyes with brick dust. Geneviève did not stop. She got back to her feet and resumed running, jumping over chimneys like hurdles.
She reached the end of the bridge. The last building was a watchtower. There was no other roof to jump to. Only the Cathedral square, ten meters below. Geneviève did not slow down. She took a running start, metal screeching on the wet tiles. She leapt into the void.
While in the air, she curled into an armored fetal position, protecting her head with her arms. She landed on a hay wagon positioned for the guards' horses. The wagon exploded under the impact. Wood, hay, and wheels flew everywhere. Geneviève rolled out of the debris, spitting straw, aching but whole.
The Temple Square was deserted. It was a vast space, paved in black and white marble, dominated by the facade of the Cathedral. The main doors, twenty meters high and clad in bronze, were closed and sealed with chains. There were no guards here. Only statues of saints weeping in the rain. The silence was suspicious. Von Korda had spoken of the Crypts of the First Hammers. Geneviève knew the royal crypts were not accessible from the main entrance (reserved for public ceremonies), but from a side mausoleum in the "Garden of the Fallen," a small cemetery reserved for the heroes of the Empire, located on the north side of the cathedral.
She ran toward the garden, skirting the cyclopean walls of the church. The garden was a labyrinth of yew hedges and monumental tombs. In the center stood an octagonal structure of black granite: the entrance to the crypts. The door to the mausoleum was open. A flickering, orange, and sickly light came from within, casting long shadows over the gravestones.
Geneviève slowed down. She drew her bastard sword. She approached the entrance. On the threshold, there was something. Not a monster. A man. He was sitting on a stone stool, his head in his hands. He wore the full armor of a Knight of the Blazing Sun (the templar order dedicated to Myrmidia, goddess of strategy), but the armor was dented, stained with dried blood. Beside him, on the ground, were the bodies of two Sigmarite priests. Their throats had been slit.
The man raised his head when he heard Geneviève's metallic footsteps. His face was young, but his eyes were old, glassy. "Do not enter," the knight said, his voice breaking. "He... he said it was necessary. That the blood of the priests was needed to open the door. To save the Emperor." The knight looked at his bloody hands. "I swore to protect the Empire. But I have just killed its servants. Why? Why was his voice so... convincing?"
Geneviève understood. The Grand Master of the Grey Circle did not use only brute force. He used mental domination. He had bent the will of this templar to make him kill the holy guards. "He lied to you, brother," Geneviève said gently, lowering her sword. "He isn't saving the Emperor. He is eating him."
The knight trembled. Tears ran down his cheeks, mixing with the blood. "Then... then I must die to atone." He grabbed his sword from the ground and prepared to impale himself. Geneviève was faster. With a fluid movement, she struck the knight on the temple with the pommel of her sword. A sharp, calculated blow. The templar collapsed to the ground, unconscious, but alive.
"No," Geneviève whispered, stepping over the body. "Live. And remember who the real enemy is."
She entered the mausoleum. A stone spiral staircase descended into the bowels of the earth. The air rising up was cold, heavy with incense and that metallic smell Geneviève now associated with the Grey Circle. The Cathedral bells chimed the quarter hour. Fifteen minutes left.
Geneviève began to descend. The darkness swallowed her. She lit no torches. She relied on her sharpened senses. Below, in the crypts where the founders of the Empire rested, someone was preparing a banquet. And Geneviève intended to overturn the table. She pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders, feeling the weight of history and stone above her head. It was no longer a matter of survival. It was a descent into hell to pull out the soul of a nation.