The campfire spat sparks into the pitch-black canopy of the Blackthorn Forest. Greasy fat from the skewered Thornstalker meat hissed as it hit the coals, sending up a foul, acrid smoke.
Kaspar Voss tore a chunk of charred meat with his teeth, smacking his lips. Hot grease slid down his stubbled chin.
"Fucking hell."
He spat a wad of tough gristle into the dirt.
"Tough as a ghoul's arsehole. Tastes exactly like this rotting air."
Rurik Brandt sat across the flames, silent as a grave. His face was granite as he wiped his dagger clean on the hem of his shirt. He sliced a thick piece of meat, chewed, and swallowed without blinking. For him, it was merely fuel.
Kaspar clicked his tongue. He hated the silence. It made him feel like he was performing for a brick wall.
His dark eyes shifted toward the gray tent pitched in the shadows. The mocking grin on his face melted into raw hunger.
"Then again…"
Kaspar murmured, his tongue darting out to lick the grease from his lips.
"Not everything out here is so hard to swallow, eh, Rurik?"
Rurik stopped wiping his blade. He looked up, saying nothing.
"Don't tell me you missed it this afternoon."
Kaspar chuckled, his gaze boring into the canvas of the tent.
"That little slip of the dress. Christ. So flawless I thought I was looking at fresh snow."
Rurik's jaw tightened. He had seen it. They all had. It was a brutal test of endurance for men who hadn't had a whore in weeks, and even Rurik's blood had run hot. But he had the discipline to cage it.
"Shut your fucking mouth, dog."
Rurik growled low in his chest.
"And eat."
Kaspar just laughed—a raspy, grating sound—leaning back on his palms.
"Just men talking by the fire, Rurik. Think about it. A future widow, freezing her arse off in this damp hellhole. You really think she isn't starving for a little friction to warm her up? I'd bet my life that beneath that snooty ice-queen act, her cunt is so fucking wet you could wring it out. Imagine those pale hips locking tight around a—"
Shhhk-thud.
A heavy bastard sword cleaved the night air and buried itself deep into the earth. The steel blade hummed—planted exactly between Kaspar's spread thighs, barely an inch from his cock.
Kaspar froze. A half-chewed piece of meat hung on his bottom lip.
Daniel Keller loomed behind him. The knight's massive shadow eclipsed the firelight like a death sentence. His knuckles were bone-white around the hilt of his Oathblade, his jaw locked so tight the muscle twitched.
"Keep your filthy tongue behind your teeth."
Daniel's voice was a lethal, glacial calm.
"Or I will ensure you never use the filth between your legs again."
The campsite plunged into a suffocating silence. Only the crackle of the fire dared to make a sound.
Kaspar blinked frantically. He swallowed hard, forcing a breathless chuckle as he slowly raised his hands in surrender. His eyes darted to the lethal edge of the sword shaving the fabric of his trousers.
"Alright, alright… easy, Sir Knight. Just campfire talk. No need to lose your head."
Daniel held Kaspar's gaze for one agonizing second. It was a stare so dark and hollow it promised a shallow grave. Then, with a harsh metallic scrape, the knight yanked his sword from the dirt and stalked back to his post beside the tent flap.
Inside that tent, the Imperial Countess had undoubtedly heard every vile word. Yet, the icy silence radiating from within was the cruelest command she could give Daniel: Endure it.
Daniel rammed the tip of his sword into the soft earth, resting his armored forehead against the cold pommel. He closed his eyes, fighting the drag of his own breath. I should butcher him right here. But I can't. Not yet.
His mind dragged him back seven days. Arkenstadt.
The moment the horrifying news arrived. Field Marshal Thomas Leontar von Greifenwald—the undefeated Lion of the North, Helene's husband, and the lord Daniel had sworn his life to—had fallen. Not dead, but taken. Dragged away in chains by the Sarmund barbarians after Dragonwatch Fortress was breached.
Daniel would never forget Helene's face in that grand hall.
She hadn't wept. She hadn't screamed. She just stood there, her flawless face draining of color until she looked like an untouchable, agonizingly beautiful statue. Her eyes were wide, empty, and dead.
Then the temperature plummeted.
The entire council chamber flash-frozen. A terrifying, dead silence as frost climbed the walls. She had begged for military aid, leveraging her name, her husband's blood, their ancient oaths. And the Arkenstadt nobles had given her nothing but averted eyes and hollow pity. With the Lion gone, the vultures were already circling to divide the remains of House Greifenwald.
Daniel remembered the exact second her suppressed, icy rage had finally fractured. A rage so quiet that all the fine crystal goblets on the long oak table simultaneously shattered into dust, the marble floor instantly cracking under a sheet of ice.
"I will go myself, Daniel. Even if I have to crawl through this forest on my knees."
And so they were here. Trusting the life of the Empire's greatest lady to mercenary scum like Kaspar, because the hourglass of Thomas's life was running out, and they were the best guides coin could buy.
Daniel's leather gauntlets creaked. He gripped his sword hilt until his fingernails bit through the leather, drawing warm blood from his own palms. He would swallow Kaspar's disrespect. He would choke on his own rage to get her to Dragonwatch.
But if that bastard ever laid a single finger on her... the Oathblade would not just threaten the dirt. It would bury itself in his throat.
Ssshhk.
A soft sound cut through the heavy night air.
The unmistakable whisper of fine silk sliding slowly over bare flesh.
Daniel stiffened. His spine locked like a drawn bowstring. Every single heightened sense in his body snapped to the tent behind him.
An image crashed into his mind, razor-sharp and utterly forbidden. He had no time to block it.
Helene. Standing in the dim glow of the magical lantern. The heavy gray cloak pooling silently at her feet. The suffocating heat of the forest leaving her snow-white skin damp and glistening as she peeled the ruined dress from her trembling shoulders...
Daniel's teeth ground together with a sickening crunch. He clutched the hilt of his sword until his fingers went completely numb. With a ragged, trembling exhale, he forced the searing image back into the darkest, locked vault of his mind—strangling the sudden, heavy throbbing against his armored breeches like a wild beast.