"Take my hand," Julian said, extending his fingers toward the witch, their chairs creaking as they sat across from each other.
"What?" she scratched into the box, the sound sharp in the still air.
"You cannot see, but you can feel, yes? I need you to sense whether I am…" Julian paused, searching for the right word. "…pure."
The witch tilted her head, her expression unreadable, though he imagined the flicker of irritation in her blind gaze. For a moment, she hesitated, then reached forward, her fingers cold as they closed around his. A prickling sensation crawled up his skin, the crude mana she funneled into him seeping through his body in uneven waves. She was groping in the dark, grasping at threads without sight, but her magic was thorough.
"There is no curse upon you," she scratched at last, her voice reverberating through the air like an echo in a hollow chamber. "Nor any binding vow."
Julian let out a slow breath. "I had to be sure," he admitted. "A vow to a knight—most of the time, it is no different than a binding contract. Unbreakable. If I had unknowingly sworn fealty to Aldric, I needed to know."
"Or," the witch mused, "Aldric is no knight, after all this time."
Julian's brow furrowed. "That isn't possible. When a knight breaks his oath, his strength withers. He becomes… ordinary."
"Hmm…" The witch tilted her head in thought. "Well. Continue your tale. I will return to this matter later."
Julian rolled his neck, stretching, before beginning, "You remember the mad king who burned Evandria to the ground?"
The witch gave a small nod.
"He was not mad," Julian continued, "but rather, cursed by prophecy to be mad."
Then, he recited it:
"He will come,
And she will fall.
If it shakes the world,
Let it be shaken."
The witch knew about the prophecy.
A chuckle escaped him, quiet at first, then rising into something more amused. "The prophecy foretold the rise of the knights and the fall of the church—the fall of the Mother, the last of the gods who still watched over men. After Keidar's war, the gods had long abandoned the land of men, all but her. And people, foolish as they were, clung to the notion that divinity still favored them. That she would love them, protect them, grant them her blessings." His laughter faded, though the smirk lingered. "They could not have been more wrong."
"The conjurers grew stronger after the gods departed," the witch interjected.
Julian nodded.
"And yet, it was foolish to believe the prophecy ever spoke of the knights," she continued. "The gods turned their backs, and without faith to fuel their power, the knights were left weaker than ever."
"It was politics, more than prophecy," Julian said. "Whether the words were truth or fable, the patriarch of the church seized his chance. He twisted them, turned the king against the knights, declared them heretics and rebels. He made the world believe that the knights—once their protectors—had become the enemy. And so began the purge."
He shrugged, but there was something distant in his gaze, something quieter, something almost melancholic.
"You witches and wizards were spared," Julian continued, watching as the witch's lips curled ever so slightly. Pride, perhaps. "They feared you, and so they left most of you alone."
The witch shrugged, saying nothing.
"As for us—the demons—we were already a dying breed. Our numbers never swelled beyond a certain point, and when they did, the extras were culled."
Much like now.
"So when the purge came, when all eyes turned to the knights, it was especially cruel for them. You, of all people, know what became of the Captain Commander of the Knights of the Old Anvil—the man you called your lover."
For a fleeting moment, her blind eyes flickered, as if sight had returned to them, if only to glare at him. "He was used," she spat, her nails scratching deep into the wood. "Used, then slaughtered like a hound."
The mana around the hut trembled, her fury bleeding into the air even though her face was calm. Julian caught the words before they dissolved in the static hum of her magic: Revenge against their towers wasn't enough. I should have burned their families too.
"Well," Julian said, tilting his head, "Aldric did that for you."
The witch scoffed.
Julian went on, "That was the spark that set him aflame—the purge of his brethren, the massacre of the knights. It wasn't the Mad King who destroyed Evandria. He merely set it to fire. The true devastation came after, when the patriarch of the church, that scheming spider, tried to contain the chaos Aldric had unleashed. But he failed. He never imagined that the knights—those raised in an age without gods, without the blessings of divinity—would find strength elsewhere."
The witch's voice held the faintest trace of amusement. "And where did they find it?"
Julian smirked. "In oaths made not to honor, nor to chivalry, nor to the ideals of men. No. They swore to their own selfish desires, bound themselves to whatever would grant them the will to carve out their vengeance." He leaned back, tapping his fingers against his knee. "But in the end, both sides were the same. The patriarch sought control, Aldric sought revenge, and when the prophecy finally came to pass—"
The witch finished his thought. "A hole yawned open beneath Evandria, swallowing it whole."
"But we survived," Julian said.
"And so did the patriarch," he added.
The witch froze. Her expression darkened. "What?"
"This is a Sanctuary, isn't it?" Julian asked, his voice light with curiosity.
The witch nodded.
She had explained it before—
["Do you know why we are immortal?" Rok-To mused, her tone calm despite the agony wracking his body. "It's a thesis I've developed from a little experiment. This Sanctuary we've entered—it wasn't made for us. Not for Conjurers. Not for Knights. Not for Witches. It was made for something that should enter the Sanctuary, not be born in it."
"We are unwanted variables, Julian." She chuckled softly, almost to herself. "The 'forbidden' words aren't forbidden—they simply don't exist in this world. And if they were to exist, this Sanctuary wouldn't be able to protect the thing it was made to protect. Now, I just simply don't know what is the 'thing' it is protecting. An animate or inanimate object, but that is a story for the later."
Julian's teeth ground together as he forced out a response. "Did you… cancel… the immortality?"
"Oh, dear no," Rok-To said, her voice dripping with feigned innocence. She raised her hands dramatically. "Until I discover the anchor, I cannot. But I can stop the healing side-effect within a little Sanctuary I made to isolate you, now."]
This place rejected the very notion of knights, yet conjurers and witches remained untouched.
Why?
"Adding to your thesis," Julian mused, tilting his head, "I'd wager the patriarch holds the anchor of the Sanctuary."
The witch scoffed, unimpressed. "Before I even bother asking why you believe the patriarch is alive and here, explain how you arrived at the notion that he controls the anchor."
Julian merely shrugged. "Just a hunch—a cat's hunch."
The witch said nothing.
"But consider this," Julian continued, "even though you've never set foot in the capital, you've heard the whispers. Nobles now keep conjurers as ornaments rather than advisors, their roles symbolic, their duties redundant. Hunters, the closest thing left to knights, are degraded, despised. The official guilds? Disbanded. The noble houses? No longer fund them. Even the church, once their staunchest ally, has abandoned them. Now hunters are forced into unofficial guilds, paying their own coin just to keep their trade alive."
His smirk deepened. "And yet, the products of their labor—beast hides, cores, bones, rare ingredients—remain valuable. Essential, even, to conjurers. Luxurious to nobles. But since these goods come from an illegal trade, they're bought for cheap, making it a thriving black market. Perhaps all of this is mere coincidence. Perhaps. But to systematically dismantle an institution so close to the virtues of knighthood? That feels... personal."
The witch was silent, her milky eyes betraying no emotion.
Julian leaned back, exhaling. "I held a grudge, you know. The patriarch didn't wield the blade himself, but my friends died by his will—knights, conjurers, all of them. When Aldric first joked about this, I thought little of it. But in time, the pieces fit too well. Every merchant I bribed, every scrap of news from the capital, all of it painted the same picture. The old world repeats itself. The same tyrants, the same chains. A hunch? No, I would call it certainty. And Aldric, I imagine, sees it the same way. The patriarch is alive, I do not know how, but he is here, in flesh."
Julian stood then, groaning as he stretched. "Aldric is playing the long game, following the patriarch's rules until he can set the board on fire. He'll sow chaos—turn nobles against the poor, drown the empire in its own rot. And when the conjurers are brought to their knees, that is when my tribe will strike." His heart pounded at the thought, his voice thick with anticipation.
"Thousands of innocents will die," the witch murmured.
Julian laughed. "You still think they're real?" His grin widened. "They are echoes—fragments of the past. They mimic life but will never be whole. Their personalities, their choices, their freedoms are all... limited. Killing them would be an act of mercy to the souls, who lost their fragments and arrived here in this cursed land."
The witch sighed. "Well, you do as you will."
She shifted then, tired of the subject as if. "My turn. What knowledge do you seek in return?"
"In time, I will ask for it," Julian said, stepping toward the door. "For now, let's part ways. The Hornet is still reeling from the special-grade beast's attack. I imagine they won't take kindly to their chief's absence for too long."
With a smile, he pushed open the door, stepping out into the cold.
The wind howled through the trees, the snow crunching beneath his boots.
Yet, for Julian, there was no cold at all.