Stiel set out at dawn. Stickle Pass wasn’t far from Windy Bridge, but the trail was rocky, twisted, and not suitable for a horse’s hooves. The green-haired Knight-in-Waiting didn’t want to risk his horse’s health for such a short trek, so he went by foot, the shield swung over his shoulder and the longsword in its scabbard by his side, helmet hanging by the belt.

“Beware the wise-woman,” was Falt’s parting words. “She is a witch and not to be trusted.”

The farmer had volunteered to accompany him, but Stiel had refused. “This is my task, and my battle,” he’d said, “and besides, I travel faster on my own.”

The chain-mail chafed, made him sweat. It felt heavier than usual. More