It was the second week of their little adventure, and the fourth fort they faced. Once a fortified manor of a slave lord, it had been hurriedly built up when word of their coming had spread, carried by fearful and hopeful lips alike. Graceful arches had been bricked up, hedge mazes soaked with oil, and upstairs balconies turned into archer nests. Steve would have approved of the defences, had they not been built by slaves under the whip of their masters, masters who feared his coming.

It was no campaign of conquest they were on; holding a single Free City was task enough, but that didn’t mean he was content to let plantations just outside his borders sit by, torturing the slaves working them with the spectre of freedom. Especially not when ‘unaffiliated’ parties ‘bandits’ were making short raids into his land to abduct free men and women, before disappearing back over said border. If that was the game the magisters and slave lords wanted to play, he was happy to oblige. Border crossings went both ways, which was what brought him to where he stood in plain armour, two weeks into a punitive raid with twenty tough sorts who also had a bone to pick with their neighbours.

Another joined him where he stood on a small grassy hill, looking down onto the manor. “I must confess, I did not have faith in your plan,” the man said, twirling a pointed moustache.

“You said that after the first fort, Alfonse,” Steve said, not looking away from his target. From the movement he could see, it didn’t look like they had been spotted.

“I will say it again after this one too,” Alfonse said. He left his moustache alone, having ensured it was arranged to his satisfaction, each tip pointing at the brand of a runaway slave he wore proudly on both cheeks. “I still cannot believe we purchased our supplies from the enemy, or that they wished us luck as we went.”

“That Steve Rogers fella is a menace,” Steve said. “It’s no wonder they’d wish good luck to the ones chasing the bounty on his head.”

“Did you hear he crossed the border with three hundred - no, five hundred men?” Alfonse asked.

“You’d have to be a bit of a fool to do it with less,” Steve said.

“Yet here we are, twenty good men setting the entire region to flight,” Alfonse said.

“And women,” Steve said absently.

“And women,” Alfonse agreed. “How could I forget our singular companion.”

“Speaking of, has she returned yet?” Steve asked.

Alfonse shuddered. “I do not concern myself with her comings and goings. A Braavosi mother and an Ibben father, and that girl still sends winter chills down my spine.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be going about bare chested in the hinterlands, Alfonse,” a young woman said behind them.

Steve had heard her footsteps, if barely, but Alfonse was startled badly, hand going for the rapier at his hip before his mind caught up.

“I am not bare chested,” Alfonse said, turning the move into a gesture at the shoulder of the outfit he wore.

“I can almost see your navel,” she said, joining them in looking down at the manor. Her white hair was distinctive, as was the scar that carved its way down from her left eye and across her cheek.

Very visibly, Alfonse bit his tongue rather than reply with the undoubtedly ribald comment he wished to. “I’ll see to the others, make sure they’re ready,” he said instead, before ducking off, making for the rest of the party where they sheltered behind the hill.

“You enjoy that too much, Ciri,” Steve said.

“They’re very skittish,” Ciri said.

“Well, it’s not every day you see a woman walk out of a portal,” Steve said.

“You’ve handled it fine,” Ciri said.

“I said not every day, not never,” Steve said.

Ciri gave him a measured look. “You’re a lot more comfortable with magic than most.”

“I’ve been around the block a few times,” Steve said. Ciri was a good sort, but given he had only known her for a shade under two weeks he wasn’t going to be revealing any secrets just yet. Soon, though. “It’ll take more than appearing out of thin air to spook me.”

“If I didn’t know better…” Ciri trailed off, shaking her head.

“How did your scouting go?” Steve asked, getting back to the more pressing topic at hand.

“No attempts to flee,” Ciri said. “They’re worried, and boarded up, but it looks like your misdirection after the last manor worked.”

“They’ve done a lot of work for someone who doesn’t think we’re coming,” Steve said, frowning.

“The guards sounded calm,” Ciri said. “All spearmen in uniform. You’d expect everyone to have taken up arms if they knew you were here.”

“What kind of uniform?” Steve asked, frown deepening.

“Tunic, bronze cap,” Ciri said.

“Damn,” Steve said.

“What?”

“Sounds like Unsullied,” Steve said. “Slaves, put through hell to turn into unthinking soldiers.” He thought for a moment. “How did you know how they sounded?”

“I listened,” Ciri said.

“There’s no cover for hundreds of yards around the manor,” Steve said, turning a raised brow on her.

“I’ve been around the block a few times,” Ciri said. “I have my ways.”

Steve shook his head at her. “Unsullied changes things. A summer house near the border shouldn’t have cause to be guarded by them.”

“Who owns it?”

“Some magister,” Steve said. “He’s only on our list because he buys slaves more regularly than most.” Left unsaid was what dark reasons might cause someone to buy slaves more often than their neighbours.

“So he made a target of himself,” Ciri said slowly, “and he has elite guards you weren’t expecting. Do you think it might be a trap?”

Steve scratched at his beard. “Maybe. If it is, I can get us out, but it would mean the end of our little adventure.”

“You going to hit them with your hammer?” Ciri asked, glancing at the unadorned weapon on his back.

“Something like that,” Steve said. “Now come on. Let’s not waste any more time.”

The pair of them retreated from their viewpoint, away from the manor. In the lee of the hill, hidden from sight, the rest of their companions waited ahorse, Alfonse having readied them. Eighteen good men from a wide variety of backgrounds, all united by one cause: an enduring, seething hatred for slavery and those who practiced it.

“It’s that time again,” Steve began, and low laughter answered him. “Any last minute questions?”

“I have question,” a huge Dothraki man said. “Will we change the loot sharing?”

Groans answered him, but there were smiles too. “Not this again,” someone complained.

“No, Raqueo,” Steve said, “we won’t be.”

“But I am biggest,” Raqueo argued. “I should get biggest share.”

“Your horse already suffers enough hauling you around, and you want to give it more to carry?” Alfonse asked him. “Maybe the most handsome should get the biggest share,” he said, posing.

“But then I would still get the biggest share,” Raqueo said, seeming confused, though it was belied by the sly look in his eyes.

“Alright alright,” Steve said, waving down the brewing banter. “You all know the drill. It’s time we warn the good folk in that manor over the hill that some dangerous outlaws have been sighted in the area.”

Ciri was already mounted, stroking the neck of the great black mare that she had chosen from the last fort they had raided, leaving Steve the last to mount up. He led them atop Fury as they fell into two organised lines, just another sellsword patrol guarding the region. The second fort they had taken had actually let them in without a thought, eager for more men with which to resist the oncoming army led by the villainous Lord America.

They rode out casually from behind the hill, heading for the manor. There was no urgency to their pace, and they approached their target looking like they had every right to do so. Ciri rode to his right, falling in without conscious thought, as if she was used to it. No one questioned it, not after they had seen her carve up the huge slave breaker the week before. Steve was beginning to think he reminded her of someone, but she hadn’t mentioned anything, and he wasn’t going to ask.

They were seen as they drew closer, and Steve could faintly make out orders being passed between the dozen Unsullied he could see perched in what had once been a balcony, now almost a pillbox complete with makeshift crenellation. There was no stir amongst them, only quick words and quiet discussion, and for a moment he thought that the unquestioning obedience of the slave soldiers might come back to bite their masters again. Soon they were close enough to call out a greeting, slowing as they neared the walls.

Then someone threw a spear at him.

Steve caught it easily, but already more were being drawn back. “Forward!” he ordered, hurling the spear back at the man who had thrown it. It took him in the shoulder, perfectly positioned to take him out of the fight. A horse screamed as it took a spear across its neck, barding only enough to divert, and another man dove from his mount to avoid being skewered. Then they were rushing forwards, making for the heavy manor doors.

The wall was ten foot high, the crenellation making it higher still, but that was not an obstacle to Steve. He cleared it in a single bound, almost walking up the wall, and then he was amongst the defenders atop it.

Fearless they may have been, and willing to charge into certain death, but they were still only mortal men. He lashed out with fist and hammer, breaking jaws and shattering spears, and in his wake he left no foe capable of standing against them. Ten men were crammed into what had once been a small entertaining area, but he had defeated tougher foes in less space.

The ring of steel on stone behind him drew his eye, and he glanced back as he knocked a man unconscious to see that ciri had somehow followed him up. She had disarmed one of the Unsullied he had laid flat after they had limped up once more, and now her sword sought his throat.

“Ciri,” Steve barked.

The distraction was enough for the slave soldier to avoid her blade, but then Steve was there, and he punched the man square in the jaw, leaving him to drop like a puppet without strings.

“What was that?” Ciri demanded in the sudden stillness. Below, they heard the door splinter and the rest spill into the estate, but the young woman did not move, demanding answers.

“We don’t kill those who don’t choose to fight us,” Steve said.

Ciri looked around at the unconscious and broken men on the balcony. “Their choice seemed made to me.”

“It has been a very long time since these men made a choice of their own,” Steve said grimly, setting his hammer back on his back.

“They are ensorcelled?” Ciri asked, looking at the Unsullied with new eyes. A faint tremor worked its way up her spine.

“In a way,” Steve said. “Your life comes first, but if you can avoid killing them, don’t.” As he had every time since learning what they were, he couldn’t help but see them and think of Bucky.

“I’ll do what I can,” Ciri said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

“That’s all I can ask,” Steve said. “Now come on, before Alfonse leads the assault to the wine cellar again.”

They left the Unsullied behind, watched by the few still conscious, thoughts hidden behind blank eyes. A delicate door was no barrier at all, and they ventured deeper into the estate. The followed a hallway, and there were doors within it, but they all led to individual rooms, parlours or sleeping chambers. The pair of them cleared them one by one, ears pricked for hidden ambushers, but all were empty.

Steve frowned as he noticed the dust that they stirred in their wake. These rooms had not been entered for some time, let alone cleaned. Was that normal in a holiday home like this? But then, their intel had said that this wasn’t just a holiday home but where their target conducted his business from for most of the year. There was something niggling at his mind about this.

“I hate this,” Ciri murmured, as they checked the last room. “Give me a monster to hunt any day.”

“We are hunting a monster,” Steve said, just as quiet.

Ciri mouth turned down in a half grimace, giving a ‘hrngnh’, but she said nothing else.

The end of the hall led them down a staircase, and on the ground level in a small foyer they met Alfonse and a handful of others; they had already split from the rest of the group.

“Anything?” Steve asked.

Alfonse shook his head. “Empty. Quiet.”

“Too quiet,” Ciri said.

“Now you’ve done it,” Steve said. “Spread out and search the estate,” he continued before they could respond. “No less than three to a group, and if you come across an enemy you regroup before taking them on.”

Alfonse and the others nodded, splitting themselves up. None commented on Steve and Ciri immediately breaking his own rule, not after seeing the pair of them in action over the last weeks. The others headed out along the inside edges of the estate, while Steve and Ciri followed a hall deeper in.

The estate reminded Steve of a Roman villa, but only if he turned his head and squinted. It was built on a square block, the manor building itself built around a hollow interior, and under the fine architecture and tiles, he could see the considerations given to defence. Whoever built this did so knowing they might one day have unfriendly visitors. The only question was that now those visitors had come, where were the occupants?

“A secret bunker, do you think?” Ciri asked, her thoughts going in a similar direction as they exited the building proper, emerging into an outdoor area of gardens and fountains.

“Maybe,” Steve said, though his tone was doubtful. Why fortify the estate and leave guards at the entrance if there was no one there to protect? Unsullied weren’t cheap, as much as the rationale soured his thoughts.

They crept through the interior yard of the estate, but still there wasn’t a soul to be seen, only more evidence of neglect and absence. Plants were growing untidily, fountains had become murky with algae, and wind carried dust and leaves across patios that had not been touched for days, perhaps weeks.

In the very centre, half hidden by statues and decorative walls, there was a maze of hedges. The two of them stood before its entrance, once neat hedges now reaching out to crowd the path. Even with the sun bright overhead, there was something ominous about it, a stillness within where the breeze did not reach. There was a set of divots in the grass, like someone had been dragged deeper within and had clawed at the ground in a vain attempt to avoid whatever fate had befallen them.

Steve and Ciri exchanged a glance.

“Monsters never hide on sandy beaches or pleasant glades,” Ciri said, like she was complaining about the traffic.

“You mention monsters a lot,” Steve said, still staring down the maze path. The rest of the estate still had to be searched, but he had a feeling there wouldn’t be anything to find.

“I’ve met a few,” Ciri said, “people and otherwise.”

“You’re not talking about animals, are you,” Steve said.

Ciri paused. “What makes you say that?”

“The daughter of a huntsman and an apothecary doesn’t know how to fight like you do.”

“He was a warrior,” Ciri said. “He taught me.”

Steve nodded, side eyeing her. When Ciri had spoken of her parents, she’d never labelled them as such - only speaking of the ones who ‘raised her’. “So it was your mother who taught you to travel between worlds?” he asked.

“What makes you think I’m not from this world?” Ciri asked, giving him a surprised look.

He’d been bullshitted by the best, but Ciri wasn’t one of them, and now he might get an answer to the question he’d been holding off on since he first saw her. “You reeked of diesel and burnt plastic when we met.”

Whatever answer Ciri had been expecting, it wasn’t that. She blinked, jaw slackening for a moment, before she regathered herself. “You’re from the New United States?”

“The New - what?” Steve asked. He kept a calm face, even if his pulse quickened, unbidden.

“Another world then,” Ciri said, disappointed.

“I’m from the plain old United States,” Steve said.

Ciri brightened again. “Then you know about cars and sky-scrapers?” she said, pronouncing it like two words.

“I do,” Steve said.

“I watched them go by for hours in the early days,” Ciri said. “They were like nothing I’d ever seen.” She frowned, considering. “How did you come to be in this world?”

“That’s a bit of a story,” Steve said. A breeze swept out of the maze, carrying with it the hint of some ill scent, one that he knew well. “We can swap tales once we make camp tonight, but - can you take people with you? Between worlds?”

Ciri’s face became guarded, and her posture shifted away from the maze entrance, more facing him. “It depends.”

Before he could ask further, movement caught Steve’s ear, but it was only Alfonse and Raqueo crossing an entertaining area towards them.

“Not a soul to be seen,” Alfonse reported grimly. “But the slave quarters have many beds, and the kitchen is well stocked.”

“Start looting,” Steve said, making a decision. “Small, high value objects only, nothing that will weigh us down.”

“We’re not going to bury the big things?” Raqueo asked. They had buried some of the larger valuables from their last targets for later retrieval, something the men had very much approved of.

“Not this time,” Steve said. He pushed thoughts of how close he might be to a way home to the back of his mind, and focused on the here and now. “There’s something wrong here. Ciri and I are going to check the maze, and then we’re leaving.”

“I will pass the word,” Alfonse said. He glanced down the maze path, and shivered. “Always hated those things,” he said to Raqueo, as they both turned and left.

“Into the maze?” Ciri asked.

“Into the maze,” Steve said. They could finish their conversation later.

The maze blocked out sound from the outside, and though it seemed they were the only living things within it, there was still something about it. Some sixth sense told them to be wary, and the grasping branches and narrow paths leant it a sinister aspect. An ordinary person may have hesitated, allowed their mind to play tricks on them, but they were no ordinary people, and the maze held no power they did not give it. They moved through it swiftly, checking corners and walking near silently, and in short order, they reached the centre.

A marble structure awaited them, small but imposing all the same. It was more a small shed than anything, with a solid wooden door. It was too small even to be a mausoleum, but the familiar scent he had noticed before was strong around it, and his suspicions were confirmed. It was blood. Steve felt like he had a rock in his gut as he approached the door, and it felt like he was nearing the dungeon door in some vampire’s castle lair, not a private retreat in the middle of a hedge maze. The cloying scent of blood grew worse, and he tested the handle. The door swung open without resistance, revealing a steep set of stairs that descended into a dim chamber.

Steve gave a sigh. He was pretty sure he’d seen this movie. Still, he headed down, Ciri close behind him.

It felt like drowning, the stench of blood was so overpowering. Steve resorted to breathing through his mouth, and it only got worse with every step downwards they took. The stairs were steep, but short. They emerged into a basement, and both stilled as they beheld it. The room was lit by torches on the support columns throughout it, all guttering low, but they still cast light enough to see the chilling scene before them.

Blood. Blood on the walls, blood on the columns, blood on the ceiling, blood on the floor. Blood drawn in intricate patterns and messy swathes, as if drawn by a calligraphy master and a toddler with a paintbrush. They continued into the shadowed edges of the room, out of sight.

“I recognise some of these,” Ciri murmured to herself. “But how are they here…”

Steve picked his way deeper into the room, careful not to step on any of the symbols on the floor. As he did, he was able to pierce the gloom on the far side of the room. He wished he hadn’t.

Dozens of bodies hung from the ceiling like some sort of grotesque slaughterhouse, hooks through their ankles. They ranged from young children to wrinkled elders. Their throats had been cut, and buckets sat under them to collect the lifeblood that flowed from them. There was no dripping now, each victim long since drained. Most had the scars and brands of slaves, but some few had lived privileged lives.

A cold fury built in Steve’s chest. He was not a violent person by nature, but in that moment, he wanted to hurt the one responsible for this. “These were the people living here.” His voice was loud in the stillness of the dungeon.

Something shifted amongst the bodies, drawing their eyes. Someone was moving - not a corpse, but a person. They had blended in with the bodies hanging from hooks, standing still surrounded by corpses. Steve clenched one fist, hard enough to shatter rock. The gaunt man’s arms were stained with blood up to his elbows.

“You came,” the man said, breathless. “I called through the void, and you came.” White hair was bedraggled and thin, and once fine clothing was stained and torn.

Quick footsteps sounded behind Steve, and then Ciri was striding past him, face blank. Within a heartbeat she was in arm’s reach of the man, and her sword sang. A moment later, there was a thunk as his head hit the floor, and his body crumpled right after. Blood began to spill from his neck, adding to the awful tapestry on the floor.

Stillness returned to the basement, as the only living people in it stared at the corpse of the man who had done such evil.

“We should go,” Steve said, stowing his hammer in its harness on his back. There was no enemy here that could be fought by strength of arms.

With a jerk, Ciri nodded, and they turned to leave. They made it to the stairs before it all went wrong.

An orb of white light and shadow sprung into existence in the middle of the room, right where the madman’s lifeblood had spilled across the stone. From it walked three figures, clad in imposing black armour from toe to crown. Their faces were akin to skulls, and they were larger than most men, taller than Thor even. Two carried heavy mauls, but the leader bore a staff, and he brought it up to point at Ciri in wordless accusation.

“No,” Ciri said. Her gaze flicked between Steve and the newcomers, fear and dismay on her features.

Steve pulled his hammer from his back, wishing he had his shield. “You fellas-”

That was as far as he got before the pair charged him, mauls sweeping out to crush him with deceptive speed. He jumped and spun, barely avoiding blows that would have broken his body; he could hear the air whistling with the attacks. Before he had landed, he was returning the favour, cracking one on the elbow with his hammer and punching the other in the face.

Neither did more than flinch.

Ciri was there in the next instant, forcing the one on the right to defend themself, and giving Steve the chance to avoid another quick blow, ducking low. Had she not, there was no way he could have avoided a second, but he took his chance as he rose up once more, bringing his hammer up between his foe’s legs as hard as he could.

The man? being? crumpled. No matter what they were, or how spiky their armour was, Steve had yet to meet someone immune to such an attack.

Ciri was pushed back, the weight of the maul too much to parry easily, and she stumbled. She disappeared in a blur of green light, out of reach to the side, but the man only turned to Steve, aiming to crush his head with a heavy blow. Steve caught it upon his own hammer, grunting at the force behind it, before he lashed out with his boot, knocking his enemy over. There was a pause.

“Witcher,” the leader of the three hissed from where he stood, yet to join the fight. Even through its mask, it seemed to glower at him.

Before Steve could blink, he was before him, seizing him by the neck and taking him utterly by surprise. He choked, trying to strike him, but the angle was bad, and his blows were ineffective, warded away by the foe’s staff. With a flick, his hammer was torn from his hands, and he was slammed up into the ceiling, head first. His skull rang, and he felt like he was floating, but that was only because he had been thrown across the room, through one column and into another. Something hit the ceiling above him and he had a moment to see it shatter and fall, rock and stone and earth collapsing onto him, burying him.

Ciri grit her teeth as she witnessed yet another death caused by her presence. The Hunt shouldn’t have been able to track her here. Sunlight spilled into the dungeon through the new hole in the ceiling, casting the blood and bodies into sharp relief, and she realised. They hadn’t tracked her. They had been called.

The two warriors were on her again, and it was all she could do to ward them off, confined by the room, the columns and the walls. There was no way to get distance, and trying the stairs was a fool's errand; she could hardly think quickly enough to dodge. The dark pit she found herself in was going to be the end of her escape from the Wild Hunt if she didn’t think of something quickly. She wove between heavy blows, something niggling at her mind. Hadn’t the sunlight just been streaming in through the hole in the ceiling?

Thunder boomed as the storm overhead swelled, but just under it there was a strange metal hum, and -

Something collided with the pile of rubble that had been Steve, sending rock and dust everywhere, and Ciri just barely evaded a grasping hand in a burst of green. When she reorientated herself in another corner of the room, she prepared to disappear again, but what she saw made her pause.

From the rubble he stood, pushing off a slab of stone larger and heavier than he was. There was a cut on his brow bleeding freely, and his face was smeared with dust and dirt, but that was not what drew the eye. It was not the short hafted hammer he held in his hand, sparking with lightning, or even the bright blue shine to his eyes. It was the look on his face, a deep frown that spoke of disapproval and imminent pain for whoever had put it there.

Steve did not speak as he pointed the hammer at the two maul wielders. Lightning erupted from it, and they were blown into the walls with a crash, smoking and still. Then, he turned to the leader.

A bubble of cold energy formed around him, catching the lightning that sought to bring him down, and it arced around it. The black armoured figure staggered under the onslaught, shield starting to flicker, but then the flow of energy ceased.

Ciri blinked forward, sword aimed at his head, but then he was gone, appearing in front of Steve, again reaching for his neck. This time did not go so well for him, and there was a sound like some celestial gong being rung, and he was sent flying back. He collided with the corpses of the ritual victims, and man fell on him, burying him briefly. He burst from the pile, using his staff to support himself as he glared at the two of them.

Steve began to spin his hammer by its strap, and it hummed ominously.

The black armoured giant considered it for a heartbeat, and made the smart choice. He stepped into the orb of white and shadow, disappearing, and the portal winked out of existence shortly after. The sudden silence was almost overpowering.

Ciri let out a great breath, leaning onto her sword to support herself. “What was that?” It was obvious she wasn’t talking about the portal and those from it.

“I told you I could get us out if it was a trap,” Steve said.

“You said you would hit them with your hammer,” Ciri said, accusing. ‘Something like that,’ she remembered him saying.

Steve glanced at the hammer he held and looked back at her with the faintest hint of a smirk. Already they could hear the sounds of the others approaching in a hurry, coming to investigate the sudden hole and the clamour of the fight. “So I did,” he said. “We should probably get clear of the estate before we talk about all this.”

He began to clamber up the pile of rubble, aiming for the hole in the ceiling, and Ciri followed him. They were due for a talk, but it could wait. She had a feeling there would be much to cover.