“We are so boned,” Cal whispered, staring wide-eyed as four more red-eyed, armor-clad men strode into the common room, blocking out the chill of the night with their bodies. They all looked very different from one another. Dark-skinned and light-skinned. Tall and short. One guy was as wide as the doorframe while another was lithe and slim—he had the build of a long-distance runner. Likewise, their armor ranged from dusty leathers to gleaming steel plate mail.

But one and all, they had the tell-tale burning red eyes that marked them as Vigils. That and a metallic sigil branded against their foreheads, though I immediately noticed that the sigils were as different as the people who wore them. No two were the same. A dark-skinned man of maybe forty was branded with the same golden, sword-like symbol that I had. The symbol for Justice. The remaining four symbols, I knew from my time in the Soul Vault, represented the other faces of Raguel. Valor, Wrath, Balance, and Truth.

Arturo, the Arbitrator of Ironmoor, had mentioned once that Vigils typically traveled in teams of five, called Fists. There was no doubt who these people were and there was no doubt what they’d come here to do.

Renholm took one look at the set of assembled Vigils, then quickly bounded into the air. “Good luck, Count! I’ve just realized I forgot about something very important… Back in the Faewylds. I believe I may have left my fireplace on.”

“What? You can’t just abandon me now,” I grunted at him.

“I’m not abandoning you,” he hissed in reply. “I’m just honoring the pecking order. Sir Jacob-Francis, attend to me!” The pixie bounded onto the cat’s back and immediately the feline darted off the counter, disappearing behind the bar. Great, the little traitor had jumped ship. I shouldn’t have been surprised—Renholm was amazingly consistent in his treachery and was very open that he was out for himself and no one else. I knew he’d come crawling back, eventually, assuming I survived this clusterfuck.

Sadly, Renholm wasn’t the only one. Cal had disappeared too. Dissipated back to the Etheral Plane where he called home. That stung just a little, though I knew it was the smart move. There was no telling what a group of trigger-happy Vigils might do to an unfamiliar spirit guide. Arturo had accidentally banished him after he and I tried to pay a late-night visit to the Arbitrator’s chapel. Cal still remembered the sting. Running was the right call. Cal wouldn’t be able to help me if these guys nuked him out of existence before I even had a chance to explain myself.

“Are you the pretender, Boyd Knight?” The woman who appeared to be the de facto leader of the group boomed. She was the shortest of the bunch, only a few inches over five-feet, but she radiated confidence and authority. Her heavy silver and white armor also added to her stage presence. She had a sharp, angular face and metallic golden hair, which was pulled back into a short ponytail, revealing the emerald Valor brand on her forehead. I would’ve called her cute if not for the fact that looked like she wanted to spit roast me alive over an open fire.

“Nope,” I said on instinct, working to keep my face straight. “Believe it or not but you’re actually looking for my brother. I’m Lloyd Knight. I’ve always heard that there is a very strong family resemblance, so it’s an easy mistake to make. But no harm done—I won’t lodge a complaint with your manager. Hell, I’d even be happy to buy a round of brews for you and your friends, since you’ve come all this way out here for no reason.”

“Do you think this is a joke?” she snarled as her hand tightened around the grip of her warhammer. “Vigil Telent,” she said to the man in dark leather armors. “Put him to the question. Now.”

Vigil Telent stepped forward, lowering his cowl. He had a pale face framed by silvery white hair and the pearlescent sigil of Truth of on his furrowed brow.

“You’re in a lot of trouble, friend,” he said, voice slick and oddly soothing. He was playing good cop to her bad. “Things will go best for you if you work with us. You will answer all of our questions truthfully and honestly, yes?”

Even though it was a friendly suggestion, I instantly knew it was more than that. He was using the Honeyed Words ability on me. Every syllable was laced with Arcana, turning the simple question into a subtle command. I could feel his words tugging at something inside my chest, compelling me to talk. To answer truthfully. After all, I was in a lot of trouble and his suggestion just seemed so reasonable.

But the compulsion didn’t stick.

I’d been busy since taking out the Hexblight and I’d managed to push myself up to Disciple, Gold-Rank. I was just on the cusp of ascending into the Adept ranks. Hell, I could’ve hit Adept Bronze weeks ago, but I’d chosen instead to sacrifice some of my accumulated Essence to increase my stats. Including Insight, which was now at 19. That added bonus allowed me to see through his magic and gave me a minor degree of resistance against the spell. I also happened to be running the Master Mentalist skill while wearing my Grass Hound Armor, augmented with an Arcanum Token of Deceptive Presence.

My gear further boosted my Insight Stat by one point and gave me an additional +5% resistance against mental magics.

“This doesn’t need to get ugly,” Vigil Telent continued, sounding like a parent talking to an unreasonable toddler throwing a temper tantrum. “Tell us true, are you Boyd Knight?”

“Yeah, I’m Boyd,” I replied with a nod. I could see the smugness on his face. But two could play at this game, especially since I also had Honeyed Words currently equipped. “And I have a suggestion of my own. How’s about you go eat a dick.”

The smug grin withered and disappeared. Overt shock rippled outward from him in a ring, briefly flashing across the faces of each of the other Vigils in turn. They could feel me flexing my metaphysical muscle, just like I could feel theirs.

Telent fell back a step and cast a confused look at the woman leading their party. What the hell is going on here, that look said in no uncertain terms. They’d come expecting to find some washed up adventurer hoping to cash in on the Vigil name, not someone who could sling real power.

The woman frowned.

“Stand and be judged,” she declared, voice even and steadfast. My little demonstration had ruffled the others, but not her.

With a sigh, I burgeoningly complied, raising my hands to show I was unarmed—though I could change that in a second. After dying, I’d reincarnated butt ass naked, with nothing but a magical K-Bar in one hand, and an enchanted Colt 1911 in the other. I’d since learned that those weapons were more than just weapons, they were extensions of my soul and were bound to do my bidding no matter the distance or the circumstances. With the slightest effort of will, I could have both in hand inside the blink of an eye.

I’d also learned I could upgrade my weapons by using specialty crafted Weapon Skins, which could be swapped out within my Soul Vault. My current weapon set consisted of a Benelli M1014 Shotgun and a flame-enhanced flanged mace, which could punch through steel armor like a hydraulic piston. Things could get real ugly, real fast if I wanted them to.

“Boyd Knight, you have claimed the title of Vigilant, one of the Chosen of Raguel.” She unrolled a parchment, holding it in both hands as she read. “You have done so in Cammart, Dimbrook, and Bellsummit, as well as the city of Ironmoor where you further passed judgment on a woman named Annelli Dalgaard, or possibly Annelli Iskrati. You executed her, claiming as possessed of a Hexblight—”

“Yeah, because she was possessed by a Hexblight,” I replied, lowering my hands, “and you’re welcome by the way.”

She turned a frosty, withering glare on me. “You will not speak during the pronouncement. Do so again and Vigil Jori”—she nodded toward my dark-skinned counterpart bearing the Justice Sigil—“will be forced to restrain and silence you.”

“I’ll do it gladly,” the man said with a wicked glint in his eye.

“That’s quite enough,” she said, glaring at Jori. “You will comport yourself. Just because this miscreant doesn’t respect our ways, doesn’t mean we need to lower ourselves in the process. Now, where was I?” She paused and scanned the page. “In addition,” she continued, “you deposed Magister Gustav and State Alchemist Sigge Wikstrum, charging both with murder, conspiracy to obstruct justice, willful endangerment of the public, and tax fraud against the Kelkadian Crown. In punishment, you had them arrested and had their properties seized. Yet, you are not one of the Vigil Bound and in no position to render such a pronouncement. A crime punishable by death.”

“Yep, that sounds just about right,” I replied with a bob of my head. “I don’t know who your sources are, but they’re good. Good but not perfect. They missed Landren. I stopped there for a day and killed a pack of Hollow Maw. And obviously you missed Grimwerp,” I added sweeping a hand around at the bar. “Just finished hunting down a Fouling.”

“Indeed he did,” Veilhelm said, shuffling over to my side with his gnarled cane in hand. There were five pissed off Vigils staring me down and the old man stood by my side without even breaking a sweat. “You say he is not a Vigil,” the old man creaked, “and though I do not know of your magics, he looks no different to my eyes than you lot. Moreover, he came and saved us when no one else would.” He turned and gestured at the creature’s decapitated head, displayed by the bar.

A fierce pride burned inside my chest at the old man’s words. I shot him a thankful nod in appreciation.

“I think he makes a good point,” I said, “how exactly do you know I’m not a Vigil, huh? I look like a Vigil, fight like a Vigil, and kill Mortka like a Vigil. We have this saying where I come from about ducks and I’m thinkin’ it might apply right about now.”

“A worthy question,” she said coolly. “Yet, despite your track record, you cannot be what you claim. I know this, because I am Kerra the Valorous, Justiciar of Training at the Akademy of the Vigilant.” She slowly and carefully rolled up the parchment and slipped it back into a pouch at her side. “I know the name and face of every Vigil Bound the Citadel has turned out in the past fifty-years because I administer the test they must pass to receive the brand. You’re name and face I do not know. So, contrary to appearances, you cannot be what you claim. You will return to the Citadel where the Custodians will render their verdict. Disobey and face summary execution, as is my authority as a Vigil of Raguel.”

She reached into her pouch and pulled out a pair of iron handcuffs riddled with spikes and runes. Just looking at them set my teeth on edge. She hurled them across the room as though they weighed nothing, but they landed with a heavy thunk that dented the wooden floorboards.

“Put those on,” she said.

I glanced at her, then at the handcuff. A pop up immediately appeared in front of me.

>>

Arcana Suppression Manacles

Type: Heavy, Reinforced Mortka Steel

Class: Sage

Ability: Suppress

Masterfully crafted in the Citadel of Custodians, these Arcana Suppression Manacles are built for a singular purpose: cutting off both the physical and arcana abilities of those with access to the True Gift. The barbed siphon spikes and the host of suppression runes radically reduce the power of Vigils, Warlocks, Sorcerers, Magi, and even Steelborn.

Primary Effects:

Arcana and Stamina Suppression: While equipped, siphon spikes continuously drain and release Arcana and Stamina Reserves, preventing those with the True Gift from casting spells or activating physical abilities. Crippling Alignment: While equipped, siphon spikes cripple the arcane meridians that circulated throughout the body, temporarily decreasing the wearer’s Verve, Brawn, and Finesse Characteristics by 3 points.

>>

I whistled through my teeth as I read over the description. Yeah, fuck those things.

“Sorry, that’s gonna be a hard no from me,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “I get that you might not know who I am, but that’s because I’m not from here, lady. I didn’t go through your ritual test, because I’m an Inkarnate. Raguel personally summoned me.” I looked back down at the manacles on the floor. “Not sure he would appreciate you locking me.”

Telent slipped up beside her and whispered furiously into her ear. He looked nervous. Since he was branded with the rune of truth and was running Honeyed Words, my guess was that he also had access to some of the other skills from the Ward of Truth, like Master Mentalist and Wyld Wisdom. Which meant he knew I wasn’t lying through my teeth and that I was an Inkarnate just like I’d said.

“It’s irregular, Telent,” she hissed under her breath. Though still loud enough for me to hear, on account of the fact that I was a fucking Vigil with supernatural hearing. “The rules are the rules.”

“Yes,” he argued softly, “but is it not our job to exercise discretion in all such matters?”

“Not in this matter,” she replied sternly. “Our personal feelings have no bearing here. We’ve been tasked by the Exarch and the Custodians, and we will follow their orders.” She paused, lips pressed into a thin line, and glanced at each of the Vigils in turn. “I know this is difficult. Confusing. But the hierarchy exists for a reason. We must heed those who know better than we.” She turned her frosty gaze back on me. “If what you say is true, Boyd Knight, then you have nothing to fear. We will deliver you safely to Wildespell and those with greater insight than ours will discern the veracity of your claims. Now, put on the manacles and come peaceably.”

“And if I say no?” I asked.

I wasn’t in the habit of being a dick just to be a dick—I’d served in the military and knew how the chain of command worked. If a full bird colonel gave a lawful order, even if it was dumber than dog shit, you did what you were told. But the idea of being bound with magical handcuffs that sucked the goddamned life out of me while they hauled my ass through a blizzard was deeply unappealing. Especially over a technicality.

With a lopsided smile, I reached out through the Etheric Realm, feeling for my Soul Bound weapons. I could sense them, waiting for me just out of sight. They were connected to me by an invisible tether of Essence and when I tugged at the tether like an intangible fishing line, my Mortka Forged Flanged Mace appeared in my outstretched hand. It burned with glowing orange embers, courtesy of the Fire Spark Arcanum Token set into the weapon.

I wasn’t the only one getting ready for a brawl.

Vilhelm hefted his cane and gave out a sharp whistle. Chairs scraped across the wooden floors and patrons pulled out hammers, scythes, knives. Those who didn’t have ready made weapons, lifted beer mugs or picked up stools.

“This man is our guest of honor,” Vilhelm said, unphased. “He killed the creature that claimed to life of my son, daughter, and granddaughter.” Now his voice cracked. “He helped us when he didn’t have to. If he chooses to go with you, so be it, but if you want to lock him up like a prisoner, you will have to do so after striking me down. We remember our friends and we fight for them accordingly.”

“Please,” another of the Vigils said, stepping forward.

The guy was enormous—had me by three inches, easy, and had muscles on top of his muscles. His wore medium leather armor, augmented with bulky furs and chunks of bone and antler. He could’ve walked off the set of a period piece about Viking hoards. Despite his fearsome appearance, his eyes were pleading. He had the cobalt sigil of balance on his forehead.

“Friends, I implore you all not to do this. Brother”—this time he spoke to me—“we truly mean you no harm. As Justiciar Kerra said, we are only executing a grave task entrusted to us by the Custodians of the Citadel. To fight us would be foley. You can’t defeat us in combat. It… It would be a bloodbath.” He was damn near pleading with us.

“Vigil Kol is right,” Kerra said, though there was no malice in the statement. Just cold, hard facts. “Even assuming you are what you claim to be”—she eyeballed the glowing, rune-covered weapon in my fist—“which I will concede may be true, you are most assuredly new to your powers and we are not. One half-trained Inkarnate will not survive long against a Red Right Fist of Raguel.” Her expression softened just a hair. “The rules are the rules. Please don’t do something everyone will regret—you most of all.”

“Perhaps, if we made an exception about the cuffs?” Telent asked softly.

I could see the conflict play across her face. Do her job and put me in magical suppression cuffs, or fight an entire room full of villagers in an attempt to get me to compile?

“Considering the circumstances,” she growled, “if you accompany us freely and of your own volition, I will not force you to wear the manacles. For now. That, however, is the only leniency you will see from me.”

I scanned the dirty faces surrounding me. The people of Grimwerp really would fight for me if I asked them to. Even though they’d just lost loved ones, they would die for a relative stranger because that was what their honor dictated. I couldn’t ask them to do that. I couldn’t risk their safety to save my own skin. Besides, as much as this sucked sweaty nutsack, I also didn’t want to start my relationship with the Citadel by picking a fist fight with the people they’d dispatched to bring me in.

I sighed reluctantly and let the mace vanish.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll come with you but I’m not wearing those fucking things.” I kicked the manacles and sent them rattling across the floor. I turned, catching Vilhelm’s eye. “Thank you, old timer.”

“A hundred times over, lad,” he replied, clapping me on the shoulder. “Be safe.”