The Knight Thestor hadn't slept since it first appeared. During the first few days, it dragged its red line of fire across the region at random, ploughing the land with death.

Eventually, it chose to simply loom high in the sky, hovering in place like a daytime star. As with the first night, its wings did not flap. It hung there in the distance above the travellers as they did their best to ignore it and march harder.

The first part of the Hospital of Saint Corren that peeked out from behind the head of the approaching hill was one of its immense watchtowers. Like the fortress monasteries of the Thestors, it married the stern facade of a castle with the resplendent beauty of a cathedral. The masterwork stonemasonry of the ornate columns and merlons of the tower gave Alric a great sense of relief.

"Thank fuck," sighed Mears Jansen, a soldier with a bandage wrapped around his left eye. "We made it. We're saved."

"Saved? What's stopping that thing from swooping down and burning the Hospital to the ground?" added an old man named Henry Ginsberg seated on the wagon.

"Well, if it was going ta set fire to it, I reckon it would've done it already," said Jansen.

Lamar was fighting sleep the same as Alric was. His head bobbed as the wagon slid over the uneven road. Asleep, leaning on his shoulder, was Emma.

Vontross, a Mnem'non hunter, replied with his eyes pinned to the beast, "That is no wild animal."

"Right. What's that supposed ta mean?" prompted Jansen.

"It watches something. Protects something," said Vontross.

Dragons were beasts of greed according to the texts at Nulentt. Perhaps it was protecting some kind of treasure. Who knew? Until now, Alric thought that they were long extinct.

"We should be going back to Kristantin, Brother Alric," said Henry. "We should've turned back the moment we saw the damned thing."

Alric glanced over his shoulder at him but said nothing. The little food they had left was not going to last if they turned back, even if they did as soon as the dragon made itself known. Besides, the Thestor knew that nothing awaited these people back there. Here, with the Hospital, they would have meals and a place to stay. Lamar especially required prompt aid.

As the Hospital grew, Emma rubbed her eyes groggily before opening them. Her mother walked by the wagon's side, whispering things to her with a weak smile.

In front of the Hospital itself was a hill overlooking the town of Phaemslake topped with an aging tree and a series of stones. Alric saw a man sitting cross-legged on one of the rocks, doing something to his arm.

“Jansen,” called Alric. The footman, despite the rather grievous injury sustained to his face, vaulted over the side of the wagon and landed on the ground by Alric’s side.

“Brother?”

“Shepherd thy kinsmen into the Hospital. I require a moment with the druids.”

Jansen nodded eagerly and snatched the reins from Alric’s hands. “Right away.”

Alric then motioned the Mnem’non aside, stepping off the road to allow the refugees to proceed. The stream of exhausted and starving travellers steadily passed them by. Emma’s eyes were fixed on Alric, her face warped slightly in puzzlement as the convoy continued without him and the druids.

The party had trailed off into the distance, shrinking before the mighty battlements of the Hospital and leaving the knight with his unlikely allies. Alric watched them stare at the stranger on the rock as they awaited his word.

“Thou hast fulfilled the vow made to Lady Katheryn,” explained Alric quickly. The less time he spent speaking with her, the better.

Carthei bowed curtly, placing a hand onto her forehead. The odd gesture made Alric furrow his upper lip.

Of the five Mnem’non that embarked from Kristantin, there were now four. Carthei had dispatched one of her scouts back to the tribe to carry word of the dragon as soon as she could.

Alric added, desperate to be rid of them, “Go now. Back to thy coven.”

The four druids sent their eyes to Carthei, who stared at the beast hanging in the sky. "Perhaps..."

They casually sauntered further down the road at Alric's side, much to his chagrin, approaching the Knight Correntis. Alric was close enough then to see the man’s dirt-riddled surcoat; it was black with a white pillar in its centre. Only at this distance was it evident what exactly he was doing to his left arm.

Obsidian blood painted the stone on which he sat and more of the stuff oozed out of his arm as he jabbed a pair of tongs into an open wound.

Carthei and her fellow Mnem'non were frozen in shock.

"What in the name of the Ethereals is he doing?" snapped Narsei, a Mnem’non apothecary.

She prepared to rush toward the man, but Alric grabbed her shoulder. "Do not offer aid, unless thou wish to spit upon his honour."

The knight devoted to the Order of the Hospital of Saint Corren continued in his grizzly work without making so much as a whimper. His hands trembled slightly as he toiled, but it was apparent that he had done this many times.

Alric shuddered and glanced away as Narsei hesitantly stood down. “...Strange lot, you Godslaves. Awfully strange.”

"The Knights Correntis are as skilled in saving life as they are in ending it," explained Alric in a whisper. "As tests of their surgical and medical talents, they are forbidden to receive aid from others. They alone are responsible for delivering themselves from death."

The Mnem’non scout named Konth cringed. "That is the most nonsensical thing I have ever heard."

Carthei hissed something at him in their native tongue. Konth then lowered his head like a scorned child. Alric was dangerously close to throttling him in the face.

Vontross shook his head. “If I had to choose between wearing armour all day or pulling arrows out of my own arm, well...I feel it's an obvious choice."

Alric growled, but ultimately agreed with the hunter. He had tried in the past to mend what appeared to be a minor wound, but his hands would tremble uncontrollably and the instinct to avoid pain was much too strong to overcome.

The Correntis did not halt his surgery as the strangers approached. His sallet helm and vambraces were meticulously laid out before him on the swaying grass. The helm was so deeply polished that Alric could see himself in it. Judging by how he was greeted, it seemed the Correntis could as well.

"Thestor." The knight's voice was low and hoarse, sounding as if it had rusted and deteriorated from lack of use. “I don’t suppose you know why that hideous creature is hovering out there.”

Alric gazed upon the tree that drew its shadow over the Correntis. Its mottled grey bark had peeled, revealing the stark white trunk beneath it. Its leaves were a sickly unsaturated green. Alric approached said tree and leant upon it as he replied, "I am afraid not. What hast struck thee so, Brother? The Lacron?”

The Correntis huffed as he pulled the blood-drenched tongs out of his wound. Clasped within them was a barbed arrowhead. He placed the arrowhead onto a neatly arranged cloth, where the shaft of the arrow had already been laid. Alric heard some of the druids stir uncomfortably behind him.

"Unlikely. I was travelling with them at the time," he replied.

The Church chooses no sides in the conflicts of kings. The Correnti, as surgeons and physicians, were allowed to lend their expertise to anyone in need. Thestors could provide spiritual services, but could not fight one faction in the name of another. The committing of force to one side of a political conflict was forbidden by the Church in typical circumstances, as interfering in material affairs was said to be driven by greed or bloodlust. If one realm was said to be committing heresy or apostasy, however, the Church would not hesitate to deploy Grand Hosts against them.

“Tritans, then?” asked Alric.

Vontross stared in disgust as the Correntis dabbed the blood from his bicep, poured an application of faerie tears into the throbbing wound, and tied it securely with a bandage. “No. I saw all kinds of armour and dress, it wasn’t one people, but many united under totems of bone.”

Carthei looked to Alric. “Your heretics, Godslave. If they can enrage an ogre through the kr’tesh, who is to say that they cannot raise a dragon?”

The Correntis relaxed his posture as he exhaled sharply, his labour completed. He finally sent his eyes to the Mnem’non. His gaze scoured the strangers up and down. Alric could sense the druids expecting more harsh words.

“I have the perfect solution for your fatigue. Would you like to come inside so I can make you some?” asked the Correntis, voice still rough and ill-suiting the content of his speech.

Alric rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw. He always felt that the Hospital of Saint Corren was much too soft for its own good. It did not close its doors for those of false religions, it instead showed them the same level of care as the faithful. This key difference between the doctrines of the Thestors and the Correnti often caused a great deal of conflict between the two Orders.

Konth cocked his head in confusion. Even Carthei appeared to be taken back by the gesture. “Aren’t you going to ask whether or not we are witches?” he asked.

The Correntis shook his head curtly before locking eyes with Konth. “No. But if you betray my hospitality, I will butcher you. I need only one arm.”

“You’re made for each other,” quipped Narsei as she smirked at Alric.

Alric sighed. A somewhat reasonable man. He is still much too welcoming. “I will partake in this drink with thee, Brother. I am Alric.”

“Matvey,” said the Correntis, shifting uncomfortably. Perhaps from the still-present pain of his injury. “Friends? Will you accept my offer?”

Carthei replied, “Your offer is gracious and I am inclined to accept. However, I will not seal myself away within that stone box. We shall rest here, where the wind breathes upon us and the leaves tremble before the majesty of existence.”

Such nonsense.

“Then here it shall be,” said Matvey.

The Knight Correntis retreated into the Hospital for several moments, leaving Alric and the Mnem’non to lower themselves onto the grass as they awaited his return. Whenever he had a charge of people to safeguard, he could never rest. His mind would wander and he would ruminate. Threats could appear anywhere. He had to make sure that he was vigilant, for if he wasn’t, innocent and pious people would pay the price for his insolence. Being free from this burden, Alric allowed himself a moment for breathe. It was difficult within the presence of the untrustworthy Mnem'non.

He found himself looking up. The sky was such a pure blue that it made Alric’s skin tingle when his eyes became lost in its depth. What little clouds present swirled with the wind and dropped shadows onto the valley below. There was something about these shadows, these formless blotches of darkness that drifted along the fields, that Alric found so enamouring. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but it made him want to watch them forever.

All of that beauty only made the dragon even more dissonant and unnerving. It hadn’t moved for at least a day. The last thing Alric had seen it do was drop itself slightly then fling a beam of red hot fire onto something that was obscured by the horizon. After that, it rose back to its previous position and continued loitering there.

When Matvey returned, he did so holding a serving tray adorned with six small cups. He placed the tray in the middle of the loose circle formed by Alric and the Mnem’non then joined it himself.

Alric removed his bascinet and placed it beside him on the grass. “What doth thou recall of the force that attacked thee?”

The Thestor cautiously grasped the small wooden cup and brought it up to his nose. The warm liquid within had a fragrance that was vaguely familiar to Alric but he was certain he had never ingested such a strange, black beverage before.

Matvey had already taken a gulp of his own. “Nothing aside from what I have already told you. They very well could be heretics.”

Alric brought the cup up to his mouth and sipped. A vile, bitter concoction slithered down his throat, causing him to gag and instantly jerk the vessel away. Narsei seemed incredibly fixated on the drink, as did Vontross. Only Konth shared Alric’s strong disdain, evident by how his face scrunched up and he poured the foul liquid into the grass. The Thestor said, “Hath thou poured us cups of the Devil’s poison?”

“It’s a very popular beverage from Qurveen called qahwa. It kept me alert during many late nights of surgery and battle,” answered Matvey.

That would perhaps explain why Alric recognised the smell. Qurveen was the Holy Land, home of the sacred Pillar, and of course, where the many Crusades were waged. If it was as commonplace as Matvey made it sound, Alric must have caught a whiff of it all those years ago in the desert kingdom. “Of course, an infidel mixture. No wonder it is so revolting,” Alric muttered.

Alric noticed that Carthei was gazing at the dragon. She hadn’t touched her qahwa. “I do not understand how you two can jest when such a creature taints nature with its presence.”

The Thestor could contain his frustration no longer. "What wouldst thou have us do? Fly up there to confront it?" he quipped.

Konth gave Carthei a soft glance, then looked to Alric. “We are all…deeply troubled by the dragon. For us and many of the other druid tribes, they are a symbol of Athroct’u; the rotting of the world.”

Carthei inhaled so deeply that Alric was surprised she did not inflate like a bladder. She closed her eyes as she exhaled. “Yes, what Konth says is true. Ancient songs passed from druid to druid tell of Athroct’u, the eventual decay of all that is splendid in this world. It would be a consequence of us not worshipping it, not tending to it. As such, our people live as one with the forest and give back to it as we take. The old songs proclaim that the coming of the dragons is a sign. A sign that the Athroct’u is coming to pass.”

Matvey nodded slowly. "This Athroct'u… It sounds very similar to the Church's telling of the End Times."

Alric glared at Matvey. He was giving credence to their hogwash by even acknowledging it.

The Correntis continued, “What if we slay the dragon? Will the End Times be stopped?”

She shrugged and sighed, her posture slumping. “I know not.”

Matvey retrieved one of his steel plate vambraces and slid it over his arm. As he tied it to the points on his arming doublet, he added, “I would rather die trying to save God’s creation than whimpering in a corner.”

Vontross' mouth thinned and widened. It made a bizarre, lopsided shape that made Alric narrow his eyes. Seconds later, he realised that it was a smile.

Suddenly, a deep drone washed through the air. A low, rumbling tone of a chorus of brass instruments that resonated with Alric’s skeleton. Birds took flight in the distance, scrambling in fear of the odd tones. Alric and Matvey met eyes. The Thestor swallowed.

Narsei cocked her head. “What is that?”

Both of the Godsworn knights snapped to their feet as if they were men possessed. Alric scooped up his bascinet and slipped it onto his head. Matvey sntached his remaining vambrace as well as his helmet.

The two knights armed themselves frantically.

Carthei motioned her men to stand. "Could someone kindly explain to us what is happening?"

Matvey, in a murmur as he tied his vambraces onto his arms, answered, "The Weeping Call. It means a Thestor fortress is under siege."

“This is ludicrous,” said Alric to Matvey. "Who would dare take up the sword against the servants of God?"

"The defilers, perhaps," mused Carthei.

It didn’t take Matvey long to secure his last vambrace over his injured arm. He then strapped his sallet onto his head. “Come, Brother. God’s vengeance will not exact itself.” Matvey raised his bevor, a neck mounted piece of steel that could be extended to cover his lower face, then lowered the visor of his sallet.