I Loaded the Occult Panel

Jingle, jangle. It wasn’t just bells; there was the clatter of hooves.

At the sound of those hooves, Gerard’s expression instantly turned dead serious.

Frost formed once again on the left stone gatepost, right where the tooth-marked invitation had appeared.

”Nobody move.”

The old Hunter snatched up his Crescent Silver Blade and strode toward the foyer, treating the situation like a deadly siege.

”They’re coming. It must be because they didn’t get their harvest back in March.”

Margaret’s face went pale with fright.

Richard was the least nervous person in the room—in fact, he looked somewhat expectant.

It seemed the old guild master was a man of his word and had successfully helped him collect the debt.

But as he listened, he realized something was off. Beneath the bells, there was another sound.

It sounded like a small creature limping through the snow, accompanied by faint whimpers. ’No way...’ he thought.

Outside, someone began to sing.

The voice wasn’t pleasant, carrying a heavy Welsh accent.

Isabella peeked out through the small window by the door, her expression turning incredibly strange.

Out on the steps, a horse skull sat mounted on a wooden pole. The skull was wrapped in ribbons, with old, green-tarnished bronze bells hanging from it.

The horse’s jaw snapped open and shut with a clacking sound. Behind it trailed a procession of people and a small black dog.

Isabella lowered her voice.

”That should be the Mari Lwyd—the Welsh Grey Mare. During the holidays, they carry a horse skull around and sing at people’s doors.”

Folklore wasn’t exactly her strong suit. If Croft were here, he could probably explain it much better.

”The people inside have to sing back. If we match their verses, they’ll leave.

”If we fail, we have to open the door, invite them in, feed them, give them drinks, and send them off before dawn.”

Isabella stepped around her niece and Grey, dropping her voice to a whisper. ”...None of the ones outside are breathing.”

Grey leaned close to the window for a look and said, ”So it’s the Welsh singing at the door.”

”We have a Welsh sailor on our family’s ships who sings this every Christmas. After he’s done, he treats the whole crew to a drink.”

In her eyes, they were just a bunch of shabbily dressed country folk. There was even a barefoot old man stomping his feet from the cold, looking rather pitiful.

Evelyn squeezed to the front, peering through the crack in the door before turning back to shout at her brother.

”Richard! You wrote it yourself! If they knock at midnight, don’t answer for three knocks! You can’t open it!”

Richard rolled his eyes. ”The Grey Mare came singing. Singing at the door has its own rules.”

Outside, the horse skull was already belting out a tune.

It sang in the Albion Language, using an old Welsh melody where all eight lines fell on the exact same rhyme:

”Snow fills the street, hooves beat the white, a distant guest knocks in the night;

We seek not gold nor silver bright, but just a fine verse to recite.

If someone within has the insight, match us a line to prove your might; if no one inside answers right, open the door to warm our plight.”

This kind of singing was a call and response. The outside sang a verse, and the inside replied with one.

It had to be made up on the spot and rhyme perfectly. Failing to match meant mocking banter back and forth.

Evelyn pushed her brother to the door. ”You’re the Bean King! The Bean King has to answer!”

Richard positioned himself behind the door, clutching the bean in his palm.

His [Learning] combined with [Speculation] made his mind spin incredibly fast, allowing him to quickly figure out how to catch their rhyme.

Richard cleared his throat.

”Those in the house face a long night, we save our lamp’s dimming light;

For three loud knocks I sit tight, I urge your horse back out of sight.”

A roar of laughter erupted from outside. The red coat laughed the loudest, while the man carrying an axe laughed so hard he hammered its handle against the steps.

Once the laughter died down, the procession outside cleared their throats in unison and began to sing again:

”No answer to one, no answer to two, at three it leaves to find someone new; ignore the wet, ignore the cold, salt the threshold, leave the lamp bold...”

Evelyn was thrilled. ”...That’s the song my brother wrote! The Welsh love singing it too!”

”We’re not Welsh!” the red coat outside corrected.

The horse skull picked up the song:

”We sing the rules you wrote alright, the three ignored knocks we kept in sight;

But the Grey Mare is the guest tonight, our rules outlive yours by a mite.”

”Through twelfth night snow we end our flight, remembering those who owe us right;

We haven’t come to collect tonight, just for a bowl of soup by the firelight.”

’Remembering those who owe us right...’ Richard waited behind the door for a moment.

”The hearth is hot, the sugar’s white, pies are plenty, the ale is bright;

We send you off before the dawn’s light... the latch is drawn, come take a bite.”

With permission granted, the limping little dog was the first to dart through the door. Ignoring everyone, it ran straight to Richard’s feet and lay down.

Gerard’s initially softened expression drastically changed once more. ”...A black dog.”

Isabella stepped in front of her nephew in a flash, reaching into her handbag for her Inspection Mirror.

Margaret also reached out, pulling Evelyn behind her.

The little black dog, however, merely rested on Richard’s shoes. It glanced up at the circle of people and let out a yawn.

The Crescent Silver Blade in Gerard’s hand was already leveled.

The Old Scholar squeezed out from behind the horse skull, tucking a ledger under his arm.

”Lord, please put the blade down,” he said.

”Who are you?”

”The bookkeeper.” The Old Scholar lifted his chin toward the dog.

”It’s the smallest one in the pack. Born with a limp in its left front leg, it still hasn’t learned how to chase rabbits to this day...”

Margaret ladled out the soup and carried it to the long table in the dining room.

The guests stood around the table, staring down at the steaming bowls. Wisps of steam drifted toward their faces, vanishing just before touching them.

Evelyn watched from the doorway for a long time before quietly asking Grey, ”Why are they just smelling it instead of drinking?”

Grey whispered back, ”It’s probably some custom. Country folks have a lot of traditions.”

Richard sat in a corner of the living room, his eyes falling on the figure by the door.

Grey walked over with a pie. ”Have a piece,” she offered.

The person looked up, revealing half of a very young face beneath the brim of his hat. His skin was pale and bluish, but it didn’t look like it was from the cold.

Richard’s hands tightened on his wheelchair’s armrests.

Coleman took the pie and brought it to his nose, taking a deep sniff.

”...Smells great.”

Holding the pie, he looked up and saw the walls lined with books, as well as the stack of manuscript papers still sitting out on Richard’s desk.

Coleman sniffed the air again. ”Someone in this house writes. The smell of ink has seeped right into the walls.”

On the other side of the room, the Old Scholar opened the ledger and found a specific line to show Gerard. Wearing his Paper Crown, Gerard looked down. The line bore his own name.

Further along the line, someone had added a note in a different ink: ”Cleared.”

”You snatched your fiancée back all those years ago, and your grandson erased your name last year.”

Gerard’s Adam’s apple bobbed. ”Her... is she still in the ledger?”

The old man turned to the next page. There was only a single, very short line.

”Rosemary Ashford. Not registered.”

The hearth fire crackled as a lump of coal collapsed.

As the time neared, the red coat glanced at the wall clock, adjusted his collar, and gave a slight cough.

The guests gathered back in the foyer from every corner of the house.

The farewell song was the same old tune. The horse skull sang a line, and the people behind it echoed the next.

The barefoot old man bawled out the lyrics, dragging the entire chorus entirely off-key.

In Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, Feste the clown once sang: ”Present mirth hath present laughter; what’s to come is still unsure.” Sitting in his wheelchair and listening, Richard figured this group probably understood that truth as well.

Would there come a day when he found himself at odds with the Wild Hunt?

The Old Scholar stepped out of the procession and reached for the little black dog.

”Time to go.”

The dog didn’t budge until Richard leaned down.

It opened its mouth and dropped the Antler Tip Token into Richard’s hand, only then trotting away.

After the door closed, Evelyn clung to the window, peering outside.

A line of footprints trailed across the snow, rapidly crusting over with frost, followed by a set of crooked little dog tracks.

The Old Scholar was the last to leave. As he passed beneath the window, he looked up and mouthed something in Richard’s direction.

Richard easily read the words on his lips: ”Tonight, don’t sleep too deeply.”

After midnight, Evelyn was hauled back to her room by her mother, and Grey went to sleep in the third-floor guest room.

Gerard sat in Richard’s room as usual, but it wasn’t long before his head started bobbing as he dozed off.

Isabella came in and draped a blanket over her father. ”I’ll be right next door. Knock on the wall if you need anything.”

”Alright.”

His aunt left, deliberately leaving the door cracked open.

Richard lay in bed, gripping the Antler Tip in his palm.

Just past two o’clock, the antler began to tremble.

Frost formed on the windowpane, the icy blooms gradually linking into a trail of hoofprints.

Richard propped himself up on his arms, shifted into his wheelchair, and rolled over to the window.

Gerard’s snoring paused for a second before resuming.

Reflected in the windowpane was a moonlit wasteland.

The rider on the horse wore frost-covered antlers on his head, watching him right through the glass.

Richard stayed silent, waiting for the other party to speak first so they could negotiate.

After a while, the lord of the hunt finally lost his patience.

”On the register, the Honored Envoy is indeed shattered.”

He spoke in a tone of thin self-deception, ”Tonight, I was merely looking for the household that left half a bundle of hay for me under their gatepost.”

The Old Scholar emerged from the shadows behind the lord of the hunt, clutching the register.

He turned to the final few pages, where a column was designated for ”Guests”.

”From tonight onward, you are the only person on this register.”

A patch of frost cascaded from the antlers, and the lord of the hunt sounded quite reluctant.

”Let’s get down to business. That old bookkeeper scribbled a collection notice in my Hunting Register.”

”Interest compounded daily, starting from the night of the winter solstice.”

The lord of the hunt waved his hand. The wasteland within the glass parted, revealing a cabinet.

Under his control, the available spoils of war fell directly onto the windowsill.

They included a mirror shard, a tooth, a piece of linen that looked like a shroud, and a coffin board.

”These are the more valuable spoils from the solstice night. As agreed, pick two.”

Originally, Richard was most curious about the coffin board, but the moment his gaze shifted to it, his [Inspiration] burned with a searing pain.

He hastily looked away, forming a few guesses in his mind.

It was likely a remnant of that chaos-corrupted Virtuoso. Given his current fragile state, taking that thing would be nothing short of a death wish.

Richard reached out and picked up the tooth, bringing it close to his eyes. He turned it over, carefully studying the cuneiform script etched into it.

[Available Points: 1.75... 1.83... 1.89...]

He then picked up the strip of linen, unrolling it to look at the sacrificial inscriptions.

[Available Points: 1.89... 1.96... 2.04...]

”Why are you examining them so closely?” the lord of the hunt asked from the other side of the glass.

”My apologies, an occupational hazard as a Scholar. This priestly script is quite sloppy; it requires a careful look.”

Richard casually bluffed.

It wasn’t exactly a lie. He really was studying the inscriptions intently—siphoning a bit of Ether from them was just a convenient side benefit.

He set the linen back down and went for the mirror shard. The moment his fingers brushed the edge of the glass, the lord of the hunt leaned forward, antlers pressing in.

”Every time you touch it, it loses a layer of skin,” he warned.

Richard’s hand froze in midair. ”I’m just looking.”

Without changing his expression, he picked up the mirror shard and turned it over and over.

[Available Points: 2.04... 2.11... 2.15...]

”Enough!” the lord of the hunt snapped, slapping his saddle.

”Hurry up and pick. I don’t have time to waste with you here!”

Richard had no choice but to set the mirror down. He glanced at the other compartments in the cabinet that hadn’t been emptied yet.

”I’ll take the mirror first.”

The lord of the hunt wasn’t surprised. ”Figured you’d choose that.”

”And the second item?”

Richard answered with a question. ”Is there anything else in the cabinet?”

The lord of the hunt fell silent for a moment.

The Old Scholar had already turned to the cabinet and pulled out a wooden box. He opened it to reveal seven tongues lying side by side.

”Do you want any of these tongues? They’re tainted with abyssal energy—even a dog would shake its head in disgust at them.”

Richard leaned closer to inspect the seven tongues. They varied in color; some were blackened, some gray, and one was slender with a faint golden sheen.

He picked up the slender one. The tongue felt icy against his palm and was still twitching, as if someone had left a sentence half-spoken.

In his mind, [General Knowledge] flipped open its pages.

There was a very shallow carving at the base of the tongue—Greek letters overlapping with the demotic script of the Black Soil River.

Both languages spelled the same word: ”Scribe.”

It seemed the owner of this tongue lived during the Ptolemaic dynasty.

That was the final era of pharaohs ruling the Black Soil River, yet those sitting on the throne were descendants of Macedonians.

”I want this one.”

The lord of the hunt stared at the tongue for a long time. ”What do you want a tongue for?”

”To collect.”

”Collect tongues?”

Richard chuckled. ”My grandmother used to collect thimbles. Everyone has their own hobbies.”

”Besides, don’t you collect everything as well, lord of the hunt?”

The lord of the hunt went quiet. Another patch of frost fell from his antlers.

The Old Scholar closed the wooden box and offered another reminder.

”Lord of the hunt, there is still one more charge.”

The lord of the hunt’s mount stepped half a pace back. ”What do you mean?”

The Old Scholar opened the Hunting Register and pointed to a line of red text in the header. ”The Summit of Myriad Ledgers requires you to pay daily interest. It has been fifteen days from the winter solstice to today.”

”I just gave him two items!”

The Old Scholar’s face remained impassive. ”Those two items were the principal. The interest is calculated separately.”

The lord of the hunt said nothing, standing silently before the cabinet for a long time while another layer of frost formed on the windowsill.

He then reached into the cabinet and rummaged around for a while before pulling out a clay tablet.

The clay tablet was the size of a palm, densely inscribed with cuneiform script.

He handed the tablet through the window.

”This piece... was spat out by that mouth. Of all the clay tablets in the entire city it regurgitated, this one is the most intact.”

The clay tablet landed on the windowsill as the lord of the hunt reluctantly withdrew his hand.

”This should be enough to keep that guy from writing in my Hunting Register again.”

Richard scooped up the clay tablet, examining it by the moonlight.

He couldn’t read most of the writing on the tablet, but he recognized a few of the symbols.

It was a writing system the Hittites had borrowed from Mesopotamia, where one character represented a single word, without using phonetics.

One symbol meant ”bread,” followed by a string of phonetic letters.

[Learning] slowly spelled it out for him: ”w-a-a-t-a-r”—water.

This tablet was likely an offering list, intended for both gods and men: a certain number of loaves of bread, jars of ale, and jugs of water.

Richard took the clay tablet. ”I accept this.”

The lord of the hunt sat up straight on his horse. ”There’s also the messenger. I promised you one.”

The Old Scholar retrieved a clump of shadow from a saddlebag.

”Torn off from that old priest of the Black Soil River.”

He then brought out a fragment of lip tissue.

”The edge of that giant mouth’s lips. We tore this off as well.”

From atop his horse, the lord of the hunt said, ”I need to process them first.”

Flames had constantly burned in the eyes of his mount. Previously, Richard had just assumed it was decorative flair for the Wild Hunt.

Now, as those twin infernos drew closer, they cast a deep crimson glow over the frost on the windowsill.

The Old Scholar fed the shadow and the lip fragment into the fire.

The flames surged upward, illuminating the entire wasteland.

Richard watched as the shadow struggled, trying to flee toward the Black Soil River, while the lip fragment desperately yearned to drop into that empty mouth in the Deep Realm.

But with one lick of the flames, those invisible tethers were burned clean away.

When it was all over, the lord of the hunt held a pitch-black waterbird with a slender neck. Its beak curved downward in an arc, looking exactly like a quill soaked in ink.

The Old Scholar leaned in for a look. ”A sacred ibis. Over at the Black Soil River, it is viewed as the bird of Thoth.”

The lord of the hunt looked displeased. He had originally meant to mold a raven—Odin’s bird, sharing the same roots as the Wild Hunt.

Now that he had created a bird from the Black Soil River, it struck him as an eyesore.

”Forget it. A bird is a bird, as long as it delivers letters.”

The Shadow Ibis flew out from the glass and landed on the windowsill, craning its neck to inspect the room.

Its gaze swept over the bookshelves before locking onto the Sacred Ibis Bronze Paperweight on the nightstand.

That was a spoil of war from the night at the Black Trench. Tracing its origins, it too belonged to the Black Soil River Virtuoso. What a curious twist of fate.

The Shadow Ibis hopped down from the sill onto the nightstand, standing right next to the bronze paperweight.

The two ibises—one bronze, one shadow—stood side by side, their necks bent in the exact same curve.

Richard sat in his wheelchair. ”What can it do?”

”It can go anywhere there’s a shadow,” the lord of the hunt explained.

”Any letter given to it will be swallowed into that lip fragment. No one can intercept it. Even if they pried its beak open, all they’d find inside is an empty darkness.”

”And what else?”

”It bears my brand,” the lord of the hunt said.

”It can travel any path the Wild Hunt takes. The things hiding behind the veil won’t dare lay a finger on it.”

Having said his piece, the lord of the hunt leaned forward once more.

”I’ll state the rules one more time.”

His voice grew somber.

”For one solar year, the Honored Envoy must remain shattered.

”You cannot seek out anyone who was known to be close to the Honored Envoy.”

He locked eyes with Richard. ”You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

”I understand.” Richard simply nodded.

The lord of the hunt stared at him for a moment.

”I will publicly announce that I personally tore out that Black Soil River guy’s true name.

”All the previous news—the Honored Envoy, the claims of looking for someone on my behalf—were just bait.”

His single arrow piercing two Virtuosos had caused a massive stir, and many people had learned of it through their own channels.

Although Richard was unconscious at the time, he had seen a recreation of the scene through Matthew.

Now that the lord of the hunt was claiming the entire affair had been his own scheme from start to finish, his reputation in Virtuoso circles would undoubtedly soar even higher.

The ”Honored Envoy” would henceforth be written off as nothing more than a piece of bait, ensuring no one would risk investigating any further.

Richard was slightly surprised. The lord of the hunt was taking all the attention entirely onto himself.

”Then... thank you.”

”For what?” the lord of the hunt said coldly. ”I’m doing this for myself.”

He snapped the reins, and his mount trotted off into the depths of the wasteland.

The Old Scholar lagged behind. Clutching the register, he looked back at Richard.

”That ibis. It eats ink.”

The frost on the windowpane slowly thawed, dripping down in streams of water.

......

Going back in time to the night following the winter solstice. In the house at 17 Flower Moon Street, Madam Marie held a cup of tea and lightly tapped the air.

”Return all messengers from the outside.”

In the Petrie Building, the old professor also pulled a card from his drawer. Written on it was a name: Richard Williams.

He picked up a pen and drew a thin line through the name.

”Wait until the storm passes.”

He placed the card back inside and pushed the drawer shut.

Meanwhile in Prague, freezing rain poured throughout the night of the winter solstice, and Lillian didn’t sleep a wink.

She sat by the attic window, spreading stationery out on her desk, only to write, tear it up, and write again.

By her seventh draft, the sky was already brightening, and the spires of the castle across the river were slowly surfacing from the fog.

In the end, she only wrote a few lines:

”Are you still there?

That day, you told me that if I ever forgot my own name, I should strike a match. I’ve bought three boxes.

I want to ask you something. Let’s meet. You choose the place.”

She folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, and wrote on the front: Richard Williams.

The address field was left blank. A Spirit Realm Messenger never needed an address.

She rolled the letter up and tied it to a tit’s leg.

”Go find him. You saw him last time.”

The little bird fluttered its wings twice before flying out through the crack in the window.

It circled once in the pale gray sky, heading northwest, soaring over the river, the castle, and all the half-snow-covered rooftops, shrinking smaller and smaller until it vanished completely.

Lillian sat by the window all day.

She skipped dinner. Ms. Holloway called up to her twice from downstairs; she answered but never went down.

She waited until the sky darkened completely the following evening, when a tit finally squeezed through the window crack.

Its wings were coated in frost, its feathers a ruffled mess, and the rolled-up letter was still tied to its leg.

Lillian untied the letter. The envelope was entirely intact, the wax seal untouched.

The bird hopped along the desk over to her hand and nudged her fingers with its head.

Lillian had considered sending a physical letter.

But ever since the war began, the postal routes between Albion and Austria-Hungary had been cut off.

To mail anything to the other side, it had to first go through the neutral port of Amsterdam, then endure censorship from both sides.

A letter mailed from Prague to the Ashford Residence on Chelsea Road would be picked apart and scrutinized by the Imperial Postal Censorship Office.

The Ashfords were a Hunter family. Gerard held a military rank, and Richard’s files listed him as a ”Wartime Auxiliary Investigating Scholar.”

In an era where everyone was hunting for spies, a single letter from an enemy nation would be more than enough to subject their entire household to a criminal investigation.

Furthermore, she was traveling on a fake Danish passport, which couldn’t withstand any rigorous checks.

Besides, Ms. Holloway would intercept her mail too.

Last month, she had received a letter from the sanatorium, and the envelope’s glue had clearly been steamed open and resealed.

The fourth day after the winter solstice was Christmas. The churches in Prague rang their bells all day long.

Lillian went out alone, walking across the Old Town Square and past the little window of the Astronomical Clock.

Inside, the wooden figures of the twelve apostles rotated out and then back in, one by one, while a skeleton off to the side shook its little bell.

She headed toward Josefov, only stopping when she reached the door of the synagogue.

The synagogue had a high roof, with a small door opening into its attic.

Every Praguian knew the story: Over three hundred years ago, a rabbi molded a giant out of mud from the Vltava River and wrote a Hebrew word on its forehead—”emet”, truth.

The giant was brought to life, standing guard, fetching water, and chopping wood for the rabbi.

Later, when the giant became disobedient, the rabbi wiped the first letter from its forehead. ”Emet” became ”met”—death.

The giant collapsed, turning back into a pile of mud.

Truth and death were separated by a single letter—just like the young girl’s state of mind right now.

Lillian fished the matchbox out of her coat pocket, drew one match, and pinched it between her fingers.

”If he is still alive, let the flame lean west.”

She struck it. The wind in Prague was biting cold that day, but the tiny flame stood perfectly straight, completely motionless.

The girl simply stared at the flame until it burned down to her fingers.

The flame slowly shrank and went out.

She stood at the synagogue doors, pinching that charred matchstick for a long, long time.

The true name could only prove matters concerning the speaker themselves.

Someone else’s life or death was never within its purview.

Richard hadn’t had the chance to teach her this yet.

Lillian, however, believed she already had her answer. Slipping the burnt matchstick back into her pocket, she turned around and headed back.

On Yule night, the Wild Hunt gathered in the skies over Friesland.

Lillian kept the slip of paper that read, ”The bearer acts on behalf of the lord of the hunt,” tucked safely in her pocket.

When the procession paused at midnight to rest, she steered her horse toward the middle of the ranks, pulling up in front of the Old Scholar’s steed.

”Old gentleman, I wish to ask something.”

”Ask away.”

”The Honored Envoy...” She paused. ”What exactly happened to him?”

The Old Scholar gave an ambiguous answer. ”I can only tell you that the Honored Envoy is indeed shattered.”

The moment those words left his mouth, Lillian’s heart plummeted.

After saying that, the Old Scholar kept his mouth shut, ignoring anything else she asked.

Helpless, she could only steer her horse back to the rear of the procession, where she noticed the limping black dog constantly gazing south.

Lillian looked down at it. ”Are you waiting too?”

The little dog ignored her, eyes still fixed on the south.

The next day, Ms. Holloway performed a divination for her in the attic.

Her mentor simply brought a bowl of water and dripped ink onto the surface.

The ink slowly spread out into a blob, and the fissure running down its center sank all the way to the bottom of the bowl.

”That person’s shadow has indeed shattered in the well.”

Ms. Holloway delivered her verdict before tossing the water out into the snow.

She was more than happy to let her student believe it. Once a person lost their final hope, they would never look back when continuing forward.

That evening, Lillian sat by the attic window.

She looked out at the frozen Vltava River. The moonlight cast a quiet, ethereal bluish-white glow across the ice.

The young girl remembered the night by the lake, and the taste of oranges on his lips.

Lillian picked up a sewing kit from her desk.

She selected the thickest needle and held it up to the moonlight, staring at it for a very long time.

”That mouth... I will sew it shut myself.”

As soon as she said those words, frost instantly crawled across the window, blooming into crystalline flowers.

Inside the ice flowers were the shapes of blizzards, the forms of a murder of crows, and a mouth missing its tongue, its lips sewn tightly shut with dense, meticulous stitches.

Every Yule night after that, Skadi set out on time.

December twenty-sixth, twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth...

On the first night of the New Year, as the Wild Hunt swept over the North Sea, Jutland, and the Scandinavian fjords, she was always at the back of the procession, riding that dark-coated mare.

With every dying breath of resentment that a prey expelled, she grew a fraction colder.

Above Gotland Island, the procession crashed into a nest of evil creatures that had crawled up from a sunken shipwreck at the bottom of the sea.

The newcomers Loki had recruited cowered in the back, while a few veteran riders charged ahead, hacking away for ages.

Lillian rode forward and simply opened her mouth, exhaling a single breath.

A blizzard swept through the nest of evil creatures, freezing them into strings of icicles that plummeted into the ocean.

A Lobsterback watched from the sidelines, his mouth hanging wide open.

”That little girl...” He turned to the man carrying charcoal. ”Was she always this fierce?”

The charcoal-carrying man sighed in agreement. ”Not before. It’s only been the last few nights. Reckon she suffered some sort of trauma.”

The lord of the hunt, riding at the very front, cast a glance backward.

That Skadi sat upon her horse, the bare slivers of her skin as white as snow. Billowing waves of frigid air rolled off her body in bursts, keeping the surrounding horses at a healthy distance.

The lord of the hunt nodded in satisfaction.

”This one is good. Cheaper than the Honored Envoy too.”

It was the honest truth. The Honored Envoy was incredibly useful, but ever since that kid earned the administrator’s favor, his appearance fees had grown steeper and steeper... especially for this final dance, completely fleecing him of so many spoils and Luck.

Freyja rode up alongside Lillian. ”What’s gotten into you lately?”

Lillian didn’t answer.

Freyja didn’t press the matter. When someone became this ruthless, they had either found something or lost something.

Looking at that icy face, she figured the latter was far more likely.

Hela rode on the other side, her living half-face watching Lillian with a trace of concern.

Loki hung back, scowling as he watched the three women gather together.

......

On the morning of January seventh, the sun emerged over the Imperial Capital, melting the last remnants of the previous night’s frost into streaks of water.

When Richard woke up, Gerard was no longer by the window.

The woolen blanket was draped over the chair, and the Paper Crown sat squarely on the seat.

Margaret took the morning train back to Briston.

She had originally planned to leave the following week, but seeing her son already able to wheel himself around the room—coupled with worrying about her husband living alone, enduring cold bread and site blueprints day in and day out—she moved her ticket up.

Before leaving, she stood on the platform and gave instructions to her father, her sister, and her daughter, one by one.

When it came to her son, she left only a note:

”You are not allowed to write for more than four hours a day. Isabella will supervise you.”

Evelyn’s voice rang out from the stairwell.

”Richard! Are you awake? I’ll bring your breakfast up!”

Two seconds later, she added, ”No sneaking bites of coal!”

Richard leaned halfway over, preparing to first deal with the three spoils of war he had hidden beneath his bed the night before.