The Witching Hour

  Alessia watched her Brothers assemble in front of Master Tormund without her. At dawn, they would face the Trial of Change while her file gathered dust: Combat Ready, Ineligible Female. She came from the dormitory wing. “Master Tormund,” she called. The hall went quiet as her Brothers turned to face her. “I want my cloak.”

  His black eyes, the undeniable mark of a Hunter, fixed on hers. “No.”

  “That’s it? After everything I’ve accomplished over eleven years?”

  “You’re the most gifted Sister I’ve ever instructed, but Sisters die during the Trial. All of them.”

  “It’ll be different this time—”

  “Brother Damian.” Master tormund cut her off. “How many women have survived the Trial in the past four hundred years?”

  “None, Master Tormund.”

  “How many Sisters do you think that is, Alessia? Should we go count them in the Book of Names? Your idol is right next to them all.” He paused. “Phantom Ophelia: Did Not Pass Trial.”

  “Then I’ll be the first.”

  “You’ll die like the rest.” He turned away from her.

  “I’m not done talking to you.”

  “But I’m done talking to you.” He reached for something in his cloak. “Get out. Now.”

  “No, I—”

  He turned, the years of frustration manifested into the hilt of a dagger. “Here. If you’re so eager to die, do it now and spare yourself the agony of the Trial.”

  “How dare you,” she whispered almost to herself as she looked at the blade. The words hung in the air for a moment. Then she lunged not for the dagger, but for him. Damian and Marcus caught her arms, holding her back as she struggled.

  “Alessia, stop, don’t—”

  “Get off me, Damian!”

  “This,” Tormund said calmly, “is exactly why women can't be Hunters. No control.”

  Alessia went still. He’d turned her outburst into evidence against her entire gender. She broke their grips and backstepped, adjusting her tunic. His cruelty was unsurprising, but her Brothers… they might as well have offered the blade themselves.

  She looked over them, Anders hung his head, Damian rubbed his temples, Marcus paced nervously and others wouldn’t even look her way. “Say something. Any of you. After everything we’ve been through as children. This should be my choice. How many times—”

  “Enough,” Master Vickers said as she casually entered from the office wing. “Tormund, explain this.”

  “Sister Alessia asked to take the Trial,” he replied.

  “And?” She pressed.

  “The request was denied,” he said.

  “He—”

  “I’m not speaking to you, Sister Alessia. I’m speaking to Master Tormund.” Vickers gave her a sharp glance before returning attention to Tormund. “Sister Alessia got this angry from a Trial rejection?”

  “We both know she’s always had a fire in—”

  “I might have a fire in me, too. If offered a knife in such a way,” Master Vickers said.

  Silence.

  Vickers made her way over to Alessia, placing a hand on her shoulder as she positioned them to the side of the assembly. “I believe you were about to address our Brothers, Master Tormund,” she said. “So please, continue.”

  “Do you want to be here?” Master Vickers whispered in her ear.

  Alessia nodded, even though she didn’t. Now wasn’t the time to take this further. The anger was still there, but something else too. Selfishness. Damian, all her Brothers, had worked hard for this and she wanted to be there with them.

  The Brothers shifted uncomfortably as he cleared his throat. “You all knew this moment was coming,” he began. “Every scar you’ve taken, every time you’ve bled in this hall. That was preparation for what the Presence will do to your mind. Once the Trial of Change begins, the elixir will reshape you from within. It will speak to you, not with words, but with its weight. It will pound on the door of your humanity, do not open that door.”

  Her chest tightened as she watched Damian close his eyes and breathe deeply. Tomorrow, she might lose him.

  “I’m privileged to call you all Brothers,” he said. “After the Trial, after that long night claims its price, I will have the honor of calling some of you Hunters.” He paused. “Twenty-two of you entered, all those years ago, nineteen remain. Take this moment to remember them.”

  Her mind drifted to the three who hadn’t made it. Xavier had hung himself in the dormitory after Master Tormund broke him one too many times. Felix’s heart gave out during the mountain runs. She’d covered for him when he fell behind, but it wasn’t enough. And Aldrick, dying in her arms after Damian’s sword found its mark during live steel practice, whispering that it wasn’t anyone's fault. The Order taught that attachments made you weak. She’d broken that rule for all three.

  The moment was solemn, beautiful, but brief. Most of her Brothers wouldn’t stand in this hall again.

  “A final word of wisdom,” Master Tormund finally said. “The Presence will try and break you… feeding off emotions. That’s what gives it power and in return what lends power to you. The more you offer it, the better you become but the more its influence takes hold. Once your mind breaks, that moment… is an Awakening. You are no longer you anymore, The Presence takes possession.” He paused, watching their faces. “Calm yourself as the elixir takes hold, it wants you to let it have control. Some will feel the effects sooner than others, but it will come for you all the same.”

  “Master Tormund, is our Brother still in there… after Awakening?” Anders asked.

  “We don’t know,” he replied.

  There was the slightest instance where Master Vickers’ eyes narrowed at Master Tormund’s answer. Alessia had caught it but was unsure if Master Tormund had.

  Murmurs floated among them. Master Vickers silenced the forming conspiracies before they could go further. “What we do know is that what remains is driven by rage, not reason.”

  It placated them, Alessia noted, but it was for the Masters’ benefit. Knowledge like that right before the Trial was dangerous, even for an institution that tried to strip away identity and emotion. But Master Vickers’ response felt too rehearsed, like standard institutional damage control.

  Master Tormund’s voice quietened slightly. “Do any of you still practice the Old Way?”

  Damian stepped forward, torchlight shining on him as he emerged from his Brothers, shoulders squared despite the tremor in his hands. Alessia blinked in surprise, through all their hushed conversations after training, all the nights they’d stayed awake talking, he’d never mentioned faith. If anything, his bitter comments about ‘divine justice’ after Aldrick’s death had suggested the opposite.

  “I do, Master,” Damian said, his voice steadier than his hands.

  Master Tormund nodded. “There’s a small shrine that Master Reynauld made, on the cliffs to the east. He’d want you to visit it and speak with your Gods before the Trial.” He turned his attention back to the others. “The rest of you, take this night to prepare yourselves, however that serves you best.”

  “Master Tormund,” Alessia said, stepping forward, “may I go with him?”

  “You follow the Old Way?” Tormund asked, his gaze sharp.

  “No.”

  His head tilted slightly, understanding dawned in his expression. Those black eyes softened. “Go with your Brother.”

  The stone hawks flanking Last Pass always inspired her. Tonight, they mocked her. She and Damian took the eastern path up the mountainside, following stones worn smooth by decades of pilgrimage.

  “You never told me you followed the Old Way,” she said.

  “I don’t.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “I prayed to the New Faith,” he said. “The ‘True God’ while I starved, begged, and slept in the rain and cold on the streets of Strongfair. When Aldrick…” He paused. “He never answered me.” He let out a slow breath. “Maybe the Old Ones will.”

  He was anxious. She could sense it. “I hope so.”

  They walked together in silence for a moment. Aldrick was a wound that never closed.

  Damian eventually broke the tension. “Hey, I’m sorry… about before. He was—”

  “No, don’t,” she interrupted, patting him on the back. “That’s on him, not you.”

  “No,” he said. “I should have said something. You would have for me.”

  “Damian, please… Don’t worry about this. Okay?”

  “No, that won’t happen again,” he said, looking her in the eyes.

  She smiled at him and nodded her head. “I know.”

  The mountain air bit at their faces as moonlight guided their steps upwards. Above them, the night sky was brilliant with stars. At the end of the path, overlooking the cliff's edge, stood a small shrine carved from weathered wood and rough stones, humble but lovingly maintained.

  “This must be it,” he said quietly.

  Alessia nodded, unsure what they were supposed to do here.

  She watched him kneeling before the shrine, memorizing the way the moon caught his profile, how his hands shook slightly as he looked to Gods he’d never believed in and couldn’t name. If tomorrow went wrong, this might be the last time she’d see him alive, or unchanged by whatever the Trial did to those who survived it.

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  “I don’t know what to say.” His voice started to shake.

  She knelt beside him, placing her hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know what to say either.”

  He turned toward her, those gentle brown eyes fighting back tears. “I feel like that scared little boy again, not knowing what tomorrow is going to bring. When Aldrick died in your arms, I prayed so hard my throat went raw. ‘Please, just let him live. Take me instead.’ But the True God stayed silent, and I watched the light leave his eyes. What if these are silent tomorrow?” He gestured to the shrine. “What if I die for nothing, like he did?”

  His words pierced her. She’d seen that boy before, as Master Reynauld took them from Strongfair to Last Pass. He would cry during camp and she’d share dried figs with him, her favorite, hoping they would console him more than she felt she could. But this was deeper than childhood fear. This was a man whose faith had been shattered by watching a Brother die by his hand.

  “Damian,” she said quietly, “Aldrick didn’t die for nothing. He died learning, growing, becoming someone better than when he started. Just like you have.” She paused. “And if the True God was silent, maybe... maybe the Old Ones are listening now. Maybe they brought you here, to this moment, for a reason.”

  He wanted to believe her, she could see it in his eyes.

  She turned to face him fully, his words replaying through her mind as that little girl inside her returned—but not just terrified. Envious. “Stop it,” she whimpered. “You're going to make me cry.”

  “I don’t want to be like this anymore,” he said. “I should have just taken his coin and been done with it.”

  “We didn’t understand what this was, Damian. We were children, orphans,” she said. “But we did understand, Master Reynauld’s gold crown eventually promised more of the same. Who’d toss the next copper tomorrow?”

  He didn’t say anything. He knew that she was telling a hard truth, one that cut both ways.

  “The sailors used to tell me stories,” he murmured. “Stories about heroes, I wanted to be like them. Helping people like I wanted to be helped. Now, here, I read the stories of Hunters.” He took a deep breath. “Like Godrick the Golden, that’s who I want to be. I want to be the hero. To help people, but I feel so… small.”

  You’re afraid of something I’d give anything to attempt. Even if it meant my life. The shame of that envy twisted in her stomach like a knife striking nerves. She was angry with him, but she pushed it down. This wasn’t about her.

  “You will be,” she said. “You’re not in the Book of Names. You’re the strongest person I know, and you’ve already survived more than most.” She paused as she looked into his eyes, hands clasping his cheeks. “Even Master Tormund has said you’re the best among us.”

  He nodded, though his eyes remained distant.

  “Plus… that silver hawk medallion you’ll get is a pretty neat bonus.”

  He gave out a surprised snort as he wiped his eyes.

  Her hands moved back to his. They were warm, calloused from years of sword work, with that small scar across his knuckles from when he’d punched the stone wall after Aldrick died. Tomorrow, these hands might be cold. “Pray with me, my friend.”

  “Let’s pray, my friend.”

  “Whoever you are… whatever you are,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know your names or your ways, but I know love. I know what it means to want someone to live.” Her voice cracked. “Bless my friend, my Brother, Damian. Not because he deserves your favor more than others, but because... because I can’t bear to lose him. Give him the strength to remember who he is when The Presence comes for his mind.”

  She looked over to him, uncertainty crossing her face. “How did I…”

  “Perfect.” He smiled. “Are you sure you’re not a priestess?”

  She couldn’t contain the laugh. “Shut up,” she said as she playfully punched his shoulder.

  He exaggerated the hit, rubbing it as if she’d wounded him gravely.

  “We should… probably get back,” she said after a moment.

  “No,” he said, as his arms locked around her and his head fell into her neck. “Not yet... please.” His breath was warm against her skin, shaky with barely controlled fear. She could feel his heartbeat against her chest, too fast, too desperate. Her hands found his back, feeling the tension in his shoulders, the tremor he was trying to hide. This might be the last time they held each other. The thought made her grip him tighter. She couldn’t deny him this moment, nor herself.

  The walk back was quieter than she expected, but she could tell he was less tense than when they’d first left Last Pass. Being allowed out of the fortress unsupervised was rare enough, but going in a pair was almost unheard of. The coming Trial clearly allowed for rules to be bent, just a little.

  Master Vickers and Master Tormund were talking quietly in the dimlit main hall when they entered, both looking up as the door opened. Two streaming banners of a silver hawk, talons outstretched, on a black field hung over them. The rest of her Brothers were already gone, probably attending to their own preparations.

  “Brother Damian,” Master Tormund said. “Did you speak with your Gods?”

  “Yes, Master,” he replied.

  “Good,” he said. “Master Vickers and I have decided it best to confine everyone to their quarters until the Trial.”

  Alessia realized Anders’ uncomfortable question about Awakening was the reason for this conclusion.

  “We want to ensure each Brother is given space to prepare himself,” Master Vickers added.

  Damian nodded. He turned to Alessia. “Thank you, Sister.”

  “Of course, Brother.”

  “Come on,” Master Tormund said. “I’ll walk with you.”

  The two of them departed down the main hall. Damian glanced back at her as they went. The moment they had shared had completely passed now. This was the last time they might see one another. He was escorted to confinement as she stood frozen, listening to his footsteps fade away further down the dormitory wing.

  “We need to talk about your future here,” Master Vickers said.

  Reality came back in cold, brutal familiarity. What future? The one that denies me the cloak, the Trial, the medallion, Damian?

  She closed her eyes. A deep breath. “How may I serve, Master?”

  “Come with me,” she said.

  They moved through the wing reserved for the Masters. Private chambers and offices that the Brothers and Sisters didn’t usually see unless there was an issue that needed to be addressed. Her throat felt dry and her mind numb. Tonight had taken everything from her, but apparently wanted more.

  “How old were you when you first arrived here?”

  “Twelve, Master.”

  “Twenty-two now, twenty-three?”

  “Twenty-three, Master.”

  “Eleven years,” she said, stopping to face her. “Eleven years of learning essentially one thing, how to kill.”

  Alessia could see the age in her face now, the crow’s feet and the subtle shifts in texture and skin tone. She must be in her sixties by now. “That’s all I know, Master.”

  “Have you visited Scribe Willem? Read through the Book of Names?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Vickers turned on her heel, her stride unhindered by age as she continued down the wing. She stopped at her office and gestured Alessia inside. “Take a seat.”

  She did as she was instructed while Vickers took her own seat behind the ebonwood desk. Her cold blue eyes, studying Alessia for a long moment before finally saying, “What happened in the main hall was unacceptable. On both sides. Master Tormund was cruel to offer you that blade. Completely wrong.” Vickers’ voice was firm. “But you attacking him? After years of knowing our policies? You knew this decision wasn’t going to change, Sister Alessia.”

  “I thought that my actions—”

  “You thought wrong. Because your reaction today…” Vickers paused, locking eyes with her. “It reminded me of a story, a Sister that didn’t take rejection well. One whose temper would override her judgement when told she couldn’t have what she wanted.”

  “Phantom Ophelia,” Alessia said.

  “Smart girl,” she said. “Brilliant fighter, just like you. Stubborn as stone, just like you. And when Grand Master Kelvin denied her the Trial…” Vickers shook her head. “If Grand Master Kelvin offered her that blade, like Master Tormund did you… she would have lunged for that dagger and plunged it back into its wielder."

  “Maybe I should have—”

  “Careful now,” she sternly said. “Best not finish that thought.” She paused. “Four hundred twenty-seven years. That’s how long The Order has existed. Can you imagine? The last woman to take the Trial was over a century ago, did you know that?”

  Alessia held her eyes as the timeline sank in. “Phantom Ophelia.”

  Scribe Willem, as a result of his Trial, was now a hundred and forty something. It registered with her. He had likely witnessed Phantom Ophelia’s Trial. She felt the weight of all that history pressing down on her.

  “Right again,” Master Vickers continued, “Since then women have taken on supportive roles in Last Pass. Scribes, for instance.”

  “Is that what I’m meant to be?” she asked. “Years of learning how to fight now resigned to pushing quills? Just because she failed, Master?”

  “You don’t see purpose in recording the accomplishments of your Brothers and Sisters, Sister?”

  She conveniently avoided the issue surrounding Sister Ophelia.

  “No. No I don’t. I want them to write about me,” Alessia said. Even though it was true she felt shame voicing it. All Brothers and Sisters deserved that right for their achievements and whoever penned the words by their name deserved equal respect, but that wasn’t her. She wanted more. Her head dropped as her shoulders slumped. She knew Master Vickers on top of it all was about to rip into her for her brutal honesty.

  Her chair creaked as she leaned forward. “I imagine, long ago, perhaps in this very room. Grand Master Kelvin heard something very similar from Sister Ophelia.”

  “She got her Trial,” Alessia replied. “And here I sit, waiting for a fate unworthy of me.”

  Master Vickers tapped her finger against the desk before asking, “What do you know about her, really? Beyond the stories?”

  Alessia straightened herself and took in a deep breath. “That she was able to keep pace with Hunters, briefly. That she was the last woman to attempt the Trial. That she failed and died. There’s additional notes in the Book on her skills within Last Pass.” Alessia frowned. “But if she just failed like all the rest, why do we still talk about her? Why ‘Phantom’ Ophelia?”

  Master Vickers stood and turned to the shelf behind her, running her fingers over an elongated rosewood case, a silver hawk fitted into the wood. “The only Sister in The Order’s history to be bestowed an epithet.” Her palm rested on the case. “Sister Ophelia left Last Pass.”

  Sister Ophelia had broken the Second Prime Tenent. “She left?” she asked, disbelief taking full hold of her. The Sister she strived to be, admired, was a traitor. Leaving, abandoning your Brothers and Sisters was right under murder. “She was Marked?”

  Master Vickers turned to face her. “She was Marked. Word was sent to all the Hunters out in the field to bring her corpse back to Last Pass. The Order couldn’t allow the slight, might get others thinking.”

  “So they killed her?” The thought of that hurt more than the treason that was revealed.

  “Not quite.” She paused. “She ventured to Twilight Veil, the underground Dark Elf city. Then from there, deeper into the Whisperways. Not only did she evade her Brothers, she lived and fought alongside the Dark Elves for years. Of course, The Order didn’t know this at the time.”

  She was dumbfounded. Pieces began to fall into place from her time with Scribe Willem. “The Final Hunt… she was taking the Final Hunt. Where Hunters go once they realize the Presence is about to overcome them. But why?”

  “Clever girl.” A flicker of admiration crossed her features. “She came back to Last Pass. Carrying dozens of hawk medallions she had gathered off fallen Hunters during their Final Hunt, deep within the Whisperways. She tossed them at Grand Master Kelvin’s feet, in the Presence of what Hunters happened to be at Last Pass, some of them her Brothers she’d trained with. Some of which had been actively tracking her.”

  “She forced him into a corner.” Pride swelled in her heart, this was a hero that stood beside Godrick the Golden in status. “I would have loved to see the look on his face.”

  “She did,” Vickers ignored the comment. “Duty demanded the Marked Sister be executed, but honor commanded otherwise. Hunters and Brothers stood beside her in the main hall. ‘Phantom’ they chanted, ‘Phantom Ophelia’, the thing they could never find, the thing they couldn’t bear steel against nor would."

  “What did Grand Master Kelvin do?”

  “He couldn’t swing the blade himself, the other Hunters made sure of that. He couldn’t order them to swing it either, so he offered her the Trial, the very thing she wanted to begin with. The Hunters couldn’t argue with what she wanted, after all she’d proven to get it. Of course, he knew what the outcome would be. So he’d win regardless.” Vickers paused, a wry smile crossing her lips. “Now she’s in the Book.”

  This wasn’t treason at all. Sister Ophelia outsmarted them, forcing them to acknowledge her worth. They’d killed her for it anyway, just more honorably. How noble of him.

  Master Vickers leaned across the desk, locking her eyes with Alessia’s. “You’ve made your position clear, you’re not a Scribe. So perhaps something more in tune with an administrative role, like mine? Or maybe... something no Sister has achieved, combat instruction for the next wave of children.” She leaned even closer, nearly eye-to-eye. “Come to terms with this. Tonight. You will not take the Trial, Sister Alessia.”

  The finality of her words, meant to break, tame, and reshape, only strengthened her resolve. She wouldn’t be tempted through the promise of stations or advancement, and damn sure wouldn’t have the blood of children on her hands. Sister Ophelia had the right idea, but her execution was flawed. Even if she would have survived the Trial, the Mark remained. The Order would have found another way to eliminate the problem. Twilight Veil, the Whisperways, weren’t the answer. She needed to find the path her Sister should have taken.