The Knight and the Baroness

Author's Note: This is the sixth entry in my series, which started with The Squire and the Baroness and this story picks up after The Knight and the Twins. This entry is more dependent on reading the first entry and is less of a standalone than prior entries.

**

Guided only by the moonlight gleaming through the arrow-slits in the walls, Ademar made his way slowly down the corridor. His heart raced and a thin bead of sweat trickled down his brow. When he arrived at the door, he muttered a soft prayer to the saints, beseeching them to steady his heart for what was to come.

Doubt froze the young knight to the spot. His hand rested upon the door and he pondered fleeing back into the night. After several slow, deep breaths, Ademar finally pushed open the door.

Slumbering within the grand bed was Baroness Selinora: the first woman he'd made love to, who had knighted Ademar and granted him the legendary sword which had helped him forge his own legends. Moonbeams sparkled against the silver streaks in her night-dark hair. Soft blankets obscured her body from the neck down, but he could still sense the hints of her wondrous curves beneath the fabric.

Gods, how he ached to charge across the room and sweep her into his arms. With a frown, he looked back over his shoulder. The guard on duty had let him in without objection; the relationship was an open secret and he'd written ahead to announce he was coming. Yet his horses had moved more swiftly than he'd expected and the ferry had been prompt for once, which meant he'd arrived a day ahead of schedule. Thus he'd hoped his arrival would be a welcome surprise.

Yet Selinora was so soft and peaceful within her bed that it seemed a sin to disturb her.

It had been nearly a year since he'd last seen his beloved baroness. In the time they'd been apart, he'd embarked on numerous journeys and adventures across the Empire. He'd triumphed in several smaller tourneys, helped win a war, hunted bandits, foiled a bloodthirsty faction of a fertility cult, and faced a grueling challenge against savage warriors. In the process, he'd found warmth and joy in the arms of other women, using the lessons Selinora had taught him while learning even more in the process.

He stood in the threshold as a changed man, with new scars and new nightmares... but still with the same painful ache for Selinora.

Ademar slipped past the doorway, unable to bear it any longer. Moving with what he hoped was the silent grace of a fox, he closed the door and crossed the room. His fingers drifted over the silken bedding and he imagined caressing Selinora's soft, pale thighs instead. Her back was to him so he could not see the softness of her face, though the sight was impossible to forget. Though twice his age, she had a serene, wondrous beauty which had seared itself upon his soul. Memories of her face, laughter, and wit had kept him warm on many a lonely night when out on the road.

Such memories warmed him even then, a mere foot away from her. With one simple touch he could awake her and take what he needed...

With a soft sigh he stepped back. As he did so, his scabbard thumped into the bedpost. Selinora shifted at the sound and rolled over. The silver-streaked dark curls cascaded over her face, cruelly denying him the sight of her features. He took a step back, alarmed at the prospect of startling her. By the saints, he should have just waited until morning.

His quick, furtive step back proved to be too loud. Selinora murmured sleepily, squirmed against the pillows, then brushed the hair from her gaze. A shiver tore through him as the moonlight sparkled in her dark blue eyes.

Her soft squeak of alarm filled the room.

"My lady!" he blurted by way of apology.

Gods, what a fool he was.

"No," Selinora murmured. "Another day. Another day from now. This is but a dream."

"I am sorry, my lady," he continued in a frantic whisper. "I should have waited. I-"

"A dream," Selinora repeated as she brushed the hair from her face. "You are a dream."

"Not a dream, my lady. A fool."

Selinora rose up, the blanket sliding down her body and revealing a thin, dark chemise. Too embarrassed to leer, Ademar winced and fell to one knee in supplication, as if he were one of her subjects. He even bowed his head low and muttered another apology, which would have been far from sufficient.

"I shall go, my lady. In the morning we-"

His words died as her fingers graced his cheek, which bore the scars he'd suffered in her service. The blade of his mentor Sir Galen had nearly taken his life, when Ademar's quick thinking had saved Harradai from a night attack by the greedy Baron Landric. Those scars had led him down a path which had won him Selinora's heart.

She caressed the old wounds as if her gentle touch could have erased them. Her fingers fell to his chin and she tilted his gaze upwards.

"A dream," she said again. "You are a dream."

He managed a soft, tentative smile.

"And you are as well, my lady."

Selinora's fingers trailed up to his lips.

"Then let us dream together, my knight."

They both rose, hands working against the buckles and straps of his clothing. His belt, sword and tunic clattered to the floor, quickly followed by his boots and trousers. Simmering needs burned bright as moonlight caressed his naked body. A tug of her hand guided him into her bed.

"It was rude of you to sneak in like this," Selinora murmured, the soft words nearly drowned out by the rustling of the wind against the shutters. "You must make recompense."

Ademar grinned, for he would have made 'recompense' quite gladly even had she not commanded it. A gentle shove sent her sprawling onto the fine sheets. Her soft thighs parted and she lifted her chemise upwards...

She had such beautiful hips, which had worked so lovingly, writhed beneath him or rocked above him during his brief stay at Harradai. The movements of those hips had haunted his dreams for months, and he almost wept with joy at the prospect of feeling their work once more.

For now, however, he would tend to the needs of the baroness he'd so rudely awoken.

During his travels, Ademar had sipped on enchanted mead, expensive wine, and the finest of northern ales. He'd even tasted between the legs of other women. But none of those flavors were as wondrous as the taste of his baroness.

He savored her at first with delicate licks but Selinora's urgent little moans forced him to dispense with the teasing. Recalling her lessons, he spelled out her name with his tongue, writing out his love and lust upon her. Though usually soft and gentle, she clutched fiercely at his short hair. Insistent tugs guided him onwards and he grunted with delight as her soft thighs draped over his powerful shoulders.

"By the saints," she said between giddy moans. "You..."

The compliment died in her throat, replaced by a soft yelp as his tongue more firmly against her. Selinora's soft, gentle cries filled the air around him and he almost shoved her thighs away so he could better hear those beautiful sounds. He decided instead to relish in the soft grip of her thighs against the side of his head.

The cries turned even more urgent as he slipped two fingers inside to gently probe within the very first woman he'd ever made love to. Her silver-streaked curls flung through the air as she rocked. The fancy bed creaked beneath the wild movements of her hips and his eyes fluttered at the deep, intense smell of her arousal.

The increasing pace of his tongue and fingers soon defeated the baroness. Beautiful tension rippled through her pale curves and she let out a very undignified grunt as she sagged back onto the sheets. His tongue slowed and he withdrew his fingers, then groaned with hunger as he licked them clean.

Just when he was about to lean back in for another taste, she reached down to guide his chin upwards to meet her gaze. The veil of curls covered the left side of her face, giving Selinora a ghostly, mysterious visage. He shivered at the sight, his lust-addled mind seeing her as a hungry spirit rather than a baroness.

"Take me like you did our first night together, Sir Ademar."

Countless people had called him 'Sir' during his travels. Some had used the title with reverence, veiled disdain, or even outright fear. From her lips it sounded like a prayer... and it was a prayer he was eager to answer.

Ademar rose, settling between her shaky legs. Their first night together was seared onto his mind and he was certain he'd forever remember the way she'd taken him into her mouth before guiding him between her legs. She had held him so lovingly while guiding and teaching him. His body and heart ached at the memory even as he slipped his cock across the heat between her legs.

As he guided himself inside, Ademar cried out with unrestrained joy. Wondrous as his time had been with his prior lovers, few things could compare to the warmth of the very first woman he'd ever made love to. Her joyous cry mingled with his and he leaned down to brush the curls from her smiling face. A hand rested on her cheek as he settled his hips against hers.

Before he could pull back, Selinora gripped his back tightly and kept him pinned against her.

"Wait just a moment," Selinora murmured. "I want to savor this."

She cooed and tilted her hips. Again and again she gently rocked up against him. The gentle, subtle movements drew forth a deep ache in his loins. His chest thrummed above her.

"Please," Ademar grunted. "It's... too much. Not so quickly."

"Oh, but it is so delightful to defeat my brave knight," she said with another coo, before gently kissing his cheek.

Thankfully she did relent, her devious hips falling still once more. After a deep breath and a quick kiss, Ademar steadied himself and began to work against her. Taking back control allowed him to anticipate each plunge, thus making him better prepared for the warm grip of her body.

The bed rustled and rocked beneath them. Sweat fell from his tensing muscles and onto her pale, soft curves. Selinora tugged down the collar of her chemise to expose one bouncing breast. Shuddering, she caressed herself as he worked, and the sight of her rippling bosom almost hypnotized him. The enchanting view was enough to inspire him to lean down and trap her nipple between his lips for a fierce suckle.

Whimpering, Selinora clenched around him, her heels digging into the back of his legs in an urgent demand for more. His teeth gently nibbled then he sought her lips for another hungry kiss. There he remained, panting for air against her as his powerful body quickened.

"Yes," she urged in a low, soothing voice. "That's it, darling. You need not hold back. I prepared for your arrival... so you can give me everything."

He almost sobbed with relief at the confirmation that she'd taken the potions to ward her womb. Pulling out at that point would have stung quite fiercely indeed.

Soft, encouraging words dragged him further and further towards his peak. Even if he'd fallen still, Selinora's gentle words might have been enough to conquer him completely. The thought inspired him to slow his pace to a gentle grind.

The shift caused Selinora to grow even more encouraging and needy.

"Go on, my sweet knight," she muttered as she pressed her forehead against his. "Come inside your baroness. You know I want it, darling. You know I've been craving it for months and months. I've dreamt of it... over and over. But no dreams can compare. Please, Ademar, please..."

His soft cry cut her off. Selinora cried out as well in a mixture of bliss and triumph. Those heels dug into the back of his legs, urging him on as fiercely as her words, while her hands clawed at his powerful, tensing back. Everything ignited around him; the darkness swirled, the silver streaks of her hair glowed. He drifted on the sensations: the scent of her arousal, the faint sweat, the hint of soap which still lingered on her neck.

As he kissed her neck, Ademar felt her heartbeat... such sweet and beautiful music which entwined with the thudding of his own heart. Meanwhile, Selinora reached down between her legs to caress herself. The sensations unleashed by his tongue and cock still simmered. The gentle kisses to her neck combined with the work of her fingers to guide the baroness to a soft, tender climax that seemed to relax her more than break her. She shivered beneath him and laughed softly.

Always eager to taste more of her, he grasped her fingers and licked clean the faint drops of dew which had gathered there.

Knowing it would be almost painful to withdraw, Ademar braced himself above her and grinned down at her. As Selinora's gentle fingers explored his body, her smile faded.

"New scars," she said.

The sorrow in her tone nearly shattered his heart. After a reassuring kiss he finally withdrew from her, but the sudden coldness around his shaft caused him to wince. Yet the warmth of her bosom provided a wondrous comfort as he rested against her.

Her fingers traced over other injuries he'd endured. There was a blemish on his hip from where a spiked mace had broken through his armor and several faded scars on his collarbone. On his shoulder was a faint incision from where a healer had sliced through in order to apply a healing ointment to a torn muscle. The freshest wound was upon his forearm, where a bandit's spear had grazed him during an ambush a week ago.

The gentle touches conveyed what words could not. Ademar knew she ached with worry when he was out wandering the Empire and no doubt thought to offer him a place in her household. He'd be sorely tempted to accept but he certainly would long for the open road before long. Her lands, now safe and prosperous, would hold little of note for a glory-seeking knight.

In time, perhaps, he would be more tempted to settle down. Yet Ademar wondered if returning to Harradai had been a mistake. Every minute in her presence would chip away at his determination to wander the Empire as a knight-errant.

Yet he also knew she had her own path. Though no young maiden, she might have to marry one day for political purposes, and keeping a pet knight on hand might raise eyebrows from some of her subjects and fellow nobles.

"I don't want to hear the stories of the new scars," she said finally, her voice distant. "But I do want to hear everything else."

"Everything?"

Before they'd parted, she'd told him that she wanted him to open his heart to others, and not to be a slave towards his own feelings for her. Ademar had listened, of course, taking several lovers during his travels. Those women had all been wondrous in their own way but his soul always drifted back to Selinora. His feelings for the baroness were a great beacon burning in the darkness, one that would never go out no matter how far he traveled or how many other lovers he took.

"Perhaps not every sordid detail, darling, but I am quite curious. I daresay it seems you've picked up a few new tricks on the road." She chuckled and kissed his brow. "Rest now, Sir Ademar. We will catch up in the morning."

**

During his travels, he had often dreamt of Selinora. He'd seen her silver-streaked hair, which had always reminded him of lightning against a black sky. He'd seen her soft blue eyes, her heaving breasts, her enchanting smile. And he dreamt of such things again as he slumbered in her arms, but nothing compared to the real thing.

Thus his wondrous dreams became an even more wondrous reality with the dawn. They made love once more, bodies warmed by the sunlight shining through the window. Slow and gentle, they rocked and worked against one another, her voice encouraging him to yet another shuddering, wondrous orgasm.

That was enough to lull him back into another brief bout of slumber, so it was late morning by the time they both arose.

With the defeat of Baron Landric's forces nearly a year before and the restoration of peace to her realm, they did not need to confine themselves to Castle Harradai. Instead they rode out across the countryside, where scant signs remained of the ugly little war which had brought the pair together. Equipped with a basket filled with tea, fruit, and bread, they sat beside a small stream.

The grass was so soft that Ademar might have drifted off again, were it not for Selinora's presence.

"You look as if you're about to doze off," she said as she lit the fire to prepare the tea.

"A knight-errant sleeps whenever and wherever he can. I've slept on horseback more times than I can count."

"Sometimes I feel the same way. After a long day scurrying across the barony or dealing with feuding vassals, I find myself slipping into dreams whenever the chance arises."

She gave him a soft smile.

"That's hardly a complaint, however, given how often you appear in those dreams."

"You are never far from mine, either," he said, patting her knee.

They relaxed to watch the stream flow by. Songbirds flitted from tree to tree and rabbits bounced along the muddy banks. In the distance, a pack of wild chickens evaded a circling hawk and two shepherds pursued a wayward goat. He let out a long sigh as he admired the landscape: the thriving farms, the verdant vineyards, the distant buzzing swarms of an apiary.

The wondrous simplicity called to him like one of the sea-spirits he'd heard about in a bard's song. In the old stories, such creatures stalked the coasts and isles, their sweet calls luring sailors to their doom. Yet would it be doom if he decided to settle here?

Perhaps. Resentment might arise eventually. He would still long for the glory of a knight-errant's life, while she might resent the complications he'd create if she had to marry. His prolonged presence could also complicate matters with her son Theodor, who resided in a monastery not too far away.

"The look on your face reminds of the one you had during the war," she said softly. "I do not care for it."

"I apologize, my lady," he said, banishing those thoughts by turning his gaze back to her.

Her smile warmed as she settled a hand upon his knee.

"I know last night I mentioned wanting to hear about your travels but..."

Gentle lips caressed his cheek.

"I fear now that it might be too painful."

Ademar suspected the sorrow would not just be unleashed by learning of the various wars and battles he'd endured. Even a fleeting mention of his various lovers might hurt her and that was the very last thing he wanted. She'd told him to keep his heart open to others and not to chain himself to her, but it was one thing to offer such a sentiment, and quite another to hear about his exploits.

His hand settled upon her chin and he nodded, grateful to be free from the burden of revisiting grim and sordid memories over the past year.

In warm silence, they finished their tea and breakfast while admiring the idyllic countryside. Yet every time she glanced his way, Ademar caught a faint gleam of sorrow, and yet it seemed somehow sharper than the sadness of his potential departure. More than once he saw her chewing her lip nervously or fiddling with her bodice; idle tics he'd never noticed from the poised, elegant baroness.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, darling. Nothing worth ruining this morning over, at least."

Could it be jealousy for the lovers he'd met on the road? At the thought, sparks of his own jealousy ignited at the prospect that she'd taken a lover as well, or that she might have received marriage proposals from other nobles. Even at her age, a wealthy and powerful woman like Selinora would still make for an appealing match for a baron or a duke.

"My doubts and imagination will ruin the morning for us, my lady. You need hold nothing back."

A hand caressed along her cheek. A long, trembling sigh puffed against his scarred, calloused hand.

"It is Landric."

Ademar's jaw clenched. His hand fell away from her cheek and nearly balled into a tight fist. The mere mention of that loathsome cur's name was enough to douse the warm embers of his affection.

A year before, Landric's schemes and greed had taken scores of lives. His ambition had nearly caused the death of Selinora and Ademar, while also revealing Galen's greedy, treacherous nature. So eager to be rid of memories of the baron, Ademar had scarcely paid him any thought since Selinora's knights had captured him and handed him to Duke Valentin to face justice.

"Did he escape?" he asked in a low growl. "Or did he strike some bargain with the duke?"

"Rather than face Valentin's judgement, he begged for mercy, offering to swear away his birthright and take up a life of holy penance."

Ademar's harsh laugh thundered over the pleasant bubbling of the nearby stream.

"I thought it just as ridiculous," Selinora said softly. "But Valentin agreed and Landric is now a monk sworn to Saint Sulwia."

The bitter amusement died at the mention of that dark, mysterious saint. A keeper of souls and a warden of the dead, Saint Sulwia guided spirits to face judgment in the afterlife. Her mortal followers served as funerary attendants, guardians of the dead, and occasionally healers or alchemists. As a boy, he'd stared wide-eyed as veiled nuns of Saint Sulwia had kept vigil at the crypt of his grandfather, barely budging over the course of their hallowed, silent duties. After battles, her acolytes had tended to the dead, beseeching the saint to judge them fairly in the next life. The work of such acolytes had also delayed his soul from facing her judgement, thanks to healing ointments and potions brewed by her followers.

"So his schemes leave hundreds of corpses, and now he tends to them in Saint Sulwia's name."

"In a sense. He is little more than a grave-digger, toiling away in one of the sacred graveyards. And it was his new path which inspired him to write to me. A noble named Count Brahia has ambitions of his own, which include claiming the rights to the grazing lands that overlap with the sacred cemeteries. He's gathering mercenaries and supporters, planning to fight against Saint Sulwia's cult if necessary."

"By the blood of the saints... Landric wrote to ask you for help against Brahia?"

"Not quite. Landric thought I had spurred Count Brahia to action as part of some vengeful scheme; he wrote to me, offering to give himself to me in exchange for calling off my hounds. The letter was very... fervent."

Ademar stared, shocked by Landric's plea as well as the apparent sorrow Selinora was expressing for the man who'd killed so many of her subjects and nearly overthrown her. Before he could object or scoff, Selinora sighed and continued.

"A part of me believes that Landric's apparent faith is a ruse, but his cause is just in this instance. The sacred graveyards of Saint Sulwia should not be defiled and turned into pastures to sate Brahia's greed. If such a sacrilege goes unchallenged, Brahia and other nobles will chip away at other holy sanctuaries and monasteries, perhaps even the one my son serves."

The mention of her pious son Theodor brought a faint frown to Ademar's face. Theodor's grief and faith had, in a sense, drawn Selinora and Ademar together in the first place. After the untimely death of his father, Theodor's sorrow had inspired him to a life of piety. Without other heirs, Selinora had been forced to make other arrangements for the succession, which had incited the ire of Baron Landric. The greedy baron's attempt to undermine Selinora's plans for her own barony had ignited a war, which in turn had drawn Ademar and Galen to Harradai. Had Theodor not disinherited himself to walk a monk's path, there might have been no war. Sir Galen would still be alive, Ademar might still be a squire, and he'd have never fallen for Selinora.

Sifting through such potential paths nearly made his mind ache, so he cast them aside to focus on the trouble ahead.

"So you want to protect the holy graveyards."

"Other barons share my concerns but few are willing to stand up to a man like Count Brahia. But..." She wrinkled her nose as if she'd swallowed something sour. "I would not dare asking you to join any such venture. You have been through enough. Sir Beothen and my other knights can handle the matter; once I make a stand, others shall follow."

Ademar gave her a long, blank stare.

"Come now, my lady. Do you truly think you could broach the topic of some crisis facing your barony and expect me to ignore it?"

A faint, rueful smile gleamed through the sorrow upon her face.

"I know. But for the sake of my own heart, I at least had to try to dissuade you. But we shall still have a few days of comfort together, for it shall take time to prepare my forces."

Though sorrow still lurked in her dark blue eyes, Selinora gave him a smile that warmed his heart, nearly dispelling his fears about leaving her again and riding into a potential war. The faint brush of her fingers along his scarred cheek sent a shiver through him, as did the gentle, loving kiss she bestowed upon his lips.

"It is a dreadful thing to care for someone sworn to such vows. But also... wondrous. I would not care for you the way I did if you were the sort of man to seek the easy path."

She blinked quickly, as if fighting off burgeoning tears.

**

Tempted as he was to simply languish beneath her attentions in bed before their journey, Ademar sought out other duties. He trained with Sir Beothen and the other members of the castle garrison, regaling them with the less-grim tales from his travels. There was also a pack of wolves to root out, whose hunger had depleted the flocks of some of the local shepherds. Even when sweaty and spent from a day out chasing down those beasts, Ademar had stood vigil beneath the stone monuments built to honor those who had fallen against Landric. His own name might have joined the list of fallen, had Galen's blade slashed him just a few inches in the other direction, or had his own mace not struck true at just the right moment.

The grim thoughts of such dark fates chased him the same way he'd chased down those wolves. Even when he finished with his vigil and wandered the castle grounds in search of Selinora, his eyes lingered on the places where the clashes had been fought during the war. He saw another version of himself tumbling down from the walls to die within the courtyard, then another grim echo of the carnage beneath the castle walls. Flames flickered from the edges of his vision as he pondered the ruin that might have befallen Selinora's home.

Only when he at last found Selinora in the castle gardens did those ghosts retreat. Instead of one of her elegant dresses, she'd slipped into an oversized tunic, a simple set of trousers and a pair of sandals. Her silver-streaked dark hair was pulled back into a fraying ponytail and a faint sheen of sweat clung to her soft features. Unaware of his arrival, she was focused entirely on her work as she collected little clippings and petals from the verdant flowers of her garden. He knew it was not simply an amusing diversion, for such petals would be useful for healing ointments that were needed for the potential battles ahead.

At the back of the sprawling garden was the little stone hut where he'd recuperated from the wounds Sir Galen had given him. It was within that hut where the sparks of attraction had first ignited, when she'd held him while the healers had tended to his ghastly wounds.

"My lady, can I be of service?" he asked.

Selinora flinched, then let out a soft laugh that sounded like it might have come from a woman half her age.

"By the saints, Ademar, I wish I'd known you were coming. I'm a mess."

He'd seen her in worse states, of course. During a night raid on Harradai, she'd been rain-soaked while rallying the defenders, and of course she was often quite the mess after a bout of lovemaking. Smiling, Ademar crossed over to join her, not bothered at all by the oversized clothing that hid her luscious figure.

"Even when a 'mess,' you are still a vision, my lady."

Selinora wriggled her nose and poked at his chest.

"I do not believe you but I still accept the compliment, Sir."

"Be that as it may... can I help at all?"

"This work is far too delicate for a knight like you."

"You know full well I am quite capable of delicate work, my lady."

His tongue flitted across his lips as he recalled all the wondrous instruction he'd received under her tutelage. With another snort, she poked him on the chest again.

"You are ridiculous, Sir. If you insist on helping, go and tend to those vines over there."

She pointed to a great serpentine mess of vines snaking up along the weathered stone. After stealing a quick kiss, Ademar obeyed, making quick work of the vines while she collected more flowers. With the overgrowth vanquished, he crossed back over to join her. Eager arms wrapped around her from behind and she let out a feeble, playful squeal of protest.

"Gods, Ademar. I am coated with sweat, my hair is a mess, and I'm dressed like you. You cannot seriously be-"

He silenced her protest with a soft, delicate kiss to the back of her neck.

"I care not."

Trembling, she set aside the shears and caressed his taut forearms. Delicate fingers traced the veins and scars. After a sigh, she turned her head to meet his gaze. The sun and sweat had made her few flaws and wrinkles stand out a bit more, yet such trifles could hardly defeat his desire. If anything, the little reminders of her humanity only kept the desire burning.

"I could understand why you wanted me so fiercely for our first time, since you'd never had a woman before. And I know the journey back here was long and lonely," she said softly. "But after your travels, you've surely had others and-"

"Stop," Ademar said, a bit more firmly than he'd intended. "Such doubts do not become a woman like you."

There was no denying the beauty of the lithe courtesan Isabelica, the sultry thief Nezetta, the bashful charms of Violette, and the primal allure of the Kovgaardian twins Sigvor and Kaskia. All his past lovers had their virtues, of course, and all were certainly much closer to his age. But Selinora had been the first, who had done more than make him a man... she'd made him a knight. Her bravery and wisdom would burn bright within his heart for the rest of his days, no matter her wrinkles or little imperfections.

"You dare to speak to your baroness with such a tone?" she asked, even as she relaxed and wriggled her backside against him.

Even through the oversized, ill-fitting clothing, he could not deny the soft allure of her body when they were so close.

"I would dare to do more than just use a harsh tone, my lady."

Her backside tilted further, caressing his growing erection. Ademar grinned and gently nipped the back of her neck and his tongue flitted forth for a faint taste of her sweat.

"Once I bathe and freshen up, I will give you quite the stern reminder about courtly etiquette, Sir."

"Why delay?" he asked, casting a quick look at the stone hut nestled at the back of the garden.

The façade slipped and her jaw slowly dropped.

"There? With me like this?"

By way of reassurance, he licked her neck again, breathed in deep, and slipped a hand beneath the oversized tunic to run a greedy hand along her soft belly. She shivered within his powerful grasp and nearly melted back against him.

Before he allowed lust to consume him right there in the garden, Ademar gently tugged Selinora back towards the little hut. Within were shelves filled with garden supplies and even a few spare weapons for dire circumstances, with nothing at all that might pass for bedding.

Ademar would make do. Not wanting to make the baroness uncomfortable by forcing her back onto the rough ground, he descended and tugged her down so she could straddle him. Tension danced through her curves and she blew a few stray hairs from her face.

"Ademar, I know this is all in good fun but I would like to make myself a bit more presentable for you."

"Why?" he asked, his voice stern as his hands settled on her hips.

"The night we first made love, I spent over an hour getting everything just right before you came to my quarters. My hair, my skin, the cream to help cover my wrinkles and tidying up my..."

Ademar bit back a laugh as crimson crept into her cheeks. While she did have a few blemishes and wrinkles, she was no withered old crone.

"And you were beautiful that night, my lady. But it's not about perfect refinement. It's not about everything being sparkling clean and perfectly arranged. It's about this."

His hand shifted to take hers. Both of them were a bit grimy, dirty, and sweaty. In a perfect world, they'd both be sparkling clean, but the world was far from perfect. Instead it was the little moments that could make it so, even if only for a short while.

"You do not turn away from my scars, my lady, so why would I turn away from a few silver hairs and a few faint little wrinkles?"

The baroness wrinkled her nose.

"Thank you for calling them 'faint' and 'little.'"

As she brushed a finger along the faint little folds beneath her eye, the other hand caressed the scars he'd suffered during his service to her. Sorrow blossomed but for a moment, then it wilted away as she leaned down to claim a kiss. Their lips and tongues met, both forgetting their doubts and allowing their hearts to burn as one.

Together they reached down, tearing at their belts and trousers. With them both so eager to maintain the kiss, disrobing proved to be a bit awkward. Laughter at their own fumbling rose amidst their soft sighs and moans, but after much delay Ademar managed to slip a hand down between her legs. She flinched at the warmth of his touch but Ademar let out a low, rumbling sigh. In return, Selinora reached down to caress his taut, throbbing cock.

"All doubts have fled," she muttered against his lips. "Except for the matter of your comfort... that floor is not particularly clean or soft."

"I shall endure, my lady. It is my duty as a knight."

The baroness' giggle shattered into a faint whimper as he guided his shaft along her folds, which had been rendered quite sodden after their kisses and caresses. With one hand braced against his cheek, Selinora reached down to help him. Together they worked his shaft a bit lower until it grazed her dripping entrance. Their jaws dropped as a reflection of another as the slow, wondrous plunge began.

Beautiful shivers wracked her curves as she sank further down upon him. What little strength she possessed faded utterly and she slumped forward. Needy murmurs rippled against his neck as she adjusted to his presence. With a proud grin at having conquered her so easily, Ademar gripped her soft rear tightly and bucked up against her. Soft, joyful sounds burst against his neck as he settled into a smooth, slow, and powerful rut.

"I shouldn't be the weak one," she murmured. "I'm atop you, after all. I should be in control... this hardly seems fair."

A gentle tug on her ponytail forced her head up so he could claim another kiss, one that was smooth, slow, and hungry just like the work of his hips. The grip of his hand naturally brought to mind the courtesan Isabelica, who had so cruelly and wondrously dominated him, but also the submissive Nezetta, who had yielded to his lusts in a shockingly abject fashion. Selinora yielded, too, in her own way.

And Ademar would yield certainly in his own way as well.

As his hips worked, his fingers slipped between her legs. Dark blue eyes bulged as he caressed the folds that were the first he'd ever tasted or explored. That perfect part of her body had been a proving ground of sorts, where he'd first learned and adapted to a woman's needs.

"Once you come for me, you can take control back, my lady," he muttered against her lips.

"Yes," she sputtered back. "Make me... make me..."

The words vanished within a needy, fumbling kiss. The knight's pace increased somewhat, causing her curves to ripple and bounce above him. One hand remained tight within her hair to keep her firm against his lips, while the other worked delicately along her sex.

Soft, muffled whimpers flowed forth to fill the little hut. Outside, songbirds chirped and the bells of a shrine rang. After a moment, those distant sounds faded beneath the rising onslaught of her sighs and needy moans.

Knowing that the secret to a woman's pleasure was not in touch alone, Ademar took a deep breath and continued.

"There were so many lonely nights on the road where I thought of you. Of this. The sound of your voice. The little twitch in your neck as your bliss approaches. The way you tighten... yes, just like that."

"By the saints," she whined, her eyes rolling back.

"And the way those eyes roll back, too... such a wondrous thing."

Chest heaving and voice thrumming, he shifted his grip from her hair down to her trembling rear. With an even better means of bracing himself, Ademar slammed and pounded up against her, using all of his knightly strength and recalling all of his sinful lessons.

The whimpers forged a long, desperate cry. She bit down on his jaw to stifle the worst of it, sending deep, thrilling vibrations through his face. Her tongue lashed out as if to apologize for the bite and a higher, needier cry soon burst forth.

Selinora's sex rippled and clenched around his throbbing length. A bite to the inside of his own cheek steadied his nerves and pushed him away from the brink, for he remembered his promise to yield control back to her.

It took the baroness a few moments to remember. Trembling and sputtering, she raised herself up to grip his shoulders. When he churned his hips upwards a little, she glared at him and gently scraped her nails along his jaw.

"Relax, Sir Ademar. You have done your duty... now let your baroness do hers."

There had been occasions in jousts or tourney duels when he'd faced an imposing foe, one whose skill he respected, one whose strength he'd been eager to test himself against.

This one was one such occasion. Despite her earlier doubts about her beauty, Selinora presented a vision of lustful glory as she set to work. With both hands tight against his shoulders, her hips worked in quick little circles that sent deep, wondrous throbs into his core. Those little circles surged to a needy, steady grind that left him gasping and grunting beneath her. When he tried to rock up against her soft curves, Selinora glared and clawed her nails against his shoulders to keep him pinned.

Mindful of his role, Ademar simply smiled up at her, though the expression faded as she shifted, lifted her hips, then slammed down against him with greater force than she'd heretofore displayed. With a low growl of effort, she lifted herself up once more, nearly allowing the tip of his shaft to slip free...

And down she came again: agonizingly slow. The onslaught was more torturous than the brutal pace he'd been expecting, and he let out a sob of relief when at last her hips settled against him. He almost protested when she rose again, once more poised on the verge of letting him slip free.

"The tension is wondrous," Selinora murmured. "Simmering right there on the edge again..."

Knowing exactly what she needed, Ademar obeyed her unspoken needs. His thumb returned to her folds and she let out a very undignified yelp. After only a few gentle caresses, her quaking hips descended for another fierce downward plunge. Her hair flung back and her fingers scraped against his tunic. The wondrous clenching of her sex caused Ademar to swoon with painful delight.

She sobbed out his name: joyful, reverent, loving. Ademar answered in kind, his thumb still working to prolong her wondrous, beautiful surrender.

"With me, darling," she muttered, the fury leaving her grasp as her hand rose to cup his scarred cheek.

He'd resisted the powerful movements of her hips and the rising pitch of her cries, but not even the most valorous of knights could withstand such a sweet touch and such a soft, urgent command.

When his aching shaft at last yielded and sent the first burst of his seed into her, Selinora cried out and tilted her hips upward just a little, before rocking back down to greet the next surge. Over and over she continued those gentle little movements, working to milk him dry, to seize every last drop, to render him weak, breathless and broken beneath her. Listless and dazed, Ademar thrashed and grunted, reveling in the agonizing fire of his bliss.

Selinora rocked and writhed above him as her cries broke down to soft little sobs and laughs. The strands of the cord holding her hair came undone, allowing her silver-streaked curls to cascade over her lovely face. Still hungry despite the lingering throbs, Ademar rocked up against her, keeping a hand pinned against the small of her back. Another jolt went through the baroness and her jaw dropped. Eyes wide, she tumbled forth into another small, shivering climax. The once-powerful grip on his shoulders faded and she flopped forward. Mumbling lips sought his for a quick, trembling kiss. Breathless and spent, they twitched and shuddered within one another's embrace for nearly a minute.

His grasp loosened and he ran his hands along her back. Though she was even more of a mess then she'd been back in the garden, Ademar still beamed up at her as if she were a vision of the divine. Something shifted within her gaze and she flinched, making him worried he'd perhaps hurt her or caused her to pull a muscle. Before he could ask what was wrong, she lifted herself away with a sigh.

Desperate to offer whatever reassurances he could, even if only physical, he placed a series of soft, delicate kisses along her shoulder and neck. The strength fled her body as she sagged against him, her sweat joining with his, her slowing breaths aligning with his own. Finally she rested her forehead against his, though her eyes remained closed. Gentle, trembling words tumbled from her soft lips.

"It would be so easy to ignore the crisis," she mumbled. "To let Count Brahia claim those graveyards. To let his ambitions inspire the avarice of others. To let infighting burn across the duchy while I remain here at Harradai, focusing on my realm and my realm alone. And it would be so easy for you to stay at my side while I hid away from the world."

Ademar sighed as well, gentle hands running up and down her back.

It was far from the first time he'd been tempted to simply run from it all. After claiming Violette's maidenhead and saving her village from a vile cult, he'd allowed himself to fantasize about settling down in the idyllic countryside. Even the sultry, wicked thief Nezetta had inspired similar fantasies and he still wondered if they might ever reunite if she succeeded at her next devious heist. The domineering courtesan Isabelica surely had enough wealth to retire by that point, and he wondered what it might have been like to spend the rest of his days in cosmopolitan comfort down in the great city of Cirozza. Though the twins Sigvor and Kaskia hailed from the savage northlands, Ademar had occasionally fantasized about returning to them and embracing the feral honor of the north. And of course he could see himself joining Selinora's knights at Harradai, tending to simple garrison duties and the boring, banal work of a household knight.

The last fantasy, of course, was the most potent. With but a word, he could likely convince Selinora to abandon her concerns about Landric and live in peace.

So, so easy. The effort of fighting back those desires was harder than facing down a fully armored knight or a horde of bandits.

"I suppose a gallant knight like you must resent me for even daring to voice such a thing."

"Not at all. Gods know that..."

He didn't want to speak further, lest he tempt them both into actually turning that fantasy into reality.

Selinora remained silent as well, no doubt just as fearful of what might unfold were they both to yield fully to their hearts' desires.

**

Ademar certainly understood why the ambitious Count Brahia coveted those sacred burial grounds; he had scarcely seen such verdant grasslands during his travels. Wildflowers rustled in the wind, thick clusters of grass sprouted between looming headstones, and bubbling brooks weaved between withered, half-crumbled crypts.

If given over to farmers and shepherds, such land would have produced sustenance capable of feeding armies or filling one's coffers with the proceeds. From a purely practical perspective, Ademar saw the utility of exploiting such fertile grasslands, but if practicality was his only concern, then he would have never accepted the burden of knighthood at all. Profit and cold logic could not be a man's only masters.

Far to the north, a small camp spread like a scar across the untamed plain. The gold and green banners of Count Brahia rose above his loyal knights, levies, and mercenaries. For the time being, Brahia's men had lingered just beyond the edge of the sacred land, confident that a mere show of force would force Saint Sulwia's followers into submission.

Yet despite the looming threat, the grim saint's followers still toiled. White-robed men cleaned the gravestones and crypts, scourging away moss and vines. Others dug into the verdant soil to create new resting places for the recently departed. A dozen wandered in silent vigil from crypt to crypt, bearing candles and censers. Faith kept them chained to their tasks; no doubt they feared the saint's displeasure more than Brahia's avarice.

"If this lot would trade their censers for bows and their spades for blades, we needn't have bothered," Sir Beothen said dryly.

The grizzled knight swept a disapproving eye over the white-robed monks, though Ademar was certain the man was also looking for ideal spots to make a stand, or the best routes between the crypts to use for charges or retreats. The graveyard was practically a town in its own right, with tombs and crypts so large they could have easily served as makeshift fortifications. With preparation and determination, a smaller host could likely hold the graveyard against a superior foe... but only for a time. Without walls or proper elevation, the defenders could be outflanked or worn down by direct assaults.

And while Selinora may have been a wise and virtuous ruler, her fiefdom was small in comparison to Brahia's; he'd brought nearly twice as many soldiers, and no other nobles had yet to answer the monks' call for aid.

Yet Selinora rode forward with her head held high. Out of deference for the somber cult, she'd not worn an elaborate dress, instead opting for a simple, drab tunic and trousers that made her look more like a farmer's wife than a baroness. She'd likewise swapped her regal mare for a humble mule. Ademar and her knights, however, were not so humble as to ride to the potential battle without armor.

The monks continued their work, as if Selinora and her escort were unseen ghosts. Only when Beothen cleared his throat near a white-robbed gravedigger did the man look up. Dark paint streaked from beneath the man's eyes, affixing the man with a permanent, grisly expression of grief.

"Have you come to inter souls within the sacred soil?" he asked.

"In a sense," Beothen said with a dark glance at Brahia's distant camp.

After a chiding glare to her knight, Selinora gave the gravedigger a small, somber smile.

"We are here to protect your sacred work against the machinations of Count Brahia. But I would also like to see the holy brother whose warning brought me here in the first place: Landric."

The monk pointed in the distance, to where a single white-robed man toiled with a spade.

"Sir Ademar and I shall go alone," Selinora said to Beothen. "I don't want your understandable ire getting in the way of our discussion. See to the men and horses, have sentries posted, and send a rider under a flag of truce to Brahia so we can arrange a parley."

"A wise command, my lady," Beothen said with a dark glare at Landric's distant form. "For I'd be tempted to toss him into that grave he's working on."

Ademar shared that temptation but he'd never dream of acting on it... certainly not in Selinora's presence. Together, he and the baroness crossed the graveyard. Though his attention lingered on Landric and the distant camp, he did allow his eyes to drift over the graves, tombs, and crypts. Though each one had elaborate engravings and runes sacred to Saint Sulwia, not a single one actually possessed any sort of name or marker to show who was actually buried there. Upon that hallowed ground, all were nameless beneath Saint Sulwia's judging eyes.

Alongside the cobblestone road was a two-story crypt guarded by stone statues of warriors wielding shields and spears. Intricate engravings of charging knights adorned the crypt and an elaborate carving of a horse leapt over the threshold of the doorway. An immense fortune must have gone into building such a crypt, only for it to be left nameless.

"Emperor Withgar," Selinora said with a nod.

Ademar's eyes widened at the mention of one of the greatest and cruelest of the Empire's rulers. For fifty years, Withgar's might had kept the Empire intact. His fury had brought low many rebellious dukes and barons, while his skill at arms had crushed several invasions from the northern Kovgaardians. How could such a grand and glorious conqueror have been content with a nameless, unmarked tomb?

Yet his deeds spoke for themselves, as Selinora had just proven. A man with such a legacy required no name upon his grave.

As they rode past far less glorious tombs, Ademar wondered where his own body might be finally laid to rest. In Asparra, they buried their dead in shallow graves by the sea, so benevolent sea-spirits could convey the dead to paradise. Back in Ravenmark, they would entomb dead knights in deep, cold caves, in the hope that the fallen might one day rise again in times of need. It was said that in Kovgaard, they buried warriors with their weapons so they could fight against their nameless, bloodthirsty gods. The people of Wolfgate buried the departed beneath the roots of trees to turn death into a new sort of life.

A knight-errant such as himself was likely to find himself in a shallow grave, like the ones he'd dug for fallen comrades during his travels.

Dark thoughts of a different sort took hold as they neared Landric. The disgraced and fallen baron looked downright ridiculous in his muddy, tattered, and oversized white robe that had clearly been made for a man of grander stature. Wispy, graying hair sprouted from his sunburned scalp and a wild mess of a beard dangled from his chin. Blistered, sweaty hands clung to his shovel as he toiled in the dirt. Beside him was a large cart, upon which rested the body of an old woman wrapped in rune-covered cloth.

Ademar gritted his teeth and pondered kicking the wretched baron into the grave or burying that shovel in the back of his skull. Only a faint, stern glance from the baroness forestalled his rage, though his hand did drift towards Stormbane.

"Who was she?" Selinora asked.

The disgraced baron did not look up from his work.

"Wynfla: a potter from Coppertree. Her husband, siblings, and all three of her children preceded her in death. With her body nameless in the earth, she shall ascend to face Saint Sulwia's judgment and perhaps rejoin her kin."

Landric grunted as his shovel scraped against stone-strewn soil. The shovel slipped from his grasp and tore open one of his many blisters. The allegedly penitent man finally looked up.

"So why have you come, baroness? To gloat? To join your forces with that wretched count and snatch away the sacred graveyards?"

"She came to help, you cur. Because unlike you and Brahia, some people look beyond mere greed."

The panting baron looked to Ademar and the blue-gray sword.

"Ah. The famous Sir Ademar of Ravenmark. The hero of Harradai. And squire to one of the few men weak enough to accept my bribe."

With a huff, Ademar dismounted. Ignoring his lover's glare, he snatched the shovel from Landric's grasp. Tempted as he was to bash it across the man's face, he instead jabbed it into the dirt and took up where the weak baron had left off, making good progress within a few moments.

"I am here because if Count Brahia succeeds at this scheme, it would upend the balance of power in Tsannor," Selinora said. "Other nobles will try to snatch up sacred lands or dream of even greater conquests."

"Greedy eyes might settle on your son's monastery or your own barony one day, you mean."

"It is a shame you wasted your wit on greedy ambition, Landric. You are indeed correct."

Once he'd caught his breath and wiped away the blood from the popped blisters, Landric snatched back the shovel. Making little effort to hide his disdain, Ademar stepped away, crossed his arms, and watched the wretched man work.

He noted there were no guards or knights on patrol, aside from Selinora's own. It would have been trivial for Landric to scurry off across the grasslands.

"Does faith truly keep you here?" Ademar said with a frown.

Landric's weary gaze followed Ademar's across the open plain and rolled up the sleeve of his robe to expose a brand a skull-shaped brand.

"This marks me as a penitent member of Saint Sulwia's order. My life is thus forfeit beyond the confines of this sanctuary or the other monasteries of the sect. And besides: there is nothing left for me. My wealth is gone, my lands have been divided between my brothers, who would gladly hand me over to the duke if I returned to them. This is my path... one I am proud to walk."

Only the power of a saint could have suppressed the sneer from creeping across Ademar's scarred face.

"You do not believe me."

"Of course I don't. It's been barely a year and you've somehow gone from a greedy baron to a humble, penitent gravedigger."

"A year ago, you were a squire. Untested. Unscarred. But even in this hallowed place, I have heard stories of your exploits and the noble work of your blade. Souls can change, Sir Ademar."

He shrugged and wiped the sweat from his hands: a futile act, given the mess left by the effort of digging that poor old woman's grave.

"But I did not change of my own volition. Saint Sulwia herself guided my path."

"I think I would much rather meet with Count Brahia than listen to this prattle," said Ademar.

"A moment," Selinora said with a raised finger. "What did you mean, Landric?"

"The night your forces cornered me, I saw a figure within the driving rain. A woman in a tattered white dress, weeping tears of black blood, with eyes like endless pits. The spirit stared at me and judged me... and found me wanting. And then I saw her again, within the shadows of my cell in Duke Valentin's keep. It was a sign. A message. An omen to turn from my path and seek a new one in Saint Sulwia's service."

Though Ademar had every reason to doubt the tale, he could not deny the power of the saints. Saint Ecfirth's skill had surely guided Stormbane during his travels, and the wild, lustful ritual with Violette had unleashed the power of Saint Iona. Yet Ademar had earned Ecfirth's favor through valor, while he and Violette had conjured Iona's grace through shared lust, affection, and worship. Landric had somehow a visitation from Sulwia simply by being a cretinous bastard.

"Whether Saint Sulwia guided you or not, we are here to ensure the sanctuary is protected," said Selinora. "Hopefully my presence here will be enough to deter Brahia and encourage other nobles to render aid. Then you can return to your penance in peace."

After a meager murmur of gratitude, Landric returned to his work while the lovers returned to their horses.

"Now I wonder if he is somehow in league with Brahia," Ademar grumbled as he took his horse's reins. "An elaborate plot to draw you out to enact his revenge."

"There would be far easier ways of accomplishing that, darling. If he truly was in league with Brahia, the count could have simply invited me to a feast or a tournament; I'd have had no reason to decline before this latest crisis, and he could have struck at me then."

Her warm smile did little to assuage his doubts. Together they retraced their route back to Sir Beothen and his men.

"The count has agreed to a parley," Beothen said with a glare at Brahia's little army. While it was far smaller than the great hosts Ademar had encountered during his travels, it still eclipsed Selinora's meager and hastily-assembled force. Even if every monk in the graveyard took up arms and somehow managed to be a decent combatant, it would be no fair fight. Only the will of the saints or the intervention of other nobles could truly turn the tide.

"Sir Ademar," Selinora said with a gentle hand upon the scarred knight's shoulder. "I of course would want your skill and sword at my side, but do try to be a bit more... amiable with Brahia than you were with Landric. There still may be a means of resolving this peacefully."

"Brahia may be an ambitious wretch but he hasn't yet tried to kill you. Nor was he responsible for this," Ademar said, raking his fingers along the scar Galen had given him after he'd turned his cloak to Landric's cause. "So for the moment, Brahia is a shining paragon of virtue by comparison."

**

The sentiment died the very moment he saw the lustful sparkle in the count's gaze. Though in the presence of a dozen knights and a young woman Ademar presumed was his wife, Brahia had made no effort to hide his lurid inspection of Selinora. Drab and dour as her garb was, such fabric could not truly hide her curves or the lustrous darkness of her silver-streaked curls. Ademar gritted his teeth, shifted in his saddle, and did his utmost to obey Selinora's command to bury his rage.

"Count Brahia," Selinora said with a bright smile.

"Baroness Selinora," said Brahia, the impish spark lingering even as he tilted his head.

Brahia was perhaps a decade older than Ademar, with short red curls, a well-trimmed mustache, and a dashing outfit of fox-fur, velvet, and leather. Upon his hip was a long, curved saber better suited for a dueling circle than an open battle. Sheaths built into his boots held bejeweled daggers and an unstrung longbow rested in a loop on his saddle.

"And Countess Jacopa," Selinora said with a bright, motherly smile at the young woman beside Brahia. "You've come a long, long way from causing scandals at the duke's masquerades."

While Selinora had dressed humbly and simply for the journey, Jacopa's garb was more fit for a grand feast or tourney. A shimmering, lacy, and frilly dress clung to her petite frame and an elaborate ruff encircled her delicate neck. Red ringlets dangled past her soft, faintly-flushed cheeks and her lids blinked lazily. By the gods... was she drunk?

"From what I've heard, you're quite the expert at causing scandals of your own, my lady," Jacopa said with a faint flick of her eyes at Ademar.

"I've earned my right to a scandal or two, I should think."

No trace of tension crept into her smile as she looked back to Brahia.

"And yet you seem quite content on creating new scandals yourself. Marching against sacred lands in defiance of Saint Sulwia's edicts, striking the first spark of what could be a holy war..."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Brahia said with a snort. "Nobody's going to fight and die for a bunch of dusty old graves."

"Then we are in agreement, then, at least about nobody needing to fight and die. You can ride on back to your castle, these monks can keep on digging and standing vigil over the dead, then I can go back to my quiet, humble life at Harradai."

"Those lands are mine by right." He pointed with a gloved hand towards the southern horizon. "My fief extends another league beyond this spot."

"And yet after your great-great-grandfather's sister survived a difficult childbirth, he ceded these lands as an offering to Saint Sulwia out of gratitude."

"It is Brahia's right to revoke that decree if he wishes," Jacopa said crisply. "He is in fact being quite merciful by letting the monks finish digging their next set of graves before he grants the land to his subjects so that actual use can be made of it. Imagine the hungry mouths that could be fed by farms and pastures upon this land."

"Ah, so the goods produced by these new farms and pastures shall all be granted to charity then?" Selinora said, her eyes widening. "By the blood of the saints, how magnanimous! You may earn yourself sainthood in your own right for that, Count Brahia."

Jacopa wrinkled her nose and Ademar just barely managed to hold back his chortle.

"Your pet knight does not frighten us, my lady," the countess continued. "Nor does your rabble of an army, still not yet recovered from your squabble with Landric... whom you now defend for some indiscernible reason."

"My wife's tone does require a bit of correction," said Brahia. "But she does speak the truth. You have not the numbers to challenge us, even if that sacred sword is arrayed against me. Step aside, allow me to claim the lands that are rightfully mine, and in return, I shall ensure your barony receives favorable prices for the goods one day harvested from these lands."

"I would not purchase such food for my people, no matter how favorable the price. For surely Saint Sulwia would curse any such harvests from these lands. How do you think she might react when your farmers till up old graves or your goats nibble on the bones of those interred here?"

Some of Brahia's men exchanged nervous glances.

"I will leave the crypts intact. Not a stone shall be touched."

"And in a year or so, if a storm rolls through and damages the newly-built farms, where shall your subjects turn for stone to repair the damage? Surely they'd be tempted to tear down an old crypt or two and use the rubble, rather than pay for fresh materials. And when drought or famine strikes and times grow hard, what is to stop your subjects from scrounging in the dirt for old baubles? In time, tomb robbing may become a greater profession than farming in these parts. Do you think Saint Sulwia would spare you her wrath if such crimes come to pass?"

"If Saint Sulwia cares so much for a bunch of unmarked old graves, then let her come down and protect them herself," Jacopa hissed. "Our army has been arrayed here for days. There have been no omens, no signs, no hints of disapproval. Only the prattling of priests and meddling, graying old noblewomen."

Had Jacopa been a man, Ademar might have been tempted to challenge her to a duel for the sake of Selinora's honor. Only a faint, stern glance from Selinora ensured that Ademar stayed his wrathful tongue.

"You speak in distant hypotheticals, Lady Selinora," Brahia said, his tone low and cold in contrast to his wife's fire. "But there is nothing hypothetical about the size of my host against yours."

He beckoned at the camp behind him, where his men had arrayed in a long, uneven line. With fifty mounted knights, a hundred archers and twice as many spearmen, Brahia's host might have paled against the great hosts of Asparra and Jadewall, but Selinora's army might as well have been a ragged mob in comparison.

"And are all of those men willing to die for land that shall be accursed?" Ademar asked.

"No," Brahia said with a crooked grin. "But all of them are willing to kill for their rightful lord and for the chance at enriching themselves and their families. Are you and Lady Selinora's men willing to die for some dusty old skeletons and unmarked graves?"

Cruel as the retort was, the count had a point; the loyalty of Selinora's men would only stretch so far. They'd been quick to march forth in Selinora's name to avert a greater crisis, but such loyalty might waver once Brahia's knights came thundering down between the gravestones. And even if they stood firm to a man, their bones could soon join those that Landric had already helped bury. The bodies would nourish the soul that would one day enrich Brahia's shepherds and farmers.

And Harradai, with its already meager forces depleted even further, would be a ripe target for further attack by Brahia or other greedy nobles.

He glanced at Selinora, wondering if she might reconsider now that Brahia had called her bluff. Yet her eyes were as firm as Stormbane, her resolve only hardened by Brahia's bluster and Jacopa's impudence.

Together they rode back to the graveyard, where Beothen had gathered the much smaller army. Some of the white-robed monks had abandoned their duties, ostensibly to lend their strength to the defense of the sacred graves.

Selinora guided her horse at a slow trot before the assembled men, looking every inch a warrior-queen. Ademar's chest swelled with pride and adoration, even if he had not the faintest idea of how she would guide them through the storm ahead.

"Count Brahia sees this sacred land as but another means to fill his already overstuffed coffers. The remembrance of the dead and the teachings of the saints mean nothing to him. Yet it is not just this sanctuary that is at stake. If he succeeds here, then his hunger will grow to encompass other monasteries, convents, and sanctuaries. If the steadfast and faithful do not stand against him here, then other nobles will covet other sacred lands... all across the Empire. The forests dedicated to Saint Unferth will be felled and turned to timber. The holy refuges of Saint Higbern which house the poor will be torn down and replaced by taverns and shops. The sacred observatories of Saint Rimilda which gaze upon the heavens will be torn asunder and replaced by toll-keeps or watchtowers. So we fight for more than just graves. More than just bones and urns."

Landric stepped forth from the ragged crowd of dirty, sweaty monks.

"She speaks the truth!" he called out. "I know it better than most, for my own hunger and greed once eclipsed Brahia's own. And that hunger was only bested by steadfast souls. So let us break Brahia's greed, as my greed was once broken."

The disgraced baron looked to Ademar and the sheathed Stormbane.

"Noble and worthy sentiments," murmured one of the other white-robed monks. "And we all revere our saint, but faith alone will not deter a charge of knights or a storm of arrows."

"I may have a plan," said Selinora. "But I am certain many of you will disapprove."

"Why, my lady?" Ademar asked, frowning.

"Because it may involve a fair bit of sacrilege."

**

Ademar stood within the crypt of Emperor Withgar. Before him rested the open coffin of the legendary tyrant; his skeletal hands still clasped his mace, which bore not a speck of rust despite the passage of time and the unique nature of his coffin. The sight of the bare skeleton had sent a jolt through him after the monks had slid away the ancient stone door. According to Landric, Withgar had insisted on being buried in a lidless coffin to force his heirs to witness the slow rot of his body, as a reminder that he was but a mortal after all, and that even the greatest of rulers would crumble.

Beside the open coffin rested Ademar's array of weapons: Stormbane, a mace, lance, and several daggers. Ademar knelt before each one to offer a little prayer to Saint Ecfirth, asking the warrior-saint for forgiveness and to bless the weapons for the carnage to come.

Landric and a few other white-robed monks crowded within the tomb, murmuring prayers to the grim Saint Sulwia.

"Maiden of doom and judgment, turn your baleful gaze from our current path, to instead judge the merit of our ends," Landric murmured. "Affix your gaze instead upon the cold, greedy hearts of our foes."

Only Ademar's own dread kept him from scoffing at the disgraced baron's prayers. Every word and deed still rang false. Even when the man had stepped forward to speak up in support of Selinora, even when he'd convinced the other monks to take up arms, even when he'd cooped himself up inside the tomb to prepare for the ambush, Ademar had almost longed for the chance to plunge Stormbane into his back.

It would be so simple to kill the weak, unarmored little wretch. Such an act would certainly not bring back the dead, but it might be some small measure of justice. Selinora, of course, would hate him for the crime of murdering a monk. Her love and affection would wither away, and perhaps even Saint Ecfirth might remove his favor from the young knight.

A cold, tiny, and cruel part of Ademar still wondered if that might be worth it.

When Landric finished his next round of prayers, he grunted with the effort of stringing his shortbow. Exhausted from endless days of toil in the graveyard, Landric huffed and grumbled with effort. After enjoying the sight of the man's struggle for a time, Ademar finally snatched the bow and finished the job.

The weakness certainly didn't bode well; many of the other monks likely wouldn't be of much use when the fighting began. Only Selinora's wild, blasphemous plan had any chance of giving them an edge.

With the bow ready, Landric nodded down at Stormbane.

"No," Ademar said with a low growl.

"I didn't even say anything."

"I know that look: everyone always wants to give it a swing or two."

"I was going to ask if you'd ever felt it channel the saint's power."

There were certainly times when wielding the blade when Ademar had felt a faint tug or nudge, guiding his movements one way or another. The impeccable balance of the blade also gave it a supernatural grace of sorts, though a skilled smith might have been able to replicate such a feat with enough effort. More often than not, it was the warm memories of Selinora which had inspired him, for she'd been the one to grant him that blade after knighting him with it.

But Landric did not even deserve to live, let alone hear the extent of Ademar's faith, so he ignored the question.

"Do you think any of this will make a difference?" Ademar asked and looked at the pathetic bow in Landric's sweaty, blistered grasp.

He wondered if he'd even be able to draw back the string in battle.

"The plan is a sound one, albeit risky."

"I meant for your soul. Do you think you standing with us for a righteous cause will erase the stains from your hands? Do you think digging graves for dead old women will rewrite the past?"

"My penance shall not just be in this mortal world, Sir Ademar. The scriptures teach us that when we die and rise to face Saint Sulwia, she calls forth the shades of all those we wronged. Every person who died because of my ambitions shall rise to judge me: Selinora's men, my own soldiers and mercenaries. Even Sir Galen, because he died as a result of accepting my bribe."

His lips trembled, seemingly more fearful of that prospect than of the armored tide coming for the graveyard at that very moment.

"All this toil in the mortal world is but training and preparation for that spiritual judgment. So yes, Sir Ademar, I do think it will make a difference."

Despite everything, the broken baron cracked a grin.

"And enduring your glares shall prepare my soul quite well for the ire of my other enemies in the next life."

With a snort and a roll of his eyes, Ademar collected the blade, affixed it to his belt along with his mace, then tested the straps of his shield.

The shield was another gift with warm memories: the warrior-twins Sigvor and Kaskia had given it to him after he'd bested them in a duel. They'd also done far more than just fight... not even the nearby bones of an emperor could deter the heat inspired by those memories. A deep breath pushed those thoughts aside, then he slung the shield over his back and collected his lance.

Though intended for use on horseback, it could prove decisive in the first few moments of the ambush. A single fierce thrust against a mounted knight might grant his inept comrades time to wreak justice in Saint Sulwia's name, even if only for a short while.

"Landric, Federo: to the door," Ademar said

The monks nodded and braced their shoulders against the stone, which had already been slightly dislodged. A shove from the two monks would be enough to send it tumbling open. All throughout the sacred graveyard, other monks, knights, and soldiers were preparing similar ambushes of their own. Upon the arrival of Brahia's army and Selinora's signal, they would burst forth and unleash holy fury upon the attackers.

Or they would die like dogs beneath the shadows of the tombs.

Through the gap in the stone slab came the distant rustle of hoofbeats and boots. As expected, Brahia had advanced while the sun descended past the horizon. A night attack was a risky gamble but Brahia surely wanted to end this quickly before more defenders arrived.

The tromping of hooves and boots grew closer. Nervous murmurs flitted in as the invaders wondered where the defenders had gone. Through the little gap shone a meager beam of moonlight which flickered as soldiers marched on by.

"Scouts didn't see 'em ride off, did they?" one man murmured.

"Could have snuck away in the rain, I suppose."

"Oy, isn't that the emperor's tomb? Wonder if his crown's still in there..."

Ademar gritted his teeth, sweaty hands bracing around the cumbersome lance.

"There will be time for scrounging and looting later," a harsh voice snapped.

The beam of moonlight sparkled and died again and again as the soldiers moved past. The great serpent of greed weaved further into the graveyard, no doubt spreading out to cover more ground, losing cohesion in the process. The more the the column dispersed, the more terror the first strike would inflict.

"My gaze descends from the halls of judgment!" a cold voice shrieked through the night. "No longer do I judge the souls of the dead: now I must judge the living who tread upon sacred ground!"

Fearful shouts and curses burst from the spooked soldiers.

"Where'd that come from?" a nervous voice hissed from outside.

"Is this how I am repaid for punishing the fallen souls of those who have wronged you and for rewarding the souls of those who did you kindness?"

One of the monks shivered and muttered a silent prayer, begging forgiveness for the sacrilege of Selinora's wild plan. Ademar managed a faint smile, knowing he'd have certainly fallen for the ruse if he'd been among Brahia's host. Selinora's keen eyes had noted the discomfort among his men when she'd spoken about Sulwia's judgment, and had forged those fears into a potent weapon. Even if only a few men broke or fled, it might be enough to turn the tide.

"For this crime, I call forth the souls and bones of those whom I have already judged! Arise, worthy and wicked! Arise and send these fools to my grim and hallowed halls!"

After Ademar's nod, Landric and Federo shoved with all their might against the stone slab. Moonlight flooded the tomb as the door slammed onto the dusty cobblestones outside. Other slabs erupted and more men burst from their half-buried hiding spots throughout the graveyard. All through the cemetery, Brahia's baffled and scattered army whirled about in fear, confusion, and perhaps a semblance of faithful contrition.

Selinora had played her role well; now it was time for Ademar to play his.

Crying out Saint Sulwia's name, Ademar braced and struck. The long lance burst through the open doorway and took a mounted man in the thigh. The sharp point of the lance and Ademar's strength sent it punching through the chainmail and into the soft, vulnerable flesh beneath.

His scream rose, only to be drowned out by others as Beothen's men-at-arms jabbed forth with spears and lances. Bows thrummed from other hiding places. A storm of vengeful missiles cut down dozens of men in moments.

Leaving his lance within the man's thigh, Ademar unsheathed Stormbane and readied his shield. Flowing forth as a spirit of vengeance, he bashed a spearman in the face with his shield and deflected a clumsy, frantic swing of a mace. An arrow skimmed off his foe's breastplate; Ademar pivoted, deflected another swing, then hammered the pommel of Stormbane into the man's thin helmet. With a clang and a grunt, the man crumpled.

Across the little cobblestone road from Ademar's hiding place, Beothen led a tide of armored knights into the chaos. Spears kept men at bay while axes hewed through flesh and armor. A corpse toppled from a horse and the panicking courser trampled down the line of frightening, shrieking men. One man grabbed at the reins and tried to claim the saddle, only for his face to crash against a crypt in the process.

Selinora had struck the match and now bedlam burned throughout the graveyard. Men rose from the earth like vengeful revenants. White-robed monks sent arrows into the flesh of men and horses.

As Ademar wrenched Stormbane from the guts of a dying archer, he spotted a glorious and terrifying sight upon a crypt a short distance away. The woman stood alone, dark paint streaking her face as her white-dyed hair fluttered in the vengeful wind. Clad in a tattered robe borrowed from one of the monks, Selinora presented a terrifying visage: an echo of Saint Sulwia's wrath. Black paint dripped from her hands as she reached into the sky, screaming out in wordless, terrible fury. Thanks to the dye, paint, and the ghastliness of her face, even Ademar himself had trouble recognizing her.

"It's the saint herself, come to judge us!" a gray-bearded old soldier shrieked. "Run!"

Rather than cut the man down as he turned, Ademar turned his blade at the last moment. The fearful cries were a far more potent weapon than even Stormbane. Faith and superstition combined with panic to unleash a general rout among some of Brahia's troops. Men turned and scampered through the maze of gravestones and crypts. Arrows and spears gave chase. Other hidden defenders erupted from the earth or other crypts, granting little mercy to those who would defile sacred ground with their greed.

And yet not all yielded to terror. Islands of valor stood strong amidst the sea of fear. Armored knights and men-at-arms organized hasty defenses or counter-charges. A brutish knight sent his courser into a mob of Selinora's men, the bulk of the horse crushing weapons and bones alike. Dismounted troops followed in the wake of the knight's charge, turning the bristling wall of defenders into a mound of blood, gore, and dread.

Knowing the tide could turn quite quickly, Ademar waded into the gap created by the charge. A nudge of his shield steadied a faltering young knight, who used his hammer to break the arm of one of Brahia's mercenaries. The sight of Stormbane gleaming in the moonlight steadied the defenders, as did the shrieks of the imposter saint, who still stood proud on the nearby tomb. She cried out curses upon the names and souls of the invaders, promising untold torment in this life and the next.

Undaunted by the prospect of sacrilege, one of Brahia's men knelt and readied a crossbow. Fear clawed at Ademar's heart; he was too far to render aid. A flick of the marksman's finger would spell the doom of his lover and the end of the ruse.

A stone slammed into the back of the marksman's head, tossed by a white-robed monk upon another crypt. No doubt the man saw himself as an instrument of the saint's will, guided by Sulwia's cold, judgmental hands.

With the momentum of Brahia's counter-charge slowed, fear clawed at his surviving men. Though his mounted knights ran down monks and soldiers, the bulk of the invaders were retreating northward, fearful faces glowing in the moonlight. Ademar saw no sign of Brahia, but he gritted his teeth at the sight of nine blood-spattered knights forming up at the far end of the cobblestone road. Blood dripped from their lances and blades. Their horses panted and huffed, hooves scraping at the stone.

Nine knights could not possibly hope to fully turn the tide, but they could still exact a bloody, vengeful toll.

"Spears!" Ademar bellowed, exchanging Stormbane for a fallen knight's lance.

Around him, Selinora's beleaguered men formed a forest of steel. Exhaustion and a lack of discipline left gaps in their line. Wounds and fatigue forced spears to dip lower, creating other openings. Most horses would not dare charge against even such a paltry defense, but those fierce coursers had the hearts of lions, as did the men upon their backs.

White fabric fluttered as Saint Sulwia's monks rushed forth to fill the gaps. Though armored only by faith and robes, they glared forth with iron in their gaze. Among them was none other than Landric; blood trickled from a deep gash in his forehead. It would have been so easy for Ademar to whirl in the midst of the charge and cut the wretch down... and just as easy for Landric to skewer Ademar through the back of his neck when the horses collided with them.

"Steady, brothers!" Landric called in a firm, proud tone he'd surely used before to rally his men during his war with Selinora. "Saint Sulwia watches us: grant her no cause to doubt your faith!"

Ademar spat out a few droplets of blood; the result of biting his tongue during the frenzy of the fighting. A glance up at Selinora shifted the dread into something warmer.

"Aye," Ademar muttered under his breath. "The saint watches us."

The nine doomed knights thundered forth. Too outnumbered to purchase victory, they surged forth to purchase time for their comrades to retreat, and perhaps to win themselves a place in a bard's song. Around Ademar, the monks offered tearful prayers. A young man vomited. Another wept. Someone else laughed: wild, maniacal, wolfish.

A single monk turned to run.

No others followed.

The long lance of the foremost knight drew first blood, colliding with the unprotected head of a monk. Bone and flesh yielded to chivalric strength and steel. Warmth splashed upon Ademar's hand as the monk crumpled with a soft, wet thud. Other lances hit their marks but so too did the spears of the defenders. A horrific pressure erupted in Ademar's arm as his lance found the neck of an incoming courser. With a feral howl, he shoved with all his might. Landric's spear sank in alongside Ademar's, and together they pushed back, sending the dying horse rearing back to befoul the advance of the others.

Something slammed into the doomed horse from behind. Lances and spears crumpled. More pain flared as Ademar staggered back and his head slammed against a gravestone. Spitting within his helmet, he barely managed to free Stormbane from its scabbard. A frenzied horse cantered past and plowed through the crumpling remnants of the formation. A knight followed, his blade hewing in wide, low sweeps. One such blow clanged against Ademar's shield and Stormbane slipped from his trembling grasp. His shield absorbed another wide sweep and the knight rode through, continuing his onslaught amidst the unarmored monks whose faith had begun to falter.

Before he could collect Stormbane, Landric reached it first. Ademar cried out in rage, but barely heard his own bellow due to the ringing in his ears. The disgraced baron pivoted and brought the blade down in a brutal, two-handed thrust through the thigh of a dismounted knight. The knight toppled, allowing Landric to adjust his grip and deliver a series of thunderous pommel-strikes that dented in the man's helm and left him limp upon the cobblestones.

"Blade," Ademar sputtered, extending a hand.

Landric glanced down at the blood-spattered, rune-etched steel. Despite the carnage and horror around them, reverent awe sparkled in the man's eyes. After one last pommel-strike to the fallen foe for good measure, he slipped the hilt back into Ademar's grasp.

Darkness flowed at Ademar's flank. He spun, bringing blade and shield up to face a knight who'd cantered back around for another suicidal charge. A heavy spiked mace slammed into the shield. The wood held firm but Ademar's stance did not; the momentum of the blow sent him flying through the air. Agony reigned as something hard and firm cracked against the back of his head. Warmth blossomed beneath his helmet. He heard Landric's curse, then Selinora's cry.

Shadows stretched across his vision, blotting out the reeling formation of his comrades and the handful of Brahia's knights who still struggled on. Crimson joined the darkness, turning the scene before him to a tapestry of black, gray, and red.

Through the fading din, Selinora's words reached out to him across time and space. He saw her standing before him, tearful as she used Stormbane to knight him, sentencing him to a life of lonely chivalry upon the road.

"In Saint Ecfirth's name, I bid you to protect the realm with steel in your hand and valor in your heart. To stand against the darkness and to hold firm against fear. To protect the innocent, to safeguard the realm, and to hold these vows until your dying breath."

Landric blurred before him, a broken spear in hand. Despite his wounds and fatigue, he hooked the splintered shaft beneath an enemy knight's knee. With a bellowed prayer, Landric shrieked and tore the knight from the saddle. Armor clanged against the stones but the knight struck back a heartbeat after his fall; a wild swing of his mace crashed into Landric's leg. Something snapped within his ankle. Squealing pitifully, the disgraced baron toppled upon the knight.

A bellow of rage drowned out Landric's whimpers as the man shoved the monk away. After the knight rose shakily to his feet, Ademar recognized the cold gleam of those dark eyes.

Brahia.

Like Landric, Brahia's greed had unleashed death and ruin upon the land. Like so many other nobles of the Empire, he'd allowed ambition to usurp decency and humility.

And though he might have been a kindred spirit with the wretched Landric, he raised his mace high to silence the monk's screams.

Ademar rushed forward in a staggering, reckless charge. More blood leaked from the rupture in the back of his helm where it had cracked against the gravestone. Every fervent step drained more life from his body.

Yet Selinora's soft words guided him forward.

"In Saint Ecfirth's name, I bid you to protect the realm with steel in your hand and valor in your heart. To stand against the darkness and to hold firm against fear. To protect the innocent, to safeguard the realm, and to hold these vows until your dying breath."

Stormbane caught the mace-blow mere inches before it could cave in Landric's skull. Spittle flew through the slits of Brahia's helmet as he struggled against the holy steel. Despite his wounded leg, Landric managed to flail against Brahia's knee. The count's little step back gave Ademar his chance.

Shield and sword acted in brutal concert as the bleeding knight unleashed his onslaught. The shield caught the first counter-stroke and the blade slipped beneath Brahia's helm, finding a faint line of unprotected flesh between helmet and gorget. The count cursed at the thin, fleeting wound and raised his gauntleted hand to shove Ademar's blade away before he could strike a killing blow.

Every slash, thrust, and riposte left Ademar breathless. More blood surged down his back. Even over his own heavy breaths and Brahia's curses, he heard the dripping of his life upon the stones.

Brahia's mace came down in a wild arc; the shield caught the haft but not the head, which thudded against Ademar's already-ruined helm. More crimson flooded his eyes as another river of pain flowed through his skull.

"Is it worth it?" Ademar snarled as his furious counterattack sent Brahia staggering. "To lead yourself and your men to death for a scrap of farmland?"

"I was going to ask you the same," Brahia said, panting and nearly tripping over a dead horse as he adjusted his stance. "Is it worth it to die for that baroness?"

Ademar grinned, tasting the sweat, blood, and fear. He dared glance up to the crypt where Selinora still stood, her paint-streaked face twisted into a vision of vengeful, holy rage as she spewed out curses upon the faltering invaders. The harsh words burrowed deep into panicking minds but Ademar could only hear the soft, warm words she'd uttered when she'd knighted him.

"Yes," Ademar managed.

The last of Brahia's knights fled, broken by exhaustion, the deaths of their friends, and the frenzied sermons of the apparent saint.

Alone amidst the corpses and victors, Brahia sighed.

His mace landed with a heavy thud. Shaky hands removed his helmet to reveal a bloody, sweaty face that barely resembled the handsome, poised noble Ademar had met at the parley.

Relief dulled the pain but Ademar sank to his knees nonetheless. Stormbane slid from his grasp to take a well-earned rest upon the ground. Blood dripped from beneath his helmet as the gray mist churned through his senses.

The sense of taste went first, taking with it the salt and iron upon his tongue. His hearing faded next, denying him the sounds of panicked men and Selinora's vengeful cries. Though his limbs went numb, his vision remained strong enough to watch as Landric limped towards him.

With a soft and somber smile, the baron knelt to collect Stormbane. Ademar murmured something: a pathetic, blubbering protest. A blood-soaked gauntlet rose but Landric shuffled away before Ademar could reclaim his blade.

Brahia looked up and said something; judging by the crooked twitch upon his lips, perhaps it was a joke.

If it were indeed a jest, it was the last he would ever make.

Landric raised the holy blade and brought it down in a clumsy, wild chop that cleaved deep into Brahia's cheek. The greedy count toppled beneath a man just as wicked as him. White-robed monks surged forth to stop Landric but the blade came down again.

Sprays of crimson anointed their robes as Landric butchered Brahia, in full view of Saint Sulwia and her surviving worshipers.

Ademar managed to twitch his numbing neck upwards. Selinora was no longer atop the crypt. Horror devoured his soul at the thought that she might have fallen, that a lucky archer might have sent an arrow through her heart. His lips moved in a curse, then a prayer.

He supposed it was fitting, for his last words to be holy ones. Perhaps Saint Sulwia might smile upon him for that final act of faith.

**

A palace of mist loomed before him. Pillars shifted and writhed, stretching higher and higher into the cloudless sky. Dark shapes circled each pillar in a grim procession. Unseen hands waved censers that spewed forth long serpents of gray smoke.

For the first time in months, Ademar felt no pain. Even when not in battle, there were always lingering agonies of knighthood: soreness in his lower back from long days in the saddle, old aches in his shoulders from the strain of absorbing blows, throbbing headaches from a lack of water.

He breathed in deep, finding that the air smelled faintly of rain, reminding him of the spring mornings back at the family estate in Ravenmark.

He reached back, expecting to find a horrific wound in his skull, but found no sign of the injury that had likely sent him onwards to the next life. No warm blood clung to his fingers and a gentle caress of his cheek confirmed the old scars were gone, as if Sir Galen's blade had never scraped across his face at all.

This... this was how it ended. With a bloody battle in a graveyard, in the name of his lover, in the name of faith, in the name of decency. He'd died without Stormbane in his hand, though he supposed in terms of the knightly songs and sagas, he'd died well.

Barely a year as a knight...

Had it been enough? Had he saved enough lives? Had he done more good than ill?

"Judge me as you see fit, Saint Sulwia," he called out, his voice thrumming against the misty palace. "But all I ask is that you tell me if Baroness Selinora lives."

No answer arrived. Misty shapes materialized in the doorway to the great palace. In a neat row, as if arraying themselves for battle, the shades marched forth and assembled before him. Their bodies and faces churned with fog and shadow, betraying nothing.

A chill settled over him as he remembered Landric's words about the souls of one's victims arriving to judge the dead. Wide eyes swept over the line of misty figures...

Were these all the lives he'd claimed during his time as a knight? Poachers, bandits, soldiers, cultists...

"Sir Galen?" he rasped.

White light flashed within one of the misty figures. The fog vanished, replaced by a tall, gallant figure in battered armor, with lustrous golden hair and an impish grin.

The last time they'd met, Ademar had bashed in Galen's face with a mace in the courtyard of Harradai, during the desperate defense against Landric's ruthless attack. Yet there was no sign of blood, gore, or animosity upon the other knight's face.

"Truth be told, I thought your journey here would take longer," said Galen, with a warm smile just like the ones he'd given his squire when they'd shared wine or a humble meal around a campfire.

"Are we to duel yet again?" Ademar asked, glowering. "Are the souls of all my fallen foes to challenge me?"

"As delightful as that would be, old friend, I offer you a different challenge: a question." Galen raised a gleaming eyebrow. "Was it worth it? Dying like that, your blood leaking from your skull, your sword beyond your grasp?"

"The answer depends upon one thing," Ademar said. "Did Selinora survive?"

"If your answer depends upon her survival, then you have given your answer."

Ademar frowned, his heart burning as he glanced around the misty landscape, fearful he might catch a glimpse of Selinora rising to face judgment herself. Yet his only companions were the shades of Galen and his other old foes, some of whom had died only a few minutes before Ademar himself.

If Selinora had truly fallen as well...

Pressure crept into his skull but no tears flowed. If she had fallen, she had done so due to her own choices and her own valor. Selinora had taken the reckless but clever choice to pose as the saint to frighten the invaders, knowing full well the risks. She'd done so for the sake of the holy lands, of course, but also for Ademar, her men, and for all those who would have suffered if Brahia's ambitions had gone unchecked.

She'd not made that dangerous choice only for Ademar, however, just as Ademar had not fought only for Selinora.

"Yes," Ademar said finally, taking strength from the knowledge that Selinora would have said the same. "It was worth it. Even if her soul rises alongside mine, it was worth it. Her path was true and just: we were both willing to die for it."

When another figure materialized within the doorway of the palace, his breath caught in his throat. An long dress of white tatters clung to a pale, withered body. Dark streaks of blood ran from large, bloodshot eyes. Black lips formed an implacable line across her face. Moon-white hair dangled in long, wild curls down to her feet.

Ademar should have knelt before the sifter of souls, should have groveled to ask for mercy for Selinora, to beg for a fair judgment of his own soul. Fear and faith turned him to stone, allowing him to only stare.

Long, graceful steps brought the spectral figure down from the palace. Galen and the other shades stepped aside and bowed low.

Long, wrinkled fingers drew a line in the mist beside her. Stormbane blurred into existence within her grasp. The blue-gray of the rune-etched steel was one of the few spots of color within the drab, dour halls of judgement.

"There is work yet unfinished, Sir Ademar," said the saint.

A blubbering sob burst from his lips with the realization that she spoke with Selinora's voice: warm, soft, loving.

"There are tyrants to topple, wicked souls to cleanse, and hearts to be won."

She pressed Stormbane's hilt into his hand.

**

When he awoke, trembling and coated in sweat, something far more precious than Stormbane rested within his grasp.

Selinora's hand was warm and firm against his: a rock to cling to amidst a stormy sea. The baroness slumbered at his side upon the meager bed, still clad in the tattered, dirty white robe she'd worn to enhance the illusion. Sweat and rain had made short work of the dye she'd stained her hair with to imitate the saint.

For a painful moment, he wondered if this were another test in the halls of judgement. When her dark blue eyes opened, warmth erupted within the little room and Ademar let out a soft, pained sob.

As his hand tightened around hers, the other reached back to gently probe at the thick bandages upon the back of his skull. It would not be the first time Selinora's healers and alchemists had saved him; the grisly scars he'd earned from Sir Galen might have been far worse had it not been for their skill.

"When I saw you were no longer atop that crypt, I feared the worst."

"I came down when I saw you fall, darling," Selinora said, her free hand settling upon his cheek.

"So it is finished? Brahia..."

The memories trickled back in. Fragments and shards of the battle flashed before him: writhing men, blood-spattered gravestones, the unarmed Brahia falling to Landric after he'd surrendered. Such an act was one of great disgrace and dishonor, one that would have earned Landric fierce punishment in a just world. Would his current path of penance suffice for that crime as well?

He glanced across the room, to where Stormbane and his battered armor rested against the wall. Ademar would need to pray over the blade and sanctify it after its use in such a dishonorable deed.

"Yes," the baroness said. "Brahia's men regrouped after his death but they lack the strength or will for another fight. Baron Loreno also sent word that he is placing the sanctuary under his protection; others will follow suit soon."

"If only they'd done so earlier," he grumbled.

"Indeed. But a good deed delayed is still a good deed after all, and it helps to ensure another such crisis won't arise anytime soon. The widow Jacopa might seek vengeance, but for now she needs a new husband and a means to shore up her position."

By the blood of the saints, it never seemed to end. One crisis after another; each victory birthed a new challenge.

"Worry about none of that now, darling," Selinora said with a gentle, loving touch to his lips. "Rest. The healers will be in shortly."

**

The throbbing in his skull prevented Ademar from truly drifting off, so the next few days passed in a slow, painful daze. The healing herbs and poultices were pathetic balms compared to the warmth of Selinora's presence and within a few days he managed the strength to get on his feet.

With the help of Beothen he mounted his horse and followed Selinora back to the sanctuary of Saint Sulwia. The depleted ranks of the white-robed monks toiled to dig graves for the fallen from both sides. There were to be no ignoble mass graves for the defeated invaders; they would be buried with honor and respect just like the monks and those from Selinora's host. Even the wretched Count Brahia would be given a deep grave and an unmarked gravestone to show that his soul had risen to face Sulwia's judgement.

As they watched the holy toil, Ademar thought back to his time in the halls of judgement. Given the blows to the head he'd suffered, he supposed it could have been a dream or a hallucination of his injured mind, but it had been so vivid and real. He could still feel Sulwia's cold grasp upon his hand, could still see the gleam of Sir Galen's hair and feel the thrumming timbre of the dead knight's voice.

"Ademar?" Selinora asked, her brow furrowing. "You look a little pale. Shall we return you to the healers?"

"I am quite all right.

Clammy hands clung to the reins as he looked across the field of toiling men in search of Landric.

The former baron stood alone within a half-dug grave. Bare to the waist, sweat rippled along his thin, emaciated form. Upon his back were long red welts that surely stung quite terribly beneath the onslaught of sweat and the harsh sun. Ademar guided his horse over to the man, who glanced up with a faint, weary smile.

"Punishment, I presume, for killing Brahia after he yielded?"

"Indeed."

Despite everything, Landric's grin widened.

"Since my soul was already weighed down by so many other sins, what was one more? You were clearly incapable of doing what needed to be done, given your wounds. Selinora's knights and my fellow monks were likewise incapable, on account of honor and faith."

Ademar would not mourn the death of such a man, even under dishonorable circumstances, but matters would have been simpler had Brahia been captured. A more formal agreement or treaty could have been arranged; instead his widow had slipped away and could one day pose a threat in her own right.

"And what of the other sins?" Ademar asked. "Your fellow monks did go along with our act of blasphemy to spring the ambush, albeit reluctantly."

"I don't think the holy scriptures of Saint Sulwia cover the imitation of her or the use of crypts to hide soldiers," Selinora said with a playful smile.

"No, they do not. I suspect the good of your deeds outweighed the potential sacrilege. But when your souls rise to face the saint one day, you may have to face her questions on the matter."

Ademar once more thought back to his interlude within that dream... or the afterlife.

The disgraced baron glanced up at the woman he'd nearly overthrown.

"Thank you for coming, my lady. For doing the right thing when no one else would."

"Even after all this, I am still somewhat haunted by the thought that this was all an elaborate ruse of yours."

"If I was somehow that clever, my lady, I'd not be standing in a half-dug grave, covered in blisters and bruises."

After a dutiful bow, Landric returned to his work, and the lovers rode back off to rejoin the battered survivors of her army.

**

The lingering ache in his skull faded as Ademar sank into the warm, bubbling spring. Through the thick stone walls came the muffled sounds of laughter, revelry, and music, where Selinora's men celebrated with of one of her vassals. The lord had hosted the victors during their trek home and hundreds had gathered in the courtyard of his small keep. All that noise had turned the ache into a burning throb, so Ademar had fled the festivities down to the baths as soon as he'd been able.

Just as he'd hoped, soft footsteps came down the narrow stone staircase as Selinora made her own retreat from the revelry. His eyes roamed up and down her curves, upon which rested a dark green gown she'd donned for the occasion. Though still weary from the road, her smile burned far more brightly than the torches and candles.

Without a word, Ademar rose and crossed the water towards her. As he moved to ascend and help her disrobe, the baroness tutted and gently nudged his bare chest with her foot. He sank back into the bath and floated. The fine dress gave way to a far more wondrous sight: the pale, luscious curves of her body. Selinora sighed as she slipped into the bath and the sigh shifted to a low moan as his arms wrapped around her.

Gentle fingers caressed his scars and the tender touch seemed to dispel the old, grisly memories, as if her love could reforge his flesh and soul alike.

"Something still troubles you, darling. Is it the fact that Landric struck down Brahia so dishonorably? Or was it our acts of blasphemy?"

"Did the healers tell you how dire my wounds were?" he muttered. "Did they..."

That warm touch drifted to caress the back of his head, grazing near the bandages.

"They said it was severe and that you'd lost a great deal of blood. That it would take time for the ointments to fully seal the wounds. You were certainly in a far rougher state than that grim night at Harradai when Galen betrayed us."

For once, the mention of that evening did not cause his scars to ignite.

"It may have been the delusions of a wounded mind but... I saw Saint Sulwia. Even Galen. I saw the halls of judgement, the shades of the men I've slain and..."

Selinora's soft gasp dashed against the stone walls. Her touch turned fierce as she embraced him, coiling around Ademar as if he were adrift at sea. When she pulled back, her eyes overflowed with tears and she pressed a shaky hand over his heart, seeking the truth of its rhythm.

"Just a dream, I'm sure," he muttered quickly.

"You do not sound convinced."

"Whatever it was, I am here now."

Ademar collected her hand and brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss.

"Whether it was a dream or an actual communion with the divine... it has changed matters for me. New paths and new thoughts."

"By the blood of the saints, don't tell me you plan on taking up a holy shovel and a white robe like Landric."

"Spirits below, no," Ademar said with a faint chuckle, which faded as quickly as it had appeared. "But..."

He swallowed, having rehearsed the words during the journey, constantly battling with himself over his desire to say them.

"I cannot keep doing this, my lady. The wandering, the roaming, the fighting... it burns to be away from you. Every night under a different roof or at a different campsite, every day a different struggle... this past year has taken its toll upon both my body and soul."

Her lips quivered and even more tears leaked from her warm, dark blue eyes.

"I have found... friends and comfort out on the open road, to be sure. But nothing compared to what I feel with you. And as this latest crisis has proven, you may still have need of a steadfast knight, particularly if Lady Jacopa or Brahia's other allies seek vengeance."

Selinora closed her eyes but that did nothing to forestall her tears. His own eyes ached with the effort of holding his back, but he saw little point in trying any longer.

"The night after you left, I rode out after you," Selinora murmured. "I wanted to claw you back into my arms and drag you back to Harradai. But a great storm descended and destroyed the bridge that would have brought me to you. I took it as a sign from Saint Ecfirth that you were meant for more."

She glanced over at Stormbane, which rested against the wall.

"I remember that storm," Ademar said, his voice rough and hoarse. "I remember it soaking my tent and clothing, while I remained grateful that you were safe, warm, and dry back in Harradai."

"I ruined a dress, a cloak, and a good pair of boots that night," she said, managing a faint smile as she forced her eyes open.

As he wiped away her tears, Selinora returned the favor.

"Harradai shall always be a home for you, Ademar. Always."

"But there are still other matters I need to do. I'd like to return to Ravenmark to see my family, at least, so they know I'm alive, that I became a knight, and that I'm settling down."

She nodded, with a grace and a sense of understanding that was almost painful to fathom.

"And I also imagine you might want to reunite with a few of your 'friends' from your other travels and adventures."

His eyes bulged.

"Gods, Selinora, that's not what-"

With a faint sniffle, she gently swatted at his shoulder.

"I am no fool, darling. It's quite obvious you've picked up a few new tricks from your travels... and that is reason enough for me to keep my jealousy to a faint simmer. I would not chain your heart while you are out on the road, Sir Ademar. But when you return for the next and last time... you will be mine and mine alone. And I shall be yours."

His breath caught in his throat, unsure if that fully qualified as a proposal of marriage. Surely it would be difficult politically for Selinora to marry a landless knight from a family on the far side of the Empire. Yet even if she didn't take him as a husband, their hearts would be forever entwined. Beneath that joyful notion was the painful truth that he would certainly outlive her, unless his knightly duties brought him to an uncertain end. He'd thus likely live decades without her... and yet the sorrow of such a thought proved fleeting.

Every moment with Selinora was a gift. Only a few years at her side would be a treasure beyond comprehension. And he knew that while Harridai might be calm compared to the open roads of the Empire, he could still find purpose there. Other nobles like Brahia might enact schemes of their own, and the grizzled Sir Beothen would surely want to retire one day, leaving the task of commanding the garrison to Ademar. While such a path might perhaps not be the topic of a bard's glorious song, he'd endured enough terror and adventure for a time.

When she leaned in for a soft kiss and melted against him, his manhood prodded against her soft belly. The warmth and pain of their words could do little to distill the sheer, primal sensations inspired by her touch. Selinora giggled a little.

"Really, Sir Ademar? That is not very knightly: your baroness is professing her undying love for you, and you can think only crude and wicked thoughts."

"Undying love is not incompatible with crude and wicked thoughts, my lady. In fact, the two can go together quite nicely."

Her lips sought his again, then she gave his lower lip a faint, impish little bite.

"Show me, then, Sir," she said in a low, sultry purr that sent a surge of hunger and warmth through his powerful body.

The gleam in her eyes inspired Ademar to be a bit rougher than he might have been otherwise. A powerful shove sent her reeling to the edge of the great bath. She gasped in feigned shock before squealing in delight as he assailed her. Firm hands spread her soft thighs apart as his hungry lips sought her neck. A sudden yank tugged her from the bath and propped her on the edge. Hunger simmered as Ademar leaned away to briefly admire the water droplets running along her curves. Gentle fingers chased the droplets and drew forth needy shivers and sighs from his baroness.

His touch grazed up and down her legs. At first she giggled and sighed, before the sounds crested into grumbles of frustration. Though quite tempted to torment her using the lessons Isabelica and Nezetta had taught him, Ademar's heart and cock ached far too fiercely for such games.

As he tilted his cock towards her sex, Ademar tightened his grip on her calf. For a moment, his grip lingered there, grateful to cradle something soft and delicate after so many months of wielding firm, cruel weapons.

Eyes boring down at her to watch for signs of unease or discomfort, Ademar carefully lifted her leg and braced it against his chest. The new angle left her sex thoroughly and wantonly exposed: the water of the bath mixed with the dew, giving her dark curls an alluring, decadent gleam.

Selinora's lashes fluttered and she bit her lip, but offered no protest at the new position, which he'd never quite done with his prior lovers. To help her relax, Ademar pressed a worshipful kiss upon her toes, then a lick to her ankle. The soft giggle from his lover served as a signal to take things further.

With one hand tightly grasping her leg, the other guided his shaft towards her sodden, wondrous slit. As the tip settled over her entrance, Selinora grunted and braced a hand against his powerful, shivering thigh.

"Hold a moment, darling," she muttered, her smile gleaming with divine radiance.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. You just looked so... beautiful there. All that power. All that strength. Poised and ready for me."

Her fingers brushed along his thigh and traced the powerful muscles of his core.

"Now take what you wish, my dutiful knight."

Before she'd even finished the last few words, Ademar was already leaning forward to obey. His taut length sheathed itself inside her: effortless, smooth, deep. Their cries entwined as he rocked back for another stroke. His eyes almost rolled back at the impressive depth afforded by the new angle, and at the beautiful sight of how vulnerable and exposed she was.

As his grasp tightened on her ankle, his other hand drifted down to caress her sex. Even through the haze of hunger, Ademar could not forget the lessons she'd imparted upon him the night they'd first made love.

"Attentive as ever," she mumbled with a lazy, contended smile as his thumb set to work.

The slow, deep strokes and the touch upon her folds soon turned that lazy smile into a wild, abject expression of need. Her jaw dropped and wet curls clung to the side of her face. The dark strands slashed against the marble as she writhed, while others flailed down to rest upon her heaving, dripping chest.

A low, rumbling growl escaped his lips as his searing hunger fought against the need to please her. For the moment, the latter impulse prevailed, and his thrusts remained slow and deep, while his thumb remained firm and consistent.

One of her hands clawed at his thigh while the other reached up to grope at her breast. Needy, shaky fingers played with her nipple. As her eyes rolled back yet again and her back arched, her nails grew quite cruel against his leg. His mind grasped hold of the pain to steady himself, the agony serving as a bulwark against the rising tide.

As he'd hoped, Selinora reached the wondrous peak first. Beautiful cries of abject surrender assailed the walls of the underground spring. The water seemed to ripple beneath the onslaught of her joyous sounds. Needy pulses gripped his taut, throbbing cock. His rhythm faltered for a moment, then he grunted with the effort of maintaining the slow pace to send her spiraling onwards.

The cries fractured into needy, almost agonized gasps.

"The other leg, darling," she managed to grunt, her eyes still fluttering so fiercely she could not meet his gaze. "Deep and fast as you like."

Ademar almost sobbed when she yielded that to him. A demanding hand gripped her other ankle and guided her leg to brace against his chest. As one, they cried out at the deep, perfect angle of his strokes. Cruel, iron hands grasped her ankles as he set to his furious, wicked work. Water sloshed around him as he pounded away, knowing she could take it, knowing he loved her enough that he'd stop if she wanted him to.

Bliss burst from her lips again and again. Even without the aid of his thumb upon her folds, the baroness' pleasure thrummed anew, or perhaps she was just drifting further on the currents of her first climax. Worried his own rising cries might disturb the revelers up above, he bit down on the side of her foot to silence himself.

"None of that, darling," she grunted between needy, shrill cries. "I want to hear it all. Let the heavens hear it, even."

After a quick bite, Ademar obeyed. His low, thrumming groans embraced her shaky cries and whimpers. The echoes of their bliss left a ringing in his ears. The fury of his body sent deep aches through his muscles, still sore from the journey and the battle. Yet he was glad to fight through the soreness, to claw through the old aches to ascend the heights along with his baroness.

"There," she cried out, though he was in too much of a frenzy to really understand what she meant. "Right there, there, there, darling..."

All he could do was pound and plow against her, gripping her ankles with the same ferocity he'd have gripped his weapons in battle.

"Selinora, I-"

Ademar was not certain what he'd been about to say. A warning, perhaps, of his impending climax? A declaration of devotion? Words of fervent, hungry praise?

Whatever his intent, only a broken sob emerged, followed by a series of low, needy grunts as he grasped the last reserves of strength for the final push.

As deep inside her as he'd ever been, Ademar cried out the first syllable of her name before joy consumed him. Wild throbs sent his seed spewing deep into Selinora's sex. Urgent, needy clenches and shivers greeted the offering. Her eyes rolled back again, no doubt overwhelmed and torn asunder by the final, fervent sensations. Numbness drifted from his toes to his back as exhaustion took hold, but still he remained deep inside her, claiming her sex with more power and love than he ever had before.

Teeth chattering, chest heaving, Selinora reached up to pull him down for a soft, slow kiss as her legs slipped from his shoulders. Their murmurs flowed against one another as they drifted on the aftershocks and basked in the afterglow. More of his seed dripped forth and into the bath, and his thumbs worked in gentle little circles around her pert, dark nipples.

"I wonder if that was perhaps the hardest you've ever made me climax, darling. Something about the certainty of a future together..."

She shivered as his gentle lips caressed her neck.

Ademar himself wondered if the wild bliss had been a result of their close brushes with death... or perhaps his own potential visit to the afterlife, yet he dared not ruin the moment with such a supposition. With tender care, he slipped out of her and guided her into the bath so they could clean up the sordid mess of their lovemaking.

Once cleansed, Selinora turned and rested her back against his chest. With a heavy sigh, she nearly collapsed back against him. He leaned down to nuzzle her cheek and they both shivered amidst the afterglow of their coupling. Even as he caught his breath, Ademar's heart still raced... not with lust, but with warm thoughts of the future to come.

After so long without her, after so many battles, trials, and terrors...

She would be his. And he would be hers.

**

Author's Note: I'm going to take a bit of a break from Ademar's stories for now, leaving it on a happy note, while still leaving room for a few more adventures during his journey home and then eventually back to Selinora