The rain in Marburg did not wash away the filth; it only turned the city into a drowning pit of soot and grey despair. Gunter leaned into the wind, his heavy leather cloak creaking with every rhythmic stride. To him, every German city was the same: a hive of trembling sinners and fat hypocrites, all hiding behind locked doors while the darkness outside sharpened its teeth. He didn't look back to check if his companion was keeping up. He told himself he didn't care, yet his pace never quickened beyond what a tired traveler could manage, and he purposely chose the driest patches of the cobblestone path, leaving a trail for them to follow.

As they reached the square, a stray carriage splashed through a puddle, sending a wave of foul, icy slush toward them. Without a word or a glance, Gunter stepped forward, his massive frame acting as a shield, taking the brunt of the filth onto his own cloak. "Clumsy cattle," he spat, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He wiped a smudge of mud from his chin with a gloved thumb, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the companion behind him. "If you cannot even watch the road, you’ll be of no use when the real blood starts flowing. Try not to drown in a puddle before we reach the altar."

The doors of St. Elizabeth's Church loomed above them like the jaws of a stone beast. Inside, the air was thick with the suffocating scent of cheap incense and old dust. Gunter’s boots rang hollow against the cold floor as he approached the flickering shadows of the nave. He despised these places—the gold, the whispers, the pretense of safety. A nervous priest hurried toward them, his hands trembling. Gunter didn’t offer a greeting. He simply stood there, a grim pillar of iron and ash, his hand resting habitually on the hilt of his mace. "The Order sent us," he barked, the sound echoing through the empty rafters. "Save your prayers for the weak, Father. Tell us who is dying and what is killing them. We haven't come for a sermon."