It was like a twist in the days of nights—the only difference was the shifting light. The castle felt the same, bustling with movement, yet every step was measured, careful. Even the imposing stone walls seemed to shrink under the weight of the dawnwalkers’ presence, their steps echoing through halls and chambers that had once belonged to you alone.

You had raised walls, chopped wood, stored towers of grain, kept the fountains clean—anything to stave off the sickness. But it had not been enough. The bodies still burned in open graves, the air thick with the stench of rot and smoldering flesh. The priests did not come. The doctors had nothing left to give. Despair hung in the corridors, tangled with the bitter scent of crushed herbs in the study chamber.

The parchment lay untouched, the pen abandoned beside it. The fire in the hearth flickered, but its warmth never reached you. The open window let in the damp chill of the land beyond, where smoke and fog clung to the distant walls like creeping fingers. You looked out over what was left—fields barren, villages emptied, the weight of too many losses pressing against your spine.

And above all, the blood tax still needed to be paid.

You turned. Brencis stood near the table, watching you with the patience of a man who had no need to raise his voice to be obeyed. He did not move like a threat, yet his presence alone was enough to remind you of the debt still unpaid. Another month in arrears, and your blood would be painted on the castle gates. You needed to act. But how, when your lands were failing, when your people were already dying?

Brencis moved, slow and deliberate, then stopped just before you. His gaze was steady, his voice even. “A dying land yields no tribute. A dead lord pays no debts. Yet I stand here, waiting.” He tilted his head, considering you. “Tell me, then—what will you do?”