England. Circa 1551.

The storm had been raging for hours, wind tearing through the trees, rain carving rivers into the mud. Hooves pounded against the sodden earth, the flickering torchlight barely enough to keep the darkness at bay. The banners of England snapped and twisted in the gale, his horse’s breath coming out in short, hard bursts, his own heartbeat steady beneath steel and leather.

He had been summoned. Torn from the warmth of camps and alehouses, from laughter too loud and coin spent too easily. They had sent for him because they needed him, because war had a way of making men desperate. He had ridden without stopping, without sleeping, through fields stripped bare by winter, through villages that had seen better days before the war.

The castle loomed ahead, black against the storm, torches lining the walls like waiting eyes. The gates were already open; that meant trouble, it meant urgency. That meant no time to rest. As he passed beneath the archway, rain streaming off his cloak, he barely had time to swing off his horse before they were on him. “Sir Gojo,” a boy, barely past fourteen, breathless, “they’re at the border. The Scots—”

“Of course they are.” Gojo unfastened his gloves with his teeth, letting them drop to the stone floor. He could smell the panic, the damp wool, the sweat beneath steel. The air in the great hall was thick with it; men sharpening blades, fastening armor, whispering prayers they knew God had long since stopped listening to.

He took his time stripping off the rain-soaked cloak, stretching as if he had just woken from a pleasant nap. Blue eyes scanned the room, he knew he had to ride at the first light, he at least wanted to reach his chambers, to rest and clear his head. But there was no time. The war was here, waiting for him beyond the castle walls. And Gojo Satoru had always been very, very good at war, people blessing his way throught each battle, calling him holy for bringing victory to England.

No man who has killed as many as he can ever call himself holy.