"A duel?" the hunter asked, and in their astonishment they stood motionless as Annalise kept her slow, steady walking pace.

The helm turned back over her shoulder to peer at them. "Indeed."

They rushed to catch up with her, their boots thudding against the carpet. "Why? I mean, your majesty— did I offend you in some way?"

"Not at all. 'Tis a reward, or the opportunity for one. Tell me, good hunter, newly baptized in blood— tell me thy name, if thou'rt capable of remembering it."

The hunter pushed a few fingers against the bridge of their nose. "I— I cannot, you know I cannot."

"Good." The queen paused in front of a sturdy wooden door and turned to face them. "Then tell me if thy memory stirs at this: when thou receiv'd thine invitation, didst thou take notice? 'Twas addressed to thee. Thy name lies plain upon the very first line."

The hunter opened their mouth, then closed it. They stared at the expressionless helm of the queen as they visualized the letter in their mind. They had read it— aloud, even, right in front of the crow knight— and yet—

Had their name been there? They must not have noticed, it must have slid past them; even if made amnesiac, would a person startle at the simple familiarity of their own name?

"The letter and thy name remains in Lady Elaine's chamber with thy belongings," Annalise said. "We are not so cruel as to take it hostage. But more of thee may be divined… if thy role is played with care." The helm tilted. "Do consider, dear hunter, what the castle wishes to see."

She pulled the door open to reveal a small courtyard. A fountain sat unflowing in the center, the basin splotched with wet fallen leaves. Thorny bushes around the perimeter still had a few scant red blooms tucked within the twisting growths. There were a few bulbous white flowers that the hunter had seen before, usually within the ancient labyrinthine depths of the chalices.

But the muted splendor of the dying garden did not hold their attention. The hunter stared up at the cloudy pink sky of the early dawn.

Their breath caught in their throat. They had arrived at dawn. They had eaten and slept, which would easily take them into the afternoon. The library work with the queen would have taken them into the evening—

Their senses prickled and they turned to face her, again feeling the cold recognition of gaze meeting gaze.

Her helm tilted, as if daring the hunter to say something.

"...A cloudy day, isn't it, your majesty?" they finally said.

"Quite," she replied. She waved a hand towards the far end of the courtyard. "An hour for thee to prepare thyself, and then thou'rt expected for the duel. Through that door lies the wing that holds Lady Elaine's chambers. Thy usual garb shall be returned to thee. A relief, I'm sure."

"...Quite," the hunter echoed.

Her hand lifted; again her touch brushed against the hunter, sliding down the slope of their neck to their shoulder. The silence between them weighed heavily; the hunter wasn't sure if Annalise was hesitating before saying more or if she was again trying to eke some slight knowledge out of the hunter's reaction.

The light touch turned into a grip, and then a push; the hunter was steered into the courtyard and the door was shut behind them. They stood alone and stared up at the softly glowing sky.

They had expected the queen's touch to be cold, perhaps even preternaturally so. She had been striding about the frigid castle with bare feet and a thin dress, after all.

The hunter shook their head and fixed their gaze upon the ground as they strode to the far door. Annalise's touch had been warm.


The hunter could have read the invitation over and over for the full hour allotted to them. Their name, written clearly within the salutation, felt at once foreign and familiar. But Elaine and the others soon invaded the chamber and the hunter was prepared for the duel.

Their laundered clothes and repaired gear was returned to them with the exception of their pistol, lest a stray shot harm an attending noble. Even so, it was nice to have their blade back; Sofia's work upon their weapon showed a thoroughness and attention to detail that the hunter appreciated. Even the ragged, blood-stained cloth wrapped around the handle meant to cushion the hunter's grip had been cleaned.

The hunter was uncomfortable with how comfortable it felt to be back in what they had worn for the long dark night. The weight of the blade, the grip of their gloves, the layers of leather and cloth, even the frayed old hat— all of them were familiar and steadying.

But the night was over, the hunt had ended, the sun had risen (it had, surely, for the pinks of a sunset were much like the pinks of a sunrise), and perhaps with the help of the queen, the hunter would have some small hope of returning home.


Cainhurst had a courtyard created specifically for these sorts of events, like a coliseum in miniature; as the hunter was led through a low passageway by a gray-robed servant, they spotted dozens of levers and pulley systems, attached to different gates or other mechanisms the hunter could not discern. They saw one that seemed to be a system that would drain a store of oil onto a path carved into the courtyard stone to allow for fiery displays.

The servant pulled open the doorway and the hunter peered outside. Within the courtyard there was a small, flat expanse meant for the duel; above that was luxurious seating filled with eager nobles, and above that—

The same faintly pinkish sky, hanging over the highest seat available, where Annalise leaned against the carved wooden arm of her chair and rested the chin of her helm against her palm.

After a pause, the hunter shifted their glance to the surrounding nobles, and they gave the customary Cainhurst bow. There were cheers in return, though a few veered towards wry amusement enough to be better considered a jeer. The hunter looked around the courtyard; they were alone in the arena. Who were they to duel? They both expected and dreaded the crow knight. It felt unfair to fight someone who had so far only given them kindness.

With the rolling creak of cogs, a gate at the opposite end of the courtyard lifted. The hunter peered into the darkness beyond. They saw a glint grow as the rising gate allowed sunlight to fall inside— perhaps a sword? Perhaps the silver armor? Perhaps—

Teeth, and upon them far too quickly; the hunter ducked to the side as a scourge beast snapped its jaws where the hunter's head had been. Fear blotted out their thoughts but that was exactly what they needed; the terror of the hunt was a well-worn groove. The blade snapped into shoulder sinew. The beast howled.

As the creature twisted back onto its haunches the hunter circled around. They had fought beasts of this kind before and they were well versed in its habits. In a moment it would lurch with claws outstretched to grab them, and the gleaming teeth would plunge into flesh—

The hunter rolled beneath the lanky limbs, their shoulders slamming against stone, and when they righted themself they threw all their remnant momentum into their arms. The blade swung up and a deep gash opened across the beast's chest.

There was no opportunity to capitalize on the way the beast staggered in pain. The hunter heard the click of long nails on stone fast approaching. A second jaw slavered and snapped at their stomach. The hunter threw themself to the side and landed with a grunt.

The second beast, overeager, dove towards them; it was rewarded with the serrated metal scraping deep along its snout. The hunter threw the cleaver out long in order to beat the beast back further and open up the opportunity to regain their footing.

The first beast was bleeding from its wound, the blood pouring in heavy gouts as it crept towards the hunter. It was clearly weakened, but such a creature did not stop being a threat until dead. The second was far more aggressive and it snarled as it leapt forward again. The long claws tore through the air once, twice— the hunter leapt back both times, and when the beast tried again, the hunter ducked to the side and slashed the cleaver through the beast's shoulder with such force that the arm was left hanging by a strip of ragged pelt, the off-white of the bony joint exposed to the air.

The second beast crashed to the ground and thrashed. The hunter slammed their blade down, lifted it, and then slammed it again. Blood splashed across their eyes. A final breath gurgled out of the creature and the hunter turned as quickly as they could—

The first beast fell upon them.

They shoved one hand against the beast's throat and held back the sharp jaws; the beast, weakened as it was, was still biting. A clawed hand gripped at the hunter's cowl and tore at the leather. There wasn't enough space between them both for the hunter to swing the cleaver; instead, they shoved their hand into the same wound they had cut open on the beast's chest before. They scrabbled at the wet viscera, digging past fur and muscle, parting flesh until they could take a slippery grip of the ribcage—

With a heaving pull, something cracked. Hot blood spattered against the hunter and the beast slumped against them, dead.

Beyond the pound of their pulse in their ears, the hunter could hear the nobles laughing and cheering.

The beast's head lolled as the hunter shoved the bulk of the body off to the side. A few gray-robed servants scurried out with pails of sloshing water to tidy the gory mess; the hunter was herded back into the adjoining passageway. They were offered water and a seat; they gripped the back of the chair as they stood and they did not drink.

Annalise was already within the dim corridor, for of course she was; she stood barefoot on the frigid stone floor and watched as the hunter dug their nails into the wood.

"You said... a duel." They took a deep breath. "Your majesty."

"We did," she replied. "This was the aperitif."

The hunter kept their breathing steady. Consider what the castle wants to see. The nobles seemed elated at the hunter's butchering of the beasts; the hunter had seen Elaine and the others watching with rapt interest. What did the castle want to see?

The return of its hunters, safe, after the long and inescapable night. The hunter surely had played their role well. The beasts were dead, and they were safe.

But why, then, was this merely the precursor to something else?

Their thoughts were interrupted by someone tapping at their shoulder. They turned and gave a questioning look to a rather red-faced Elaine.

"It would be a shame for you to go in bare," she said, and she shoved a ribbon into the hunter's hands. "But if anyone asks, it wasn't from me. Really. It's Alanna's ribbon. I borrowed it."

They held the ribbon and frowned. With a huff, Elaine snatched it back, then yanked at the hunter's arm until they held up their blade. She wrapped the ribbon along the handle and pulled it tight.

"There," she said as she took a step back and nodded. "One token to your name. You won't look so sad like this."

"...Thank you," the hunter said.

"Please do not mention it," Elaine hissed, and as the hunter peered down at the fluttering ribbon she briskly walked off to return to her seat.


The gate lifted and the hunter walked back into the arena, a fearful caution prickling up their neck with every step. They glanced left, then right; the two butchered beasts had been mounted upon the surrounding stone walls. Someone had flayed them further: the belly was torn wide and the crimson-streaked pelt parted like curtains to reveal glistening guts that were still dripping down onto the floor.

The artist responsible was within the arena. The hunter fixed their gaze upon the crow knight, whose sword was tasseled with dozens of ribbons.

The crow knight turned to face them. The hunter took a deep breath. There was the heavy stench of beast blood in the air; past that, there was that faint iron sting that came from the crow knight, the same scent shared with the queen. But beyond that, so warm and familiar…

There was a faint trickling sound. The hunter looked down at the carved-out ruts in the stone floor. They had seen one system set up for filling the arena with dramatically burning swathes of oil. But now— the hunter hated that they were salivating at the sight of healing blood filling the shallow carvings of the floor. The scent was dizzying.

The crow knight bowed low. The nobles cheered. The hunter struggled to think.

The crow had brought back Byrgenwerth books for the queen— it stood to reason that a supply of blood vials could have been brought back, as well. But why spill them in this way?

To see if the hunter could keep their head when surrounded by it? Perhaps— but there had to be something more. If thy role is played with care...

The hunter returned the bow, though their outstretched hand was clearly shaking.

What was their role? They were a hunter, they hunted beasts. What was the crow knight's role?

The feathered cloak fluttered. The hunter remembered the yellow-garbed hunter stalking the grounds where the priest and his wife had died, mad with grief— and Eileen, flitting between the arcs of his throwing knives and slicing at his chest. The hunter had helped.

The crows hunted hunters. And for the nobles to be watching with such enthusiasm— they did not want the quick and overwhelming mercy that Eileen and the hunter had granted Henryk. They wanted a show. They wanted the triumph of their raven-cloaked knight over the ravenously blood-drunk.

The crow knight took a step; the hunter matched it. The two circled, equidistant, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Enough of the playacting, the hunter thought; what of value could the queen learn from this exchange? The crow had seen the hunter fight dozens of times, though it had predominantly been against beasts; the knight had not seen them fight other people of equal prowess such as the lone scholar of the college, perhaps due to lack of vantage points. The hunter knew that the crow had informed the queen of all of this already; this fight would be an opportunity to see how well the hunter dealt with a skilled human opponent.

But to do so also opened up the opportunity for the hunter to learn how the crow knight fought. This was to the queen's disadvantage; if the hunter was to turn on their hosts for whatever reason, they would have experience in fighting their finest.

However, the experience would be limited, they realized; a gun was an integral part of the hunter's arsenal and its absence wholly altered the rhythm of a fight. Neither the crow nor the hunter currently had their firearms. This would be a battle fought solely by blades.

So, it was a tentative prodding in both directions, a delicate and dangerous reveal: both participants in the duel would earn a sense of the other's ability without being able to completely dissect their habits.

The ribbons fluttered. The crow knight lunged forward and the blade arced up; the slice whistled through the air as the hunter sidestepped. The crow knight followed through with the swing and the sword cut out to the side, chasing after the hunter's back, but the hunter kept enough speed that the tip merely whiffed past their coat.

The watchful circling resumed. After one rotation, the crow knight's head cocked to the side; instead of continuing the circle, the crow's steps cut forward, taking steady strides straight towards the hunter.

The hunter brought the cleaver down in a long overhead swing; it was a powerful move that chipped the stone floor with its strength, but it gave the crow ample time to step out of the way. The hunter heaved their blade back and ducked away from one slash, then another—and the third resounded with a loud metallic clang as the razor-sharp sword glanced against the folded cleaver. The sword caught on the serrated edge and the crow was yanked along with it when the hunter wrenched their arm to the side.

The hunter turned to give at least a glancing blow to the crow's back—

The hunter felt a flare of instinct and they dropped unceremoniously to their knees. As their shins crashed against the stone, the sword slashed at the air above their head. The crow knight had recovered from the stumble with astounding fluidity; the sword might be easily caught by the cleaver but the crow had clearly accounted for such a maneuver. How many other hunters before had tried to do the same? How many other hunters had backed away on hands and knees, just as the hunter was doing now, as the crow approached with long, confident strides?

How many other hunters had died at the end of that ribbon-laden blade?

The nobles wanted to see the hunter's defeat; the hunter wasn't willing to give it just yet. They scrambled to their feet and simply ran, outpacing the next slash at their side. Their boots stomped through the blood-filled channel and left a red trail on the stone.

The crow knight stood in one spot and pivoted on a heel to face them. The pale sunlight glinted off the silver helm. The hunter caught their breath as they pressed their back against the stone wall of the arena. The air reeked; they were standing right beside the eviscerated beast.

The hunter let out a low sound of exertion as they pushed off the wall and charged at the knight.

They had expected a jab with the sword, or a slice at their side accompanying a sidestep as the crow dodged the hunter's advance; the hunter did not expect a strong arm thrown out to crash against their windpipe. They choked and clutched at their throat as they fell. The crow knight shifted the grip of the sword—

Ah! There was hesitation there, and in that small faltering the opportunity to attack the hunter was lost. The crow knight had motioned as if to sheathe the sword, but stopped—there was something to it, the hunter was sure, some hidden aspect of the blade that the crow did not yet want the hunter to know. The hunter had just enough time to roll to the side and regain their footing.

Or, they would have; their foot slid against the shallow blood and they had to throw their palm against the stone floor to keep from falling completely flat. A boot crashed into the hunter's side and a pained cry tore out of them. Another blow followed and they gasped for air. The duel was to be fought to first blood, not first bruise, they thought as the crow pressed a knee into the small of the hunter's back and wound gauntleted fingers into their hair. Their head was yanked back until their neck twinged with a dangerous strain.

Then, just as harshly, the hunter's head was shoved to the ground; the blood in the shallow channel filled their nose and their forehead scraped against stone. The hunter's vision popped with stars.

They were loosely cognizant of the cleaver being pried from their fingers. A strong hand pulled them onto their side. Their head lolled in the blood; they wanted to drink it. It would be easy to drink it, and then the pain in their head would go away, and—

First blood. The crow was pinning the hunter to the ground, the nobles were raucous with delight, and the sharp edge of the sword was primed to slice their belly open and make them match the hanging beasts.

It would be first blood, they thought with surging panic; Annalise had never specified the severity. Would that be what amused such a queen, entreating the hunter to participate in their own execution for the entertainment of her subjects? Had the promise of uncovering the hunter's past been just as false as the pale pink dawn?

The blade pierced through leather and cloth and skin and the hunter gasped at the searing trail of pain— they could escape with this, they thought wildly— let the damned crow kill them, and surely they would see the Dream. They would return to a familiar lantern, and Castle Cainhurst would be no more than a strange and painful memory.

The silver helm dipped low and drew close. Beyond the celebration of the nobles, the hunter could just barely hear the low, rasping voice whispering into their ear.

"Drink," the crow said, and the blade pulled free of their gut.

The hunter gulped at the blood on the ground. Just as they had swallowed enough to make the pain faintly relent, the crow knight grasped them by the collar and dragged them back to the dim peripheral corridors of the arena.