The long hall stretched emptily ahead of the hunter, excepting the familiar audience of portraits. The rows of faces blurred indistinct, sallow and dull-eyed, the blush high on a lady's cheek more of a lividity. With every step made under their filmy gazes, the hunter felt the urge to bolt and sink the teeth of their cleaver into something. They hadn't fully calmed from their altercation with the martyr, and still their body itched for the logic it knew best— the knowledge that terror only ended with bloodied hands and a corpse at their feet.

Just a madman, they insisted to themself. An ancient prisoner of the castle, someone who had once wronged the queen by— doing something. He could continue his stark raving rounds of the upper keep, and the hunter could avoid him completely. They would just have to ask Annalise if there was another, more secluded path to her chambers.

Did she feel safe with the martyr roaming the halls of her keep? Whatever broken blade the man clung to could still do deadly damage, and the blood-soaked sorcery… the hunter fought back a residual shudder. The queen had her powerful persuasion, but the hunter did not consider her physically strong. That man could shatter her helm and her skull in one easy blow. The imagined sound knelled through the hunter's thoughts.

It was clear the martyr hated her. What, then, was stopping him from doing her in? If he thought he could not overcome the crow— the crow was away from the castle for the hunt, and it seemed that so too were the other knights. There was nothing left to stop him except the small and ineffectual crowd of servants and nobles, most of whom did not frequent the upper keep.

The hunter's stride slowed. At the crossing of two dim halls, the hunter stared up at the carved arches of the ceiling and the faint cobwebs threaded beneath them.

If he was 'pretending' at his madness to avoid the queen's attention, as if waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack— why?

A hand slid in against the crook of their arm and with the initial jolt of alarm the hunter forced themself to freeze. Don't strike her, by the Gods, I'm in her home, not in HemwickI am safe here, I am safe here— they turned to look at Elaine as she pulled them along.

"There you are!" she exclaimed. "Looking as lost as a lamb, you poor thing. I'll shepherd you." Her palm patted the hunter's forearm. Then, she paused, her brows furrowing; she squinted down at the ragged tear ruining their sleeve from shoulder to elbow. She made a short, shrill noise. Her fingertip plucked repeatedly at a line of loose threads as if she couldn't quite believe they were there.

The hunter couldn't summon up much guilt in response. The other ladies had gathered around them now, too; they must have just been a few paces behind Elaine. "Sorry," the hunter said, their voice flat.

"I never did like that shirt," Sofia said with a small smile. "It was well past time to retire it."

Irene sniffed, looking bored. "They must have gotten it stuck on a nail somewhere."

"It was rather careless to tear it like that," Alanna said, her typically taut face twisting further with a frown; her eyes kept flitting from the sleeve up to Elaine to gauge her reaction.

Elaine quirked her brow and grasped at the hunter's other arm, comparing the damaged sleeve to the intact one. "I haven't the time to go sort through my wardrobe for you again. We're already running late."

"That daft old man attacked me," the hunter said.

"Hm?" Elaine replied, her attention still fully on their sleeves.

"I have scissors if you'd at least like to make them even," Sofia suggested.

"The madman," the hunter added. "The one walking around up in the keep."

The ladies weren't paying them any mind. With a sigh, Elaine let go of the sleeve and looked up the hall. "You're presentable, I suppose."

"The prisoner," the hunter insisted. "The— do you know who I'm talking about?"

Alanna's nose wrinkled. "Prisoner? Why were you in the dungeons?"

"I wasn't, I was up—"

"The queen really is having them tour everything," Sofia said. "The rumors must be true."

This, at least, distracted the hunter from their own frustration. "Rumors?"

"Oh, I'm not going to spoil the surprise," she replied, her expression sly. "I just hope you treat your new garb more kindly."

Elaine shot her a cross look, but her glare softened as she returned her attention to the hunter. "It's shaping up to be a very special day," she said with a sigh. "You won't be needing my hand-me-downs for much longer."

Elation crept up on them. "What do you mean?"

"There's no need for such frivolities when you'll have a proper uniform to tend to," Sofia said, and Alanna nudged her with her elbow.

Color must have risen in their cheeks; Elaine grinned as she took the hunter by the arm again and guided them down the hall. "I'll have to request you for a few errands every once in a while," she said with a dramatic pout. "Otherwise, we'll hardly see each other."

Sofia nodded. "Yes, they'll make such a fine servant. That awful cap will look wonderful flopped over their face."

"Someone smack her for me, I don't even feel like expending the effort." Elaine dragged the back of her hand against her brow. "You know, you could still sit with me at the banquets if you want to, dear hunter. Only foolish prudes worry overmuch about the gentry and the unlanded knights commingling."

Irene crossed her arms. "You've defended your habits well, yes."

Elaine turned, a sneer slashed across her mouth; the hunter tugged her elbow and held their pace. "What are you saying?" they asked. "She's— the queen is giving me a knighthood?"

"It isn't that exciting," Alanna said. "You're new, so you'll probably be at the bottom rung of the ladder. Like a daytime wall-guard."

Elaine patted the hunter's arm. "But you'll be apprenticing for something better."

Alanna frowned. "I wouldn't say better."

Sofia tilted her head. "Unique, perhaps, is a more fitting word. I hope you don't mind wearing all the feathers. It'd make me sneeze."

"It could be better." Irene spoke as if she didn't truly want to share the sentence. "Don't forget what the crow did."

A thoughtful silence stilled the conversation. The hunter glanced from face to face. "What?"

"Right," Elaine said. "The crow did bring you back something special from the mainland."

Sofia nodded. "That'll be a rapid ascension to the top."

"Straight into the innermost echelon," Irene said, begrudgingly.

"I don't know," Alanna grumbled. "It's still not that exciting. It's just the one."

The hunter was ready to launch into another line of questioning, but Elaine squeezed their arm. "We won't be spoiling it!" she declared. "We've told you far too much already!"

"But what—"

"You'll make the queen happy, I have no doubt of it," she interrupted. "When the time comes, you'll know exactly what to do. It's the simplest thing in the world. That's all I'll say."

The hunter found that they were smiling helplessly. They let Elaine and the ladies pull them along to the banquet.


It was a more intimate affair this time, and in a smaller room. The dining hall the hunter had first visited had been arranged in regimented rows set to mark the hierarchy in relation to the queen. This felt more casual, with round tables strewn across the wooden floor. Thick curtains framed a few tall windows hazed over with frost. A fireplace roared out heat on the far wall. Most of those attending were sitting in small groups, picking from plates of delicacies. This was a pre-banquet, the hunter realized, all appetizers and aperitifs. There were tiny glasses of alcohol poured, repoured, and distributed; the other ladies sat, spoke, and sipped. The hunter surrendered to Elaine's attempts to get them to try any vintage that she thought would enrich their palate.

"And this one is?" they asked. Keeping count was a losing battle. They weren't drunk— the servings were like thimbles— but if Elaine kept up her enthusiasm they wouldn't last long.

"Ouzo," she clarified. "See, the bumbling little theocrats of the time believed it was the wormwood component of the absinthe that caused the spirits to bring forth— well, spirits, of the dead sort. They declared limits on consumption to ritual use, and in some years they even struck out at the distilleries. We liked it, though, and as sources grew less willing to risk breaking prohibition for our coin, we discovered a substitute. Rediscovered, really. An old bit of land that had once enjoyed our rule, still making the same old spirits— but without that wormwood, as I said. It has anise, fennel— cinnamon, too, on a good year."

The hunter swallowed it back. The flavor was harsh against their throat, a rich botanical sweetness that quickly turned to stinging. They grimaced. She was right, though; the taste was quite similar to the vivid green absinthe she had given them prior.

"Now, the proper way to drink it," Elaine said— gods, the hunter wondered, why had she first made them drink it improperly?— and she picked up thin tongs, snatched a piece of ice from a steel bowl at the center of the table, and dropped it into a glass filled shallowly with water. (The ice was yet another wonder to the hunter— great slabs of it, displayed on velvet-covered tables and silver trays, and then shaved down with saws, just to toss into these little drinks. Even without memory, the hunter knew they had never seen anything like it.) Then, she tipped another serving of the ouzo into the glass. A ghostly white swirled out and spread through the drink like fog.

"A little smoother, a little sweeter," she said, and she tilted the glass against the hunter's lips. It poured over their tongue and the hunter swore the taste was just as astringent. She drew back and laughed as they scowled. "Slowly!" she chastised. "You're supposed to sip."

"I should probably eat something," the hunter said as Elaine's attention flickered back to the tray with the spectrum of aperitifs. "At this rate, you'll have me dead drunk before dinner actually starts."

"Oh, please," she said as she waved her hand, but there was a flush blooming across her cheeks, too, as she had matched the hunter drink for drink. "This is nothing. But, if you insist! I can guide you through this tour just as easily. Try this kalamarakia."

Now she was shoving carefully constructed foods at them, minuscule towers of ingredients the hunter struggled to name and that were prepared in ways even more alien. As Elaine conducted their expedition into Cainhurst cuisine, old trays were carried away from the table and new ones were deposited. A sweet feeling rose in the hunter's throat and they drew a slow inhale through their nose.

There was blood, now— mixed into the dainty tumblers of vermouth and gin. The glasses looked like liquid ruby. The hunter dragged their palm over their cheekbone, smearing cool condensation from the cup they had been holding across their skin, and they blinked.

"That's a Yharno special," Elaine said with a laugh. "You'll love it."

"This is all a bit much," they whispered to Elaine, as if ashamed.

"You poor thing." She pouted. "All your life you've had, what? Gruel? Of course you're overwhelmed. Here, have this. It'll steady you." She pushed them a glass glazed in frost; the contents looked clear and smelled inoffensive. Nothing too strong, then, the hunter thought. Hopefully, water.

"The food at the party looked good," they mumbled, and they took an exploratory sip of the drink. Mostly water, they concluded. And something else, silky and familiar. Some serum spun out of blood until it ran clear.

"Party?" Sofia asked from across the table, her attention briefly snagged. "What party?"

"Back before I was a hunter," they replied.

Sofia hummed with curt disinterest and grabbed a glass from the tray.

"I might have been a farmer or something," the hunter added. "I don't know. But my village held a party, and I helped set it up." The discovered memory couldn't weigh so heavily on their heart if they shared it, surely. "There was a girl there. We had the same birthday, so we ended up friends."

"How fun," Sofia replied.

"It was," the hunter said. "Everyone must have brought their own dish. It wasn't anything so elaborate as this, of course, but I think I can remember…"

Oh, no. They weren't being listened to. Even Elaine only seemed to have a thin veneer of attentiveness. Sofia had turned away entirely to resume her gossip with Irene. The hunter felt their words gliding right over them, as if they were talking instead to a group of the marble statues; all the ladies could hold was their own history, and nothing more.

The hunter's stomach lurched and they tipped the glass against their lips again. That, at least, was calming. The serum blanketed their nerves. They shouldn't bring up such sad things, anyway. This wasn't the kind of company that would want to discuss mass graves over crudités. No kind of good company would. The hunter would have to understand such things, living in the castle.

When speaking with Annalise, though— they hid their smile behind their drink. It felt a little bit petty and enormously special to know that she had granted them such trust when all these nobles squabbled for her slightest attention. If their memories saddened their heart, they could talk to her about it.

They could talk to Elaine, too, they thought with guilt— just not when she was a dozen drinks deep. She leaned over towards the hunter, her eyes wide. "I've figured it out," she exclaimed as she clasped her hand over the hunter's forearm. "We can tie it in a bow."

Before the hunter could ask, she took the torn strips of their sleeve and knotted them together above their elbow. It looked awful, but she leaned back with such a look of accomplishment that the hunter nodded their thanks.

"Oh," Alanna said, and she abruptly rose from her seat. For once, her expression had brightened; when she glanced back at the hunter she was even smiling. "The crow is here."

The hunter stood, warmth blooming in their chest— and then they wavered, their prior intake suddenly making itself known. They tried to wrest their balance back from the way their sight was swimming. "Oh dear," they said, and immediately felt very silly for having said it aloud.

Elaine had risen, too; she grasped their arm to steady both the hunter and herself. "Delightful! We haven't had a little show like this in so long. What do you think it will be?"

"A duel counts as a show," Alanna said.

"You know what I mean," Elaine replied. "A duel's a duel. An artifact's an artifact."

Alanna frowned. "People have used artifacts in the duels before."

Elaine sighed. "Alanna, dearest, shut up."

"What is the crow doing?" the hunter asked, and they craned their neck to catch a glimpse of the feathered cloak. It was difficult; most of the other nobles in the room had gotten up and started gathering around the fireplace. The crow must have stood at the foot of the hearth, which was now blocked from view by the gathering crowd.

"We have all sorts of treasures that were dragged up from the tombs," Sofia explained. "If they just sat around and gathered dust here, then it would be no different than if we had let them stay undiscovered. So, we use them!"

"Treasures from other places, too," Alanna clarified. "Imports."

"Come on," Elaine said, and she tugged at the hunter's torn sleeve. "Let's see what it is this time!"

They stumbled forward, then found their stride. The last drink of chilled serum hadn't been sobering exactly, but it offered them a steadiness that they were grateful for. Elaine had no qualms about implementing her elbows in finding a prime position to watch the display and the hunter followed in her wake.

The hunter's heart leapt; there was the crow! They had the urge to wave in greeting, but they let the feeling pass. They didn't want to interrupt. The knight was dealing with enough from the gathered crowd as it was. There was a small gilded box set upon a mahogany stand to the side of the fireplace, and many of the nobles were guessing aloud as to what it contained. The box gleamed against the fire, the bursts of orange light licking along the golden embellishments. The crow gleamed, too— the flames were casting warm tints against the silver helm. The knight stood with silent patience as the nobles finished gathering around.

"Oh, something small enough to be stored in that…" Elaine said with a sigh as she peered at the box. "I was hoping for one of the swords."

The hunter frowned thoughtfully. "You said the crow brought something back from the mainland. Is this it?"

"Hm? No," she replied. "That's— oh! The gloves! That's quite alright by me."

A similar murmur of agreement passed through the crowd. The hunter watched with growing curiosity as the crow lifted two limp gloves out of the opened box. They were made of an unnervingly delicate leather and mottled rust red. There was a pale translucency to them that captured the glow of the fire as the crow slid them on.

Elaine leaned against the hunter's arm, her eyes bright with excitement. "Watch, watch—"

The crow's arms arced upwards dramatically, as if on the verge of breaking into exuberant applause, but instead one hand merely slid into the palm of the other and remained there. The leather of the glove twisted. Blood wrung free of the creases.

Horror sprung in the hunter's heart and they gasped. The blood the crow had smeared over the glove billowed out a foul smog that moved like cloudy mud disturbed from the base of a stagnant pond. It rose as a thick vapor, at first purple like a bruise, then blooming to the muted rainbow of putrefaction, a spoiled maroon enlaced with bile and bone. Faces pressed up through the violent current. There emerged the bulging roundness of skullcaps, the black empty sockets of the eyes. The teeth gnashed; the spirits were starved for vengeance. Each screaming jaw would rend a throat, froth the blood up pale, to sate their hatred. It was the same ancient roiling mass of the dead that the martyr had called upon to pursue the hunter out of the keep.

Here, though, the conductor was the crow: a figure starkly cast in charcoal feathers and silver armor by the roaring fire behind. The curve of the helm's skeletal grinning jaw shone bright. The now-tethered images of the crow and the tortured dead made the hunter lurch; there was the same sword's-edge awareness they had felt at the duel that many, many hunters had found their bloody end at the knight's hands.

(Mad hunters, a frail thought insisted through the alarm, hunters put to rest when rabid. Put to rest, not trapped in this tempest of hatred. A hunter of hunters had honor and granted others death as a mercy. This was just— and here the little thought failed as it grasped for reason— this was—)

Something the castle was used to, apparently. The hunter took a step back, but Elaine was still clinging to their elbow and smiling widely. The crow may as well have been juggling. "Aren't they funny," she said as she squeezed the hunter's arm.

For a second, her skin caught the light all wrong: the slope of her cheeks was waxy, her eyes glass, and the set of her lips agape like her jaw had fallen slack. Her neck gleamed ruby and wet— and then the moment slid away. Elaine beamed at the hunter and leaned against their side.

At the center of the crowd, the spirits howled.

"I need air," the hunter murmured, the words only barely puzzled together from monosyllables.

Elaine quirked her brow and held them tighter. "What's wrong with you?"

"Air," they repeated, or at least mouthed, and they hoped the force with which they pushed her grip away did not hurt her. The hunter shouldered their way out through the encircling throng. The nobles paid them no mind; the drama of the crow's puppeteered dead commanded their full attention.


The hunter found their way outside and gulped down frigid air. Their heart was still trying to beat its way out of the cage of their ribs.

Their memories were best left behind them, and the dead deserved to be buried. They pressed the heels of their palms against their eyes, willing away the wall of rotted faces that were so achingly familiar. They never should have asked so much of the queen, never should have glimpsed what the blessed blood had locked safely away. As if they hadn't been drenched in death enough already, carrying on the way they had during the hunt.

They were putting things to rest. That was almost always how they framed it. There was no place for a pacifist in this city, and yet the hunter still belabored all the ways that they defended themself. A beast, slavering and in pain, could only be stilled with a blade. There had been the transformed priest, agonized by a forgotten lullaby; the flayed creature at the base of Old Yharnam, leaking foul pus; and the vicar…

Had the vicar sat peacefully in the cathedral, the hunter would have been tempted to let her be, but they had seen her attention swerve to the upper balcony. Someone had been up there— the hunter had no idea who, or what— but they had seen in the tensing of her haunches that she was prepared to strike. They didn't yet know how to reach that upper loft to see who hid there, but if it was some crouching and defenseless priest, or a stray child— or anything, really— then it was up to them to draw the vicar's attention away.

And so they did. Their blade tore through her flesh as though they had been this kind of butcher all their life.

The crow's presence was announced by a quiet clearing of the throat. The hunter turned and stared.

The knight was much less of a stark icon of death under the flat gray light of the snowy sky. The gloves had been stowed back away; the show was over. The knight stood with eased posture, facing them with an air of quiet curiosity, but the hunter felt sensitive to the attention. They didn't want to worry the crow. The fear that gripped them when facing the summoned spirits was their own problem to contend with. The crow, as ever, had merely been fulfilling the role that the castle demanded.

Would the same be demanded of the hunter, too? They weren't sure they could ever bear to slip those gloves over their hands.

The hunter shivered from cold and dread. The crow approached and confidently threw an arm around their shoulder, pulling the feathered cape along. Beneath the outer tatters, a sturdy lining held in the warmth. The hunter still felt their heart beating, though now the feeling was sweeter. They reveled in the faint and pleasant sensation of the crow's body heat leaching over to them.

Elaine's influence washed back over them— the many little glasses of liquid courage, still burning in their belly. No wonder they were feeling everything so intensely. And here the crow was, steadying them again.

Overwhelmed, the hunter turned, and the crow accepted them in an embrace. The hunter tilted their face close to the crook of the crow's neck.

"Why did you go back to the mainland?" they asked, not expecting an answer; the question was merely a way to say I am glad you returned safely.

The hunter, pressed as closely as they were, felt more than heard the short, low hum the crow made in reply.

"I know, I know," they said with a weak laugh. "It's a surprise."

The crow said nothing more. The hunter soaked in the warmth for as long as they could. Eventually, though, the crow tapped a gauntleted hand against their back, and the hunter extricated themself. The knight took a few strides forward, the interlocking thin plates of silver armor gliding noiselessly. The movement paused. The helm inclined, glancing back at the hunter. The crow nodded a command for them to follow.

With a smile, the hunter did.