The hunter sprinted down the corridor. Already, their calves burned, and their stomach kept lurching in sick twists. They considered slowing their pace, pulling aside to vomit, and ridding themself of the vile putrefaction that they had gulped down so greedily. But they knew that the queen's blood was not a thing so easily discarded, and so when they did stumble to a stop, they merely leaned against the wall and sucked down air while feeling as if their lungs were still ten paces behind them.

This hall was familiar. They glanced up the wall they were leaning on; their shoulder was pressed to the elaborate tapestry of Lycaon's death. A mass of snarling wolves beneath a full moon. That moon…

The pieces of the puzzle were together. All the hunter had to do now was step back and see the assembled image. The old king Lycaon had courted a Pthumerian, and then he had courted the gods, but he had gone about it in entirely the wrong way, and the gods had punished him for his presumptions. Then Calista, his daughter, Annalise's mother— as if in apology, the gods had courted her back, but she had rejected them, and then she, too, became a beast.

Twice, the royal line of Cainhurst had soured relations with the gods. And the third time…

Annalise had sought the help of Byrgenwerth to bring the gods back to her, and even now she searched for fragments of their research. The college had been succeeding where Lycaon had failed, where Calista had failed— and the scholars there were even delving back into the impossible labyrinths beneath the earth, sampling blood from wounds that spilled but never scarred over.

She had sent students to the college, had provided the place with funds. What knowledge had they brought back to her? What rituals had she attempted to recapture the attentions of the gods?

And then there was the martyr she had trapped and punished within the keep, and her intense hatred of the Church— the Vicar had liberated other cords, Annalise had said, in such particular phrasing.

Here, the hunter's thoughts were the most scattered, but in the fragments they thought they could glimpse the whole: The cord in the workshop had once been hers. It had been her last chance to tether the possible to the impossible, to bring the gods back to a place that had rebuffed them twice. But the Church had taken it away from her, somehow.

And how had the gods reacted to that?

This place had been excommunicated.

The hunter pressed a palm to their forehead. That damned lantern in the courtyard, shattered to pieces and strewn over the dirt— what a joke! In having it broken, the queen had falsely reassured the hunter that it could have been used. Even in the supposed safety of the castle, the hunter had frequently fallen back upon the confidence that they could return if killed. For a short while, perhaps it had been so, but now they shuddered to think of what would have happened if the martyr had succeeded in killing them.

The hunter had joyfully claimed this abandoned place as their home. The dream was lost to them, but perhaps not forever. Annalise was so insistent upon the hunter's connection to the moon…

She was hoping, then, that whatever force sustained the Dream would come to collect them, and that she could make contact with it when it arrived. She wanted to regain the attention of the divine and sway the gods with everything she had collected to the castle. If the hunter had been someone other than themself, then they would have helped Annalise contribute more to her dowry. (An artificial ocean of blood, sourced from a thousand slit bellies. It was art made in imitation of her ancestors— Cyllene would have been no stranger to it. Deep beneath the earth, in another queen's name, countless bodies lay in pools of incoagulable blood, the final deluge of a civilization that wanted the dreamers to return from stranger seas, if even for a moment.)

However, the hunter had betrayed both Annalise and the Dream. Now, they were to be made a part of that offering— the last dreg dropped into her ocean. And if some remnant of the cord they had found still remained inside them, all the better. They would be sliced open, searched—

Would the gods care if the hunter was killed? Something had desired them enough to pull them into the Dream, and it might not take kindly to seeing its favored tool broken. But the queen didn't care about curses, and beyond that, she had mentioned… alternative arrangements. Again, such particular phrasing. Tool of Our hand. One easily switched out for another. In recompense, she could offer up someone just as sharp as them, if not sharper.

Aware that they were taking time that they did not have, the hunter looked over their shoulder and hunched, preparing to bolt. No one had crept up behind them as they had caught their breath, but the crow would be after them, they were sure of it. The knight would finally be able to sate the urge that came with cutting the hunter open at the duel. The faded scar across their stomach ached.

They had to find their belongings and defend themself from the crow. Then, they had to escape the island. The place might be abandoned by the gods, but the crow and the other hunting knights still went to the mainland— the hunter had to make it to the bridge out over the water. They could try to steal the carriage— or, just a horse. Surely some part of them knew how to ride one, or to at least hang on, and they could make it back into Hemwick and slip into the city. The hunter had no place to name as home, but they knew the streets of Yharnam like they were etched into their bones.

Beyond that, the future was a dark pit. The hunter could try and find some way to return to the Dream— or the Dream could find them— and, in any case, there was the long night to contend with, overflowing with terrors they would have no choice but to face.

The need to survive was like a red-hot iron aligned with their spine. They were never quite careless with themself, but they had been foolhardy before. Now, every threat was absolute. Fear and bile boiled in their throat. I will not die here. I will not die here. I will not die—

There was a flutter of movement. The hunter turned. Light glinted on silver. The crow stood at the mouth of the hallway, unmoving, unhurried. The knight stood as if certain the hunter would eventually tire themself out by running in circles, as if certain that there was no way for them to escape.

Annalise could have directed other knights to block off the bridge to the mainland. How quickly could she have alerted the nobles below of the hunter's betrayal? If Elaine had removed their belongings from her chambers…

The hunter stepped back without turning away. The crow merely watched them. The knight hadn't even drawn the ribbon-laden sword, nor had the gun been pulled from its holster.

A whinging scrap of hope prodded at the hunter: perhaps the crow didn't want to kill them.

The rest of the hunter, long-suffering, answered: Don't be stupid.

They took one more step back, and then another. When the crow's sabatons gleamed in movement, they turned tail and ran.


The frigid air dragged raw against them, and each inhale was sharp in the hunter's throat. The snow, at least, was not treacherous beneath them; no ice hid against the flagstones. The bootprints behind them, though, would be easy to follow. The hunter wondered if that even mattered to the crow. The knight had stalked them across most of Yharnam without such obvious aid.

Which way to Elaine's chambers was the fastest? There was the bridge that ran directly to the keep, a winding balcony path around a set of broad turrets completely unfamiliar to them, and a very long way to veer around the stained glass enclosure of the library. Was there any worth in trying harder to evade the crow? If they crossed their own path again and again—

They would only exhaust themself. They had no hope in confusing the crow within the knight's own castle. There would be no shortcuts to discover, nowhere to curl up and hide. The hunter kept the bridge path in sight as they advanced. The wind pushed hard on their chest, as if the weather itself was conspiring against them. (It could be, the hunter thought. The queen had once painted herself the dawn. The same brush strokes may as well become a blizzard.)

They already knew they were being followed, but the urge to look back consumed them, even if it cost them time, even if it made them falter. The hunter glanced over their shoulder. A glimpse of silver and black against the snow was enough to spur them faster. The crow was keeping pace, but at a distance. Would the crow stop if they stopped? It wasn't worth discovering. They trudged on, snow sweeping about their ankles. The angle of the eaves above was steep enough to send the snow tumbling down, and it built up on the path. Panic was a pain in their stomach. The snow was slowing them down.

The world had narrowed around them: The way out of the keep ahead. Behind, the inexorable crow. The rest was faded and irrelevant. It was because of this that a faint thud at their side only barely succeeded in snagging their peripheral attention.

There was a circle in the snowdrift to their left. Something had fallen. Knowing that every second that passed was like a single thread in a rapidly fraying rope, the hunter stopped their stride and looked up.

Far above, on a high rooftop of the keep, looking stiff-backed and righteous— and yet also small, as if his stature had finally succumbed to age, to years and years of steadfast suffering— the martyr was missing his crown. He pointed with one gnarled finger, not towards the bridge joining the keep to the outer castle, but instead to the side, where walls and rooves and balconies butted up against the side of the keep.

Finally, the footsteps behind them had found some urgency. The crow was fast approaching. There was no time left to decipher the martyr's gesture; the hunter leapt for the fallen crown. The edge jutted numbly against their cold fingertips, but they took hold of it, pulled it from the snow, and began to run.

It was slipping from their hold when their arms swung. They couldn't drop it— it was surely another favored artifact of the castle, and the crow had reacted so strongly to it. The silver armor moved silently, but the footsteps were rushed. Then, there was the quiet click of metal against metal, so quiet that the hunter hated it. If the crow was now so close that they could hear the latching of the gun's frizzen—

The bullets would come, and quickly. They were sure that the crow maintained the weapon well; none of the falling snow would have made it into the lock. The spark would catch in seconds.

The hunter lunged to the side and held the crown close to their chest. The air split with sound. Twin streaks of quicksilver sliced past them. The crow was aiming for their legs. Aiming to maim.

The hunter knew that they weren't about to be offered the sedated oblivion of the sacrifice in the throne room. Whatever was coming to them would be slow.

Their balance was fragile; one foot slid out from under them and they over-corrected, throwing their weight into the next step as a long stumble. The movement was erratic and, hopefully, hard to hit. If the crow was to fire again, it would require slowing down, reloading, and taking aim. Quicksilver bullets, excellent against beasts at close quarters, were also notoriously slow-moving, and they rapidly lost accuracy with distance. The hunter couldn't dodge the bullets forever, but if they could do it for long enough…

After a gunpowder thunderclap, something touched the hunter's calf. The slight sensation soon resolved into a searing pain. The crow had fired again, so much faster than the hunter had anticipated, and one of the bullets had clipped their leg.

The damned thing had a wheel; they remembered the shape of it, just barely glimpsed when they had followed the crow to the throne. Even refilling the powder in the striking pans could be made automatic. Fire once, turn the wheel, deposit the powder, load the quicksilver. Pull back the hammers. Fire again. It was fast, and powerful, but expensive; two bullets were used each time the crow fired. How many did the crow have on hand?

The hunter winced against the pain as they staggered onward. The wound pulsed fire up their leg with each footfall. In a way, they were grateful for the burning; when shot this close, the mercury came in hot. It was devastating if it landed properly. The quicksilver would burn and sink into flesh, leaving a scoured pit of damage. A glancing hit like this, however, practically cauterized itself. The wound would hardly even bleed.

They ducked inside an archway and tried to hurry their pace. The floor within this portion of the keep was clear of snow, but none of the sconces were lit, and the hunter was now fighting their way through darkness.

The crown glistened in their tight grip, capturing the last of the light from behind them. The martyr had attempted to force it upon their head before trying to kill them. What had he earned in wearing it? What had he lost in throwing it away? The martyr must have thought that the hunter had some small chance of escape in order for him to decide to give it up. He'd sacrifice himself yet again if it meant that Annalise would lose.

And if the hunter couldn't escape? They thought of the lake, and the unyielding stone beneath. They could break against the island's cliffs. That was what the martyr had first proposed to them: I'll throw you to the water and keep her from her spoils.

The hunter didn't want to do that to themself. Nor did they want to regret not doing so once the crow's blade found them.

The hunter lifted their hands and slid the golden band over their brow.

Nothing happened.

Air hissed through their gritted teeth as they freed an exhale. The hunter slammed their hand against the wall to steady themself as they turned a corner. The crown was heavy, and a bit overlarge; it threatened to slip down over their eyes. Perhaps it had actually been intended as a mercy kill. From the height the martyr had thrown it, the falling crown could have cracked the hunter's skull.

If the crown really was a sorcerous artifact of some kind, if it needed more from them in order to bring forth some life-saving skill, then the hunter had no time to puzzle it out. All it could be to them right now was a gaudy circle of gems set in gold.

There was only one hope ahead of them to grasp at— they'd be reaching the bridge soon. Beyond the charcoal gray stretch of the corridor, they glimpsed the light pouring through the open doors that led to the outside. It would be a long, straight stretch of running and hoping that the crow wouldn't shoot them, but they'd have a much easier time getting to the ground once they had passed over it. The hunter sprinted, spending their strength as they emerged from the dark and sped towards the bridge.

The hunter stopped, though their momentum had them sliding forward over the floor for a half-a-step more, and their stomach dropped in fear.

There was no bridge. The remaining stone had been sheared flat in some places and cracked jagged in others, but the pitted weathering of the surface made it seem as if there had been no bridge for a very long time. All that was left were the scarred remnants of the arch, sloping up and out from the keep, and after the empty expanse between, the broken masonry where it had once joined to the matching great doors of the far castle wall.

The hunter looked up. The clouds that had come with the snow had deepened. All was growing dark. The light of the false dawn was fading.

The martyr must have known; his pointing had been an attempt to direct them to a different way down. He had stopped at this same threshold when he had pursued the hunter, unwilling to step onto the stone because it hadn't been there for him. The daytime veneer over the sky, the hidden crumbling of the castle— Annalise had painted a much more thorough facade than the hunter had anticipated, and this crown had cut right through it.

The hunter was also trapped. The crow would catch them here. Feeling idiotic, the hunter pulled the crown off and shot a wild look at the space where the bridge once was. They were not so lucky as to have the pathway remanifest itself, but they did feel the dull pounding pain of an incipient headache that only relented when they placed the crown back on their brow. The illusion, once dispelled, would not return to them.

They gulped down a few deep breaths as their heart attempted to settle. Around them, the wind whistled like a bad hinge.

The interior of the keep behind them was dark. Perhaps they could double back, outmaneuver the crow, and descend into the castle proper in the way the martyr had directed. They could see no easy way down from here; the wall of the keep below the broken bridge was sheer and offered no handholds, and a fall from this height would almost certainly kill them.

The hunter backed away from the edge and attempted to stave off despair. They slipped back inside the keep and crept close to the shadows of the walls. With any luck, they would be able to sneak back unseen; with their luck, the crow would be completely unhindered by the darkness and would spot them immediately. They briefly considered hiding in the shadow tucked behind the widely opened doors and bolting only when the crow passed by to check the bridge. It was a very secluded, hard-to-see spot; the dark there only grew deeper when contrasted with the fading light outside. But they didn't like the chance of being found already cornered, and so they discarded the idea.

The hunter tried to spot any decorative swords, heavy-looking vases, or particularly loosely-fastened sconces that they could claim as an improvised weapon. There were none. If they felt adept at wielding a tapestry, they could do so, and perhaps succeed in catching a few slices from the crow's sword, but the tightly woven cloth would do little against the gun. They tugged a narrow stripe of florid fabric from the wall, wincing at how the sound of it tearing free of its mount echoed down the hall. They wrapped one end around one fist, and then pulled it out taut with the other.

It was worrisome that the halls were as silent as a tomb. All the hunter heard now was their own restrained breathing and the quiet scuff of their boots on the floor. There was the shivering neck-prickle of being observed; it was likely that the gallery of gaunt noble faces upon the walls were to blame.

Had the crow taken a wrong turn in this darkness? Or was the knight lying in wait somewhere, knowing that the hunter had to retreat from the loss of the illusory bridge? In any case, it was strange that the knight had not caught them at the broken threshold. The hunter edged forward. Their eyes had a better chance to adjust to the darkness with their careful pace. Ahead of them, they could recognize the way back to where the martyr had pointed. Unfortunately, it was one path in a crossroads. There were adjoining halls to their left and right. The crow could be lying in wait in either of them, prepared to attack as the hunter passed by.

The hunter stopped and considered their lack of options. It was time to run again, then. Break past the trap of this crossroads. Scour their reserves of energy and outpace the crow. The hunter took a deep breath and narrowed their focus.

Hard metal pressed against the small of their back.

The hunter's thoughts were a white flash of fear that soon faded into a litany of curses. They recalled the dark little hiding space behind the open doors, and the time they had wasted standing in awe of the missing bridge. The crow had surely caught up with them, then had hid behind the doors as they gawked, and then had followed as the hunter uselessly crept forward.

The crow was stalking stupid prey. The torn tapestry shook in the hunter's fists.

The twin barrels of the pistol nudged against the hunter's back, as if trying to spur some further response; an involuntary shudder passed through the hunter's shoulders.

Gods, the knight would unravel them. Tear them down from grace and rip them thread from thread. The hunter knew that they had earned all the venom in Annalise's voice; they hadn't yet given much thought as to how their betrayal had affected the crow.

They swallowed around the dryness in their mouth. They weren't sure what to say, but speaking was the only option left to them. "I'm—"

A click, and then a full-body flinch; the sentence died in their throat and came out as a whimper. The barrels were still pushed up against their spine, but nothing had happened. This was surely not just a misfire. The flintlocks had struck back loudly against the frizzen, and the hunter had heard the quick sizzle of sparks. There must have been no gunpowder in the pan, no easy way for the sparks to ignite the charge through the flash-hole and fire. Still, the hunter was fighting not to shiver, and their heartbeat came rabbit-fast, the rhythm of it almost tumbling over itself in their fear. That was what the crow had been truly aiming at— terror.

There was a very slow, very deliberate sound— the turning of the brass wheel. The pistol was now properly primed.

"Another duel," they said, and they surprised themself in saying it; they barely felt capable of putting words together and yet here they were, spilling sentences out of their mouth as they shook. "With no limitations. Wouldn't you like that? To have me face you with everything I have and— and— and we'll see if I still lose." They felt no hope in appealing to the crow's chivalry, in insisting that killing them while they were defenseless would be dishonorable. Instead, they considered what had felt like a genuine hunger for competition in the arena, and how much satisfaction the crow was finding in toying with them now.

"You were robbed of a proper fight, you know," the hunter dared to add. "You saw my work in the city and you liked it. That's why you brought me here." It may not have been wise, veering so close to how the crow's presumptions regarding the hunter's bloodthirst had been wrong in one critical way, but they pushed onward. "You know what I am capable of, but you've never truly tasted it for yourself."

The crow let out a low, descending hum that the hunter only barely heard over their own heartbeat. The gun did not budge.

"Those alternative arrangements that the queen seeks," the hunter quoted. "Wouldn't you like to prove that you're the better choice?"

There was a brief noise, almost a laugh. The hunter shuddered as the twin barrels dragged up the curve of their spine.

The hunter fought past the urge to cry out, to writhe away from the gun. "There are better ways than this to put me in my place," they said. "Strike me down the way you would as a Hunter of Hunters. As Cainhurst's crow."

A tide of relief engulfed them when metal ceased pressing against their back. They inhaled and stood stock still. Upon the exhale, they took a step forward. The crow made no move to stop them.

Their mind flooded with thanks. Their pace picked up. They had to find Elaine's chambers, their things—

Pain radiated out from their shoulder blade and they fell to one knee. The heavy handle of the gun had struck hard at the bone. Hope was being dangled so cruelly before them, but not entirely pulled away— the hunter was sure that the crow would be overjoyed if they did find their cleaver and a proper fight could be had. That was why two bullets were not lodged in their vertebrae right now. But the knight also wasn't about to allow getting there to be easy. The hunter now knew that every second of life had to be clutched tightly or it would be taken away from them.

The hunter scrambled to get back to their feet, their boot scuffing along the worn surface of the carpet, and for a moment that felt far too long they failed to find purchase. When the crow swung a sabaton at their ankle they fell again. Finally, they found traction, and the hunter threw themself forward, stumbling out of the crow's range.

The crow was following lazily, ambling along with the gun now holstered. Turning away, the hunter limped into an uneasy jog.

It was going to be a long way down.