"Geneviève..." The word hung in the golden air of the cathedral, spoken by the King not as a question, but as a prayer.
King Louen Leoncoeur did not withdraw his hands. Instead of pulling away in horror, as one might before a deception, he slid his silver-mail gloves from the edges of the helm down to the dirt-streaked cheeks of the kneeling woman. He felt the unnatural heat of her skin. He felt the vibration of the Grail humming beneath the surface—a resonance that made teeth ache and warmed the very blood.
Louen was a Grail Knight. He had spent decades studying the nature of the Lady. He knew the Goddess was capricious, mysterious, and that she often acted through paths mortals found incomprehensible. He looked into Geneviève's luminous blue eyes and saw no deceit. He saw only sacrifice.
"Sacrilege!" The scream shattered the spell. The Duke of Parravon stepped forward, his face flushed purple, hand upon the hilt of his sword. "Majesty, stay back! She is a witch! A woman wearing steel, a peasant who dares to look the King in the eye!" The Duke turned to the crowd of nobles, seeking support. "Have you seen? She has deceived us all! She has profaned the laws of Chivalry! Women are meant to weave and pray, not spill blood! This... this thing is an abomination that has used sorcery to mimic the blessing!"
A dark murmur rose among the ranks of the more conservative knights. Deception was a stain on honour. If a peasant—and a female one at that—could be stronger than they, then what were their titles worth? What was the value of their blue blood?
Geneviève did not answer. She did not lower her gaze. The heat radiating from her body increased in intensity, reacting to her inner turmoil, causing the Duke of Parravon to break into a sweat five meters away.
King Louen turned slowly toward Parravon. His face was not angry. It was terrifyingly calm. "Duke," the King said, in a low voice that rumbled like a lion in a cavern. "Have you ever seen a witch whose touch heals wounds?" He pointed to the kneeling commoners, whose sores were closing at the mere presence of Geneviève's aura. "Have you ever seen a Chaos sorceress whose light burns demons and leaves the righteous untouched?" He pointed to the sword, Vespers' Light, still planted in the ground beside Geneviève, glowing with a purity that pained the eyes.
Louen took a step toward Parravon, forcing the Duke to recoil. "You speak of Laws, Parravon. Laws were written by men dead for centuries. But the Grail... the Grail is alive. The Grail chooses. And who are you, who am I, to tell the Lady she was wrong to choose her champion?"
The King turned back to Geneviève. He removed one of his gauntlets, revealing a bare hand. He placed it upon Geneviève's head, amidst the ash-blonde hair that looked like solidified smoke.
"The Law of Bretonnia says no woman may be a Knight," Louen proclaimed, his voice thundering in the nave. "Well, I am the King. And I say that the Law serves Bretonnia, not the reverse."
Louen took the golden laurel crown that a page offered on a velvet cushion. It was not the crown of a Baron. It was the crown of a Warden of the Realm. "Geneviève of..." The King hesitated. He could not say "of Parron," a burned village no one knew. He looked at the light emanating from her. "Geneviève of the Light," the King corrected.
He placed the crown upon her head. The gold blended with her hair of ash and platinum. "Rise, Geneviève. Not as Sir Gilles. Not as a man. Rise as La Damoiselle de Guerre—The War Maiden."
Geneviève rose. The movement was fluid, despite the heavyarmourr. Now that she was standing, without the helm that added inches and width to her shoulders, she appeared smaller compared to the King, more human. The dirt on her face and hedishevelleded hair contrasted violently with the divine aura surrounding her. She was a living paradox: as filthy as a trench, as sacred as a relic.
When she turned toward the nave, it was not Parravon who decided her fate. It was the people. A common soldier of Carcassonne, the one with the eye bandage, raised his rusted sword toward the sky. "FOR THE MAIDEN!" he screamed with all the breath in his lungs. "FOR GENEVIÈVE!" Tristan answered, his voice cracking with tears, raising his fist.
And then came a roar. Thousands of voices. Peasants, merchants, common soldiers, and even the Knights of Tancred's a,rmy who had fought at her side. "GENEVIÈVE! GENEVIÈVE! THE SAINT OF ASH!"
The sound made the precarious walls of the cathedral tremble. The Duke of Parravon and his allies remained silent, pale, crushed by the popular will and the evidence of the miracle. They could not oppose her. If they touched that woman now, they would ignite a revolt that would burn their castles to the ground.
High atop the ruins, Lady Kaia, the Spellsinger of the Wood Elves, watched the scene with an unreadable expression. Beside her, the Lord of the Paths shook his head. "They have created an idol," the elf murmured. "Poor creature. She was freer when she was hidden behind iron."
Kaia fixed her gaze on Geneviève, who stood there, bathed in light and acclamation, with an expression not of triumph, but of bewilderment. "Humans love to put their goddesses on pedestals," the enchantress said. "But they forget that on a pedestal, one cannot move. And she... she has a spirit that needs to run."
Kaia raised her staff. A sudden wind, scented with pine and ancient leaves, swept the nave, swirling the dust around Geneviève like a magical cloak. "Look at her well, Orion," Kaia whispered to her companion. "For I fear her light will burn out very quickly. And when it goes out, the cold will be terrible."
Down in the nave, Geneviève looked at the crowd screaming her name. The heat emanating from her face was softening slightly now that the immediate danger had passed, leaving a gentle luminosity akin to the full moon. She sought Tancred's gaze. The old Duke was weeping openly, smiling with fatherly pride.
But Geneviève did not smile. She felt the weight of the laurel crown upon her brow. It weighed more than the Gromril helm. She had lost her anonymity. She had lost the freedom to be no one. Now she belonged to them. She belonged to the myth. And as King Louen took her hand to raise it in victory, Geneviève understood with a cold certainty that her war against monsters was over, but her imprisonment in the world of men had only just begun.
"Lady," she thought, as the crowd deafened her with their love. "Give me the strength to be what they see, and not what I am."
The days following the revelation were, for Geneviève, more exhausting than the siege itself. There were no demons to fight, but there were seamstresses, obsequious dukes, and fanatical priests. She had been quartered in the noble apartments spared from destruction—rooms that smelled of lavender to mask the lingering stench of smoke.
The ladies-in-waiting sent from Couronne tried to dress her in heavy silk gowscandalisedized by the white scars that tracked across her back and the thick callouses on her hands. "My Lady, you cannot meet the Cardinal wearing leather breeches," chirped an elderly countess, trying to hide the trembling of her hands as she combed Geneviève's ash-blonde hair, which still radiated a static warmth.
Geneviève stood up abruptly, knocking over the silver mirror. "I am not a doll," she growled in her deep voice. "And I will meet no Cardinal until I have checked on my horse." She strode out of the room, ignoring the scandalised looks, wearing a simple linen tunic and riding boots. She felt naked without her Gromril. She felt exposed. The light in her eyes had become a beacon that drew the faithful wherever she went, forcing her to keep her gaze low to avoid causing scenes of religious hysteria.
Salvation arrived in the form of a royal summons. King Louen Leoncoeur awaited her in his field tent, not in the makeshift throne room. It was a private meeting. Aside from the King, there were only Duke Tancred—who looked ten years older in the span of two days—Lady Kaia of the Wood Elves, and a map spread across the table.
"Maiden Geneviève," the King greeted her, gesturing to a chair. He used no high-flown titles, but his tone was grave. "I hope the court is not crushing you too tightly."
"I would prefer to face another Juggernaut, Majesty," Geneviève admitted, sitting heavily. "At least the Juggernaut is honest in its desire to kill me. The courtiers smile at me while trying to figure out how to use me for their political games."
Louen smiled bitterly. "Welcome to my daily battlefield. But I have called you for another reason. The war is won here in Carcassonne, but the roots of evil run deep."
Lady Kaia stepped forward. Her alien presence made the air in the tent tingle. "You humans think that cutting off the serpent's head kills the venom," the elf said, her voice melodious and cold. "The Demon Prince has been banished, yes. But the portal did not open above this city by chance. It was anchored."
The elf passed a diaphanous hand over the map, pointing to a rugged, impassable mountain region east of Carcassonne, right on the border between Bretonnia and the forest of Athel Loren. "There is a place, in the heights of the Grey Mountains. You call it Crow's Peak. Centuries ago, it was a monastery dedicated to the Lady, guardian of sacred relics. Then it was abandoned and forgotten."
Tancred frowned. "I know the legends. It is said to be haunted by spectres."
"Not spectres," Kaia corrected. "Something worse. The cult that summoned the demons here in the valley used that monastery as a catalyst. They have corrupted the Sacred Spring that flows beneath the peak. That black water now trickles down, filtering into the roots of Athel Loren and poisoning the rivers of Bretonnia at the source."
The elf fixed Geneviève with her violet eyes. "My scouts cannot approach. The corrupted sanctity of the place burns our skin like acid. And the King's normal soldiers would go mad before reaching the summit. It requires someone who carries a light so pure they can walk in the dark without being stained by it."
Geneviève understood immediately. She looked at the map. Crow's Peak was an isolated, wild place, far from the courts, the priests, and the nobles who judged her. It was a suicide mission, certainly. But it was a free mission.
"What must I do?" Geneviève asked, feeling her heart lighten for the first time in days.
"You must scale the Peak," King Louen explained. "Enter the catacombs of the profaned monastery. Find the Spring and purify it. It will not be easy. Kaia's spies say the cult left a guardian there. An ancient creature, awakened by the ritual."
"A Werewolf of the Skinwolf strain," Kaia specified. "Or perhaps something unnamed created by the arts of Nurgle. Whatever it is, it blocks the healing of the land."
King Louen looked Geneviève in the eye. "Geneviève, I could send you to Couronne. I could have you live in luxury as a symbol of victory. But I see in your eyes that such a life would kill you faster than any monster. This mission... is necessary for the realm, but it is also the only way I have to give you the freedom you deserve."
Geneviève stood up. The decision was made before the question was even finished. "When do I leave?"
An hour later, Geneviève was in the royal stables. She had recovered her armour. Master Lambert had done a superb job: the dents had been hammered out, the straps replaced. He had even polished the black Gromril until it looked like liquid obsidian. But the most important thing was that Geneviève felt like herself again. The weight of the metal was a familiar embrace, a barrier against the world.
As she saddled Duraz, who whinnied happily seeing her dressed for war and not for a parade, she heard footsteps behind her. It was Tristan. And with him was Gaston, the one-eyed sergeant who had led thedefencee of the east walls, and two elven archers, silent as shadows, sent by Lady Kaia as guides.
"You didn't think you were going for a walk in the mountains without us, Maiden?" asked Tristan, who had recovered some of his old spirit, though his eyes were harder.
"It is dangerous, Tristan," Geneviève replied, tightening the saddle girth. "There won't be an army to cover our backs. Only cold, rock, and death."
"Better the cold than the court ladies trying to teach me to dance," the boy shot back.
Gaston spat on the ground, adjusting the bandage that covered the empty socket lost during the siege. "And besides, someone has to watch your back, My Lady. Sir Baldrick and the other good lads died to give us this chance. I don't intend to waste it getting fat in a barracks."
Geneviève looked at the small group. A young noble who had lost his innocence, an old sergeant who had lost an eye and many friends, two alien elves, and herself—a reluctant saint on a dwarven horse. It was an imperfect company. It was perfect.
She mounted her horse. She did not put on her helm immediately. She let the soldiers in the stables see her face, the blue light in her eyes, the human determination in her jaw.
"Let us go to Crow's Peak," Geneviève said. "There is a spring to be cleansed."
As the group rode out the gates of Carcassonne, leaving the celebrations and politics behind, Geneviève felt the mountain wind on her face. She knew the battle at the Monastery of the Black Rose would be terrible. But for the first time, she wasn't running away from her past. She was running toward her destiny.
The journey toward Crow's Peak was no triumphal march. It was a slow and painful ascent through the "Dragon's Gorges," a treacherous mountain pass that marked the natural border between human civilisation and the primordial mystery of Athel Loren.
Leaving the warmth of the valley behind, the company scrambled up goat paths where the air grew increasingly thin and biting. The vegetation changed. Vineyards and fields gave way to twisted pines and grey rocks encrusted with orange lichen. The weather soured rapidly. Low, leaden clouds swallowed the summits, bringing with them a freezing sleet that clung to armour and cloaks.
On the second night, they camped in a shallow cave to escape a windstorm. They lit no large fire, only enough embers to warm a bit of soup. Geneviève sat near the entrance, wrapped in her cloak. The light of the Grail emanating from her body had diminished in intensity, becoming a faint glow that provided warmth to the companions nearby without drawing too much attention.
The elves, named Lothar and Elara, sat apart, eating elven bread (known as Waybread in Bretonnia) and polishing the tips of their arrows. Gaston, the sergeant, chewed tobacco and watched Geneviève with his one good eye.
"You know, My Lady," Gaston said, breaking the silence. "I've fought under three Dukes. I've seen wizards, warrior priests, and once even a giant. But I've never seen anything like what happened in the cathedral."
Geneviève smiled wearily. "Are you disappointed, Gaston? That your 'Iron Angel' is just a woman from Parron?"
Gaston laughed, a hoarse sound. "Disappointed? By the gods, no! My wife—may the earth lie light upon her—broke my nose with a frying pan once. Women are ruthless. If I'd known there was a woman in thatarmourr at Mousillon, I'd have bet double on the annihilation of the undead." He spat into the fire. "But it's not you that worries me. It's the mountain. I don't like the smell of this wind. It tastes of... sickness."
Gaston was right. The following morning, the storm ceased, replaced by a dense, yellowish fog that did not seem natural. As they crossed a natural stone bridge suspended over a chasm, Duraz stopped short, pawing the ground. Geneviève felt the itch beneath her skin. The mark of Chaos.
"Arms!" she ordered, drawing Vespers' Light.
From the fog emerged no red demons or armoured warriors. Harpies emerged. Not ordinary beastial harpies, but creatures mutated by the contagion of Nurgle. They had bloated bellies, membranous wings riddled with holes that dripped pus, and human faces distorted into grimaces of eternal agony. There were dozens of them. They dived screaming, trying to seize the horses to drag them into the ravine.
"Protect the horses!" Tristan yelled, raising his shield to parry a spray of acidic vomit launched by one of the creatures.
Geneviève rose in her stirrups. Her sword became a beacon in the yellow fog. A harpy tried to grab her head; Geneviève sheared it in half with an ascending blow. The creature exploded in a rain of filth that sizzled upon contact with the paladin's sacred aura, never touching harm.
Lothar and Elara were machines of death. Their arrows never missed. With every release, a harpy fell into the void with an arrow through its eye or throat. Gaston used a heavy crossbow with the calm of a man who had done this job for thirty years. Click. Vuum. Thud. Reload.
But the harpies were many, and the bridge was narrow. Duraz was forced back. A hoof slipped on the edge. For an instant, Geneviève looked into the abyss below. Then, she felt a new strength. Not physical strength, but the authority of the Grail.
"ENOUGH!" Her voice, amplified by divine power, was a sonic shockwave. The blue aura exploded violently, creating a dome of light around the bridge. The harpies, blinded and scorched by the sudden sanctity, shrieked in pain and scattered, retreating into the fog like bats surprised by the sun.
Having crossed the bridge and survived the ambush, the climb continued until the afternoon. Finally, they reached the summit plateau. Crow's Peak loomed over them, a spire of black rock that looked like an accusing finger pointed at the sky. And embedded in the rock, like a tumour, was the monastery.
It was an ancient building, a mix of Imperial and Bretonnian architecture, but now it lay in ruins. Statues of saints had been decapitated. The stained glass was shattered. But the worst part was the silence. There were no birds. There was no wind. Only a low, constant hum, like that of a diseased hive.
"We have arrived," said Elara the elf, covering her nose with a corner of her cloak. "The corruption is strong here. Do you feel it? It's as if the earth has a fever."
Geneviève dismounted. She touched the ground. The grass was black and slimy. She looked at the monastery entrance: a great, wide-open portal that looked like a toothless mouth.
"Gaston, Tristan," Geneviève ordered. "Leave the horses out here. If we enter on horseback, they won't come out alive. Inside, we fight on foot."
She took her shield from the side of the saddle—a new shield, gifted by Tancred, bearing the symbol of the Lily and the Grail, but Geneviève had crudely painted a small black deer over it.
"Stay close to me," she said, as Vespers' Light began to pulse, sensing the presence of the Guardian Kaia had spoken of. "My light is your only armour in there."
They moved toward the dark portal. From within came a sound. Not a roar. The crying of a child. Geneviève stiffened.
"It's a trap," Gaston said, cocking his crossbow.
"I know," Geneviève replied, crossing the threshold. "But we must spring it to kill the one who set it."