Hildegard rode at the front, mounted on her great hound. Though the beast's pace was steady and fast for most, to Lucian and Torrent—accustod to true speed—it felt sluggish.
Fortunately, no more Rotborne creatures ca to trouble them along the way. Hildegard had left every larva and egg behind in her hut. Whatever faint trace of pheromones clung to her body had long since faded; the Pests could no longer track them.
They kept to the road skirting the great expanse of Swamp of Aeonia. Yet even riding hard, night fell before they reached Redmane Castle.
Lucian and Torrent had set out from dawn. By the ti they found Hildegard's hut, the sun was already high. After watching the scarlet bloom release its poisonous pollen, and waiting for Hildegard to pack her mountain of belongings, it was afternoon when they finally departed.
Now, at this hour, even if they pushed on, the castle gates would already be shut.
So the two decided to rest for the night and continue at first light.
On the roadside, they spotted a fire.
A traveling rchant sat by the flas, roasting his supper. When his eyes lifted to Hildegard's hound, he started in surprise.
Monstrous Dogs were not rare in Caelid, but for that very reason, he knew well how vicious they were. To ta such a beast ant its rider was no ordinary person.
And in Caelid, eting extraordinary people was not always a blessing.
The rchant rose to his feet, seizing his donkey's reins, wary and ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. In these lands, one encountered all kinds—brigands, lunatics, and worse. Only the soldiers of Redmane were truly reliable.
"Do you want to trade?" Hildegard called out.
Her voice was calm, disarming. She dismounted and ordered her hound to lie down at a distance. She knew well the fear it inspired in ordinary folk.
Seeing her gesture, the rchant hesitated, then slowly nodded. He remained cautious, but at least agreed to talk business.
"You don't look the sort to cut down," he muttered. "All right then. Co see my wares."
For a wandering rchant, hesitation ant starvation. Danger was part of the trade, and Caelid offered both risk and profit in equal asure.
Lucian studied him with faint nostalgia. This place, this rchant—he rembered them. Long ago, when he was still a fresh-faced adventurer, he had stumbled through Caelid searching for map fragnts, and here he had found a rchant selling Flaming Bolts.
They were powerful—bursting into fla on impact, useful for breaking tough enemies. As a beginner, Lucian had delighted in buying stacks of them, using his Black-Key Crossbow to rain fiery shots across the land.
Strong consumables were always hoarded, too "precious" to use; weak items were ignored outright. But the bolts, sold in limitless supply, were perfect—cheap, fun, and deadly enough.
He chuckled inwardly, rembering how he had stockpiled dozens, only to waste them later in the blood-soaked rune farming spot near Mohgwyn Palace. The old habits of a hoarder never died.
The rchant handed over a list rather than laying out goods, a wise precaution in Caelid—better to lose paper than a life. Few sane folk ca here willingly, and only rumors of the coming festival had drawn him. Still, he had found little profit: the land was vast, barren, and full of horrors.
Now, by chance, he had custors before ever reaching the castle.
Lucian scanned the list. No Fla Bolts. Perhaps this was not the sa rchant as the one he rembered. Still, there were other items: a rough hand-drawn map of southern Caelid, ritual pots, stonesword keys, scraps of intelligence. Even a few mismatched armor sets—loot stripped from naless corpses.
Lucian bought a stonesword key and the map. Crude as it was, even a sketch of ruins and Redmane's location was better than nothing.
Hildegard, on the other hand, purchased a ritual pot—rarer and far more valuable than the cracked ones that littered the land.
Both sides were satisfied. The dog kept silent watch through the night, and nothing disturbed their camp.
—
By noon the next day, they finally glimpsed Redmane Castle.
It lood upon a distant cliff, towering and impregnable. Smaller than Stormveil, perhaps, but just as grand. Like Stormveil, it was built upon sheer precipice, its walls unassailable save for a single bridge.
The approach bristled with war engines—towers ard with ballistae, trebuchets loaded with stone, archers with crossbows at the ready. Soldiers patrolled ceaselessly. Beyond the campfires, the corpses of Monstrous Dogs and Crows were burned in great piles, their flesh attracting yet more beasts, only to be cut down in turn.
A grim but effective strategy: deny the Rot its fuel, and use carrion to lure the predators. Though, by now, even the animals had learned to keep away.
Lucian and Hildegard halted before the forward camp. A knight on horseback rode out to et them, flanked by wary soldiers. All eyes went to Hildegard's mount. Even the white Lion Guardian of Redmane padded closer, its body scarred, its claws bound in steel, its on horns brutally severed.
"Stop where you are!" the knight barked. "State your nas!"
"I've co to join the Festival of Combat," Lucian replied evenly. "And beside —a maker of tools."
The knight nodded curtly, but did not lower his guard. "The Dog will not pass the gates. Tad or not, it carries Scarlet Rot."
Hildegard only shrugged. "Of course. I'll send it away for now, and call it back when this is over."
She dismounted, unstrapped her luggage, and clapped the beast's flank. Obediently, it loped into the distance.
Satisfied, the knight waved them through. "Cross the bridge ahead. Take care not to stir trouble—our soldiers are not forgiving."
They crossed the scarred span of the Impassable Greatbridge, its stones still bearing the marks of countless battles. Siege engines glared down at them from the far end, but none loosed a shot. Participants of the festival were granted safe passage.
Beyond the gates, Redmane Castle revealed itself.
The courtyard was littered with white Lion Guardians, scarred and exhausted, resting between hunts. Soldiers sprawled along the walls, wounded yet unbroken, cleaning weapons or sleeping where they fell.
It was the sa layout as Stormveil's outer ward; a killing ground, ready to be sealed off in case the gates were breached. Now, it was a place for warriors to rest.
One soldier rose to et them. His armor was bitten through in places, his face gaunt, caked with blood and dust. Yet his eyes blazed, fierce and unyielding—fire that burned against despair.
"You co for the Festival of Combat?" he asked, gaze locked on Lucian.
"Yes," Lucian answered. "I have co for that alone."
The soldier inclined his head, then beckoned. "Follow . I'll take you to your quarters. Rest well, warrior. When the day cos, may you grant General Radahn a death worthy of his legend."
He led them to the residential quarters—a row of small, spare chambers. Keys were handed over.
"Use them as you will. Redmane stands open for all festival warriors. Thirteen days remain until the battle. Do not miss it."
With that, the soldier departed.
Lucian carried Hildegard's bundles to her door before opening his own.
The room was tiny, lit by a single shaft of light from the window. A bed, a table, a weapon rack with simple tools for care and repair. Spartan, but enough.
He sat briefly on the hard cot, smiling faintly. "Military style. I don't mind it."
Redmane's soldiers earned his respect. In this land of corruption, they fought on, resting only when duty allowed. To them, comfort was nothing—only the fight against Scarlet Rot mattered.
Lucian stood. His rest could wait. He had soone to et.
The acting lord of Redmane Castle—Jerren.
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