*Year 1622 — 20th Day of Therizo — Castle Thornhaven, Boreas*
A month had passed since the Mosscloak had been found.
The Thornwood had changed. Not the forest itself—the ancient oaks still stood, the moss still hung in curtains, the creature still tended its groves—but the way men moved through it. The Hunter's Guild had established patrols along the eastern border, loggers had been warned away from a five‑kilometer exclusion zone around the wyvern's territory, and the villagers who had once feared the dark now slept easier, knowing that something old and powerful watched the trees.
Edric had made sure of it. He had walked the boundaries himself, spoken to the hunters, listened to the loggers' complaints. He had marked the maps, signed the orders, posted the notices. The Mosscloak would not be disturbed. Not while he lived.
But Thornhaven had other problems.
The great hall was crowded when Edric entered, his boots echoing on the stone. Nobles from every corner of the kingdom had gathered—those who had remained loyal, those who had stayed neutral, and those who had quietly supported the traitors and were now desperate to prove their loyalty. The galleries were full, the benches were packed, and at the center of it all, standing before the throne, stood Lord Godwin Mercer.
He was thinner than Edric remembered. The dungeons had hollowed him out, stripping away the fat and the arrogance, leaving something gaunt and desperate. But his eyes were still sharp, still calculating. He had not given up.
"Your Majesty," Mercer said, bowing as low as his chains would allow. "I request a retrial."
Gareth sat on the throne, his face carved from stone. His brothers stood beside him—Leofric with his arms crossed, Oswin with his ledger, Edric with his grey eyes fixed on the man who had tried to steal their kingdom.
"On what grounds?" Gareth asked.
"New evidence. Witnesses who were not heard. And—" Mercer hesitated, then lifted his chin— "the right to trial by combat. The old law. A man accused of treason may demand a champion to prove his innocence."
The hall murmured. The old law was rarely invoked. It had been a hundred years since the last trial by combat in Thornreach. It was bloody, unpredictable, and dangerous. But it was still law.
Gareth leaned forward. "You have no innocence to prove. You were caught. You confessed."
"I confessed under duress. I was threatened. Beaten." Mercer's voice rose. "I demand a champion. Let the gods decide."
Before Gareth could answer, the doors at the far end of the great hall swung open.
A herald stepped through, his voice ringing across the chamber. "Announcing Anippe of Khemet, envoy of Pharaoh Khepri, and her companion, Anubis of Khemet, called the King's Dog."
The crowd turned. Two figures walked down the center aisle, their footsteps echoing on the stone.
The first was a woman, tall and lithe, with golden eyes and fur the color of desert sand. Her face was feline—catfolk. Her ears were tufted, her tail swished slowly behind her, and her movements were fluid, almost dancer‑like. She wore a sleeveless tunic of white linen, a leopard‑skin cloak over her shoulders, and a curved sword—a khopesh—at her hip.
The second was taller, leaner, his face distinctly canine—a jackal's snout, alert ears, fur as black as pitch with a streak of gold running from his forehead to his nose. He wore no metal armor, only a tunic of black linen and a sleeveless coat of crocodile hide, scarred and dark. In his hand he carried a heavy staff of ironwood, capped at both ends with bands of black iron. His eyes were amber, calm, watchful.
He did not speak. He stood behind the woman, his staff planted on the stone floor, his gaze sweeping the room.
Anippe stopped before the throne and bowed.
"King Gareth of Thornreach," she said, her voice warm but formal. "I bring greetings from Pharaoh Khepri of Khemet, on the southern continent of Notos. I also bring evidence of crimes committed by Lord Godwin Mercer of this realm."
She reached into her cloak and withdrew a scroll, its seal already broken. "Mercer has been selling captives to a slave network that spans the continent. Orcs from the Grey Hills. Trolls from the eastern marches. Even his own countrymen—poor villagers who owed him debts." She held out the scroll. "We have been dismantling this network for years. Mercer was one of its primary suppliers."
The hall erupted. Nobles whispered, servants stared, and Mercer's face went pale.
Edric took the scroll, broke the seal, and read. The names, the dates, the shipments—all there. Gold flowing from the south into Mercer's coffers, even after the brothers had bankrupted his legal enterprises.
Gareth leaned forward. "You have proof of this?"
"We have witnesses. We have ledgers. We have a man who worked for Mercer and turned informant." Anippe's eyes were steady. "We have come to ask for Mercer's extradition. He will stand trial in Khemet, where slavery is punishable by death."
Mercer's face went from pale to ashen. "This is nonsense. I have never—"
"You have." Anubis's voice was low, rumbling, like stones grinding together. It was the first time he had spoken since entering the hall. The crowd fell silent.
He stepped forward, his staff tapping on the stone floor. His amber eyes fixed on Mercer, and the lord shrank back.
"I have tracked your ships for three years," Anubis said. "I have freed men, women, and children from your holds. I have killed your captains. Your gold came from the sale of living beings. Your network is in ashes. You are the last."
He turned to Gareth. "I heard your law. Trial by combat. The accused names a champion. The crown names a champion."
He planted his staff on the floor. The iron butt cracked against the stone, and the sound echoed through the hall like a bell.
"I will be the crown's champion."
The hall went silent.
Gareth looked at Anubis, at the staff, at the amber eyes that held no doubt. "You understand what you are offering?"
"I understand." Anubis's voice was steady. "I am here to hunt slavers. Mercer is a slaver. Let him name his champion. I will send them both to judgment."
Gareth glanced at Edric. Edric looked at Anubis, then at Anippe, who nodded.
"The crown accepts," Gareth said. "You will be our champion."
Mercer's jaw tightened. "I have already named my champion. Ser Aldric of House Ashford. The finest swordsman in the eastern marches."
"Then Ser Aldric will fight the King's Dog," Gareth said. "The trial will be held in three days."
---
**The Courtyard — That Evening**
Ghislaine found Anubis in the training yard, standing alone, his staff planted before him. The jackal's eyes were closed, his breathing slow. He looked like a statue, carved from shadow and stone.
"You did not have to do that," Ghislaine said.
Anubis opened his eyes. "Yes, I did."
"I was ready to fight. I have beaten the boy before."
"You have." Anubis turned to face him. "But he has trained for you. He has dreamed of beating you. He has prepared for your halberd, your speed, your reach. He has not prepared for me."
Ghislaine studied him. "You want him to lose because he does not know you."
"I want him to lose because he is fighting for a slaver." Anubis's voice was quiet. "I have seen what Mercer's network does. Children sold to mines. Women taken to brothels. Men worked to death in fields they will never own. The boy does not know. He thinks he is defending his family's honor. He does not know that his family's honor was sold for gold a long time ago."
"And you will teach him?"
"I will show him." Anubis picked up his staff. "What he learns is up to him."
---
**The Great Hall — The Day of the Trial**
Three days later, the great hall was transformed.
The benches had been pushed back, the galleries emptied, and a circle had been marked on the stone floor—a fighting ring, fifty feet across, bounded by ropes and stakes. The nobles who had gathered to watch the trial stood behind the ropes, their faces eager, their voices low.
At one end of the ring stood Ser Aldric of House Ashford.
He was different from the boy Ghislaine had faced a month ago. His armor was new—polished steel, fitted to his frame, with a cloak of blue and silver. His sword was longer, heavier, and he held it with both hands, his knuckles white. His face was set, his jaw tight, his eyes scanning the crowd for his opponent.
He expected Ghislaine. He had trained for Ghislaine. He had dreamed of revenge.
At the other end of the ring, Anubis stepped forward.
He wore no armor. His black linen tunic was sleeveless, his crocodile‑hide coat scarred and dark. His staff was in his right hand, the iron caps gleaming. He walked slowly, deliberately, each step measured, each step silent. His amber eyes swept the crowd, and the nobles who met his gaze looked away.
He stopped at the edge of the ring and planted his staff. The iron butt cracked against the stone floor, and the sound echoed through the hall like a bell.
Aldric's face went pale. "Who is this?"
"This is Anubis of Khemet," Father Cuthbert said, his voice carrying across the hall. "Envoy of the Pharaoh. Champion of the crown."
"He is not from Thornhaven. He has no right—"
"He has every right." Gareth's voice was cold. "The crown may choose any champion it wishes. He is our champion."
Aldric looked at Anubis, at the staff, at the amber eyes that did not blink. He swallowed. His grip tightened on his sword.
Father Cuthbert raised his hand. "This is a trial by combat. Lord Godwin Mercer stands accused of treason and slavery. Ser Aldric of House Ashford champions him. Anubis of Khemet champions the crown."
He lowered his hand.
"Let the gods judge."
Aldric charged.
---
**The Duel**
Aldric came in fast, his sword raised for a diagonal cut aimed at Anubis's shoulder—a strike meant to end the fight quickly. Anubis did not move. His staff came up in a rising block, the ironwood catching the blade with a sharp clang. The impact jarred Aldric's arms, but the young man recovered quickly, pivoting into a thrust aimed at the jackal's chest.
Anubis stepped back, pivoted on his heel, and brought the butt of his staff around in a sweeping arc. The iron cap caught Aldric's sword hand, numbing his fingers. The blade wobbled, but Aldric held on.
"You are fast," Anubis said. "But you do not know what you are doing."
Aldric growled and came again. This time he tried a feint—a cut to the left, then a thrust to the right. Anubis read it easily. He deflected the thrust with an inside parry, the staff snapping across his body to redirect the blade. Before Aldric could recover, Anubis stepped into his guard and drove the iron cap into the young man's stomach.
The breath left Aldric's lungs. He staggered back, gasping, his sword lowering.
Anubis did not press the attack. He stepped back, reset his stance, and waited.
"Get up," he said.
Aldric looked at him, his face red, his eyes wild. He straightened, raised his sword, and charged again.
This time he was slower, sloppier, his anger making him predictable. He swung a wild horizontal cut. Anubis dropped into a low ward, the staff held horizontally at waist height. The blade passed over him. He rose, brought the staff up, and cracked it across Aldric's ribs.
The young man stumbled, caught himself, and swung again. Anubis was not there. He had stepped to the side, his staff spinning, and brought the iron cap down on Aldric's sword arm. The blade clattered to the floor.
"Pick it up," Anubis said.
Aldric's hands were shaking. He looked at the jackal, at the staff, at the amber eyes that had not blinked once since the fight began.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
"I am the King's Dog." Anubis stepped forward. "I hunt slavers. I break the chains they put on the innocent. I have tracked men across deserts, through jungles, into the darkest places of the world. They all thought they were strong. They all thought they could fight."
He raised his staff.
"They all fell."
Aldric threw himself to the side, rolled, came up with his sword in his hands. He was breathing hard, his face slick with sweat, his eyes wild.
"Fight me," he shouted. "Fight me like a warrior."
"I am fighting you." Anubis walked toward him, his staff tapping on the stones. "You are just not winning."
He moved into a series of flowing strikes—a thrust to the chest, a sweeping arc to the legs, a rising block that deflected Aldric's desperate cut. Each motion was economical, precise, almost lazy. He was not trying to hurt the boy. He was trying to show him something.
"You have trained hard," Anubis said. "You have skill. But you are fighting for a man who sells children. You are defending a traitor. Your honor means nothing when it is wrapped around a slaver's gold."
Aldric's face twisted. He swung again, harder, faster, and Anubis stepped back, let the blade pass, and brought the staff around in a compass blow—a wide, circular strike that caught Aldric behind the knees.
The young man fell. His sword clattered away. He lay on his back, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on the jackal who stood over him.
Anubis raised his staff. The iron cap gleamed in the torchlight.
"Yield," he said.
Aldric stared up at the staff. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"I yield," he whispered.
The hall erupted.
Anubis lowered his staff. He looked at Aldric, at the young man who had come to prove himself, at the boy who had learned that there were things in the world stronger than his pride.
"You fought well," Anubis said. "You were just fighting for the wrong side."
He turned and walked out of the ring.
---
**The Judgment**
Mercer stood in the center of the ring, his chains gone, his face pale. The trial by combat had failed. His champion had yielded. He had nothing left.
"Lord Godwin Mercer," Gareth said, his voice carrying across the hall. "You have been found guilty of treason. You have been found guilty of slavery. The crown has no mercy for slavers."
He looked at Anippe, who stood at the edge of the ring, her golden eyes steady.
"You will be extradited to Khemet. You will stand trial there. You will face whatever justice the Pharaoh deems fit."
Mercer's knees buckled. The guards caught him, held him upright. He looked at the nobles who had once been his allies, at the faces that turned away from him, at the jackal‑headed man who had destroyed his last hope.
"I was a lord," he said. "I was a lord of Thornreach."
"You were a traitor," Gareth said. "And now you are nothing."
He gestured to the guards. "Take him away."
---
**The Great Hall — That Night**
The feast was not a celebration. It was a gathering—a meeting of allies, a sharing of stories, a quiet acknowledgment that the kingdom was healing.
Anippe sat at the high table, between Edric and Celia, her khopesh at her hip. She had been speaking for hours, telling them about Khemet, about the desert, about the beastfolk who had built a kingdom in the sands.
"We have catfolk, dogfolk, lizardfolk, even a few ursines who wandered south and never left," she said. "We are not a large kingdom, but we are old. Older than the Thalassian Empire. Older than the mage towers."
"And you hate slavery," Celia said.
"We abhor it. It is the greatest crime in Khemet. Worse than murder. Worse than treason." Anippe's ears flattened. "To own a person is to deny them their soul. The Pharaoh has decreed that any slaver caught in Khemet will be executed. No trial. No appeal."
"That is harsh," Edric said.
"It is just."
Anubis stood behind her, his staff planted, his amber eyes watching the room. He had not spoken since the duel. He did not need to. His presence was enough.
"Your champion fought well," Anippe said, looking at the jackal.
"He always fights well," Edric said.
"He has the heart of a beastfolk. Loyal. Fierce. Protective." She smiled. "If he ever tires of the north, he would be welcome in Khemet."
Anubis looked at her. "I am where I need to be."
---
*
The Great Hall — That Night
The feast was not a celebration. It was a gathering—a meeting of allies, a sharing of stories, a quiet acknowledgment that the kingdom was healing.
Anippe sat at the high table, between Edric and Celia, her khopesh at her hip. She had been speaking for hours, telling them about Khemet, about the desert, about the beastfolk who had built a kingdom in the sands.
"We have catfolk, dogfolk, lizardfolk, even a few ursines who wandered south and never left," she said. "We are not a large kingdom, but we are old. Older than the Thalassian Empire. Older than the mage towers."
"And you hate slavery," Celia said.
"We abhor it. It is the greatest crime in Khemet. Worse than murder. Worse than treason." Anippe's ears flattened. "To own a person is to deny them their soul. The Pharaoh has decreed that any slaver caught in Khemet will be executed. No trial. No appeal."
"That is harsh," Edric said.
"It is just."
Anubis stood behind her, his staff planted, his amber eyes watching the room. He had not spoken since the duel. He did not need to. His presence was enough.
Anippe looked at Ghislaine, who sat at the end of the table, his halberd across his knees. "Your champion fought well. He has the heart of a beastfolk. Loyal. Fierce. Protective." She smiled. "If he ever tires of the north, he would be welcome in Khemet."
Ghislaine looked at her. "I have found my pack."
Anippe nodded. "Then your pack is fortunate."
Anubis dipped his head in a slow, deliberate nod. His amber eyes held something that might have been approval.
---
**The Road — The Next Morning**
Anippe and Anubis left at dawn, their horses fresh, their supplies packed. Mercer rode in a cage behind them, his face grey, his eyes empty. He would not see Thornhaven again.
Edric stood at the gate with Celia, watching them go.
"Do you think they will execute him?" Celia asked.
"Yes."
"And the network?"
"They will find them. Anubis will not stop."
Celia looked at him. "You trust him."
"I trust that he believes in what he is doing. That is enough."
They stood in silence, watching the riders disappear into the forest.
"What now?" Celia asked.
Edric looked at the castle, at the kingdom that was still healing, at the people who were still hoping.
"Now we rebuild," he said. "And we wait for the next thing."
---
**End of Chapter Twenty-Two**