Peter Rambier walked into the ruined hamlet alone, sword drawn, cape dragging through ash. He was young, barely twenty, but he had sworn an oath: to build a knightly order for villages like this one, the forgotten places no lord would guard. Now the village lay broken. Splintered doors. Crushed fences. A child's shoe in the mud. The beast had come first, and Peter had come too late. The survivors huddled by a well. He knelt among them and planted a blue banner in the dirt, a golden dog stitched on the cloth. "Stand behind this," he said. "I'll face it." An old woman gripped his arm. "It broke six of our men. You're only one." Peter nodded. He knew the odds. He raised the banner anyway, so the frightened people had something to look toward. The monster answered the banner. It crashed through a barn wall, scaled and huge, built to corner a lone fighter. It circled him, herding him from the villagers, cutting off his room to swing. Peter feinted left, then drove his blade under its jaw. The beast reared and knocked him flat. He rolled, came up bleeding, and stabbed again through its ribs. It screamed. This time it did not rise. Peter stood over the dead creature, breathing hard. The villagers crept forward. Then a slow clap sounded from the rooftops. A small figure perched there in a purple hat far too big for her. Green eyes glowed in a young, sharp face. Bones and skulls hung from her black robe. Peter's stomach dropped. He knew her. She had grown the beast from spite and set it loose to break him. "Morgatha," he said. Morgatha Blackthorn tilted her head at the banner. "A dog. How sweet. You want an army of farmers." She smiled without warmth. "You killed my pet. Fine. I've already found a better game." Peter lifted his sword. "What game?" "Your banner told me who you are. A boy who protects the weak." She laughed. "So I'll take the one thing that could keep them safe forever." From her sleeve she drew a small red rose. Its petals glowed with soft light. "They call it the rose that cheats death. Grown from a single bloom, hidden in the deep woods." Peter's grip tightened. "You'll heal no one with that." "Heal?" Morgatha's eyes narrowed. "I mean to burn the whole vine to root. If your little order can't save these people from dying, what's the point of you?" She crushed a fistful of black dust and vanished in smoke. The rose vanished with her. Peter stood among the wounded, the dead beast at his feet. He had won the fight and lost the greater prize. Somewhere in the deep woods, the last cure for these villages waited, and a witch raced to destroy it. He wiped his blade and turned toward the trees.

Peter reached the treeline and stopped. Morgatha's smoke trail led deep into the woods. He could follow it now. But the survivors stood behind him at the well, wounded and few. If he left, no one would guard them. A witch who grew monsters might grow another. He turned back to the ash-choked village. His new order was a banner and one man. It was not enough. He gathered the villagers by the ivory hall. Its magic stone still glowed warm despite the ruin around it. "I have to chase the witch," Peter said. "She'll destroy the one thing that could save your dead. But I can't leave you undefended." He looked from face to face. "I need someone to hold this place while I'm gone." No one moved. An old woman lowered her eyes. A wounded man gripped his own arm and stared at the ground. Then a young farmer pushed through the crowd. Dirt caked his boots. He carried an iron sword, its blade worn bright from years of careful use. He planted the point in the dirt like Peter had planted his banner. "I'm Aldric," he said. "I can't grow a monster back. But I can swing this." Peter studied him. The boy was barely younger than himself. His grip on the hilt was clumsy, but his jaw held firm. "Have you ever fought?" Peter asked. Aldric shook his head. "I've cut wood and killed wolves that came for the sheep. That's all." He lifted the sword. "Show me the rest. I'll learn fast." Peter had no days to train him. He had minutes. He drew his own blade and stood beside the farmer. "Feet apart. Weight low." He tapped Aldric's boots wider. "You don't chase. You hold the door of the hall. Anything comes, you make it come to you, one at a time." Aldric copied the stance. He held it steady. Peter set a hand on the boy's shoulder. "These people are yours now. The wounded go inside the stone hall. You stand at the steps." He met the villagers' eyes. "When I bring the rose back, this order will have two knights. You're the second, Aldric." The word straightened the farmer's back. The old woman touched Aldric's arm, no longer alone in her fear. The wounded man rose and limped toward the hall's glowing doors. One farmer with an iron sword had changed the whole square. The village had a guard. Peter sheathed his blade and faced the trees again. Now he could hunt Morgatha and leave the survivors defended. But he had left his only shield behind him. If Morgatha sent another beast to the village while he ran, one untrained farmer stood between it and the wounded. Peter fixed the thought in his mind and stepped into the deep woods, alone, chasing smoke.

Peter pushed through the trees until the ground fell away. A ravine split the forest, deep and tangled with fallen trunks and thorns. Somewhere across it, Morgatha laughed. "Come find me, little knight," she called. "Your order dies at the edge of a ditch." Peter searched for a crossing and found none. The witch's stronghold rose past the gap, gray stone against the sky. He could not reach it. Hooves sounded behind him. Peter turned. Villagers had followed his trail, and they led a white horse fit for a king. Gold and red tack shone on its back. The old woman from the hall held the reins. "He'll clear what your feet cannot," she said. "Take him." Peter ran his hand along the saddle. A sword rested there, half-drawn from its sheath. Gold hilt, red-wrapped grip, a blade that glowed soft and white. He lifted it. Light ran down the steel. "Whose is this?" he asked. The old woman met his eyes. "The king carried it once, then left it to rot. You've earned it more than he ever did. It's yours now." Peter gripped the sword. The weight felt right in his hand. He swung into the saddle. The horse turned and ran. It leapt the ravine in one clean bound, over the thorns and the rotting logs, and landed hard on the far side. Peter held the glowing sword high and rode toward the gray stone. Then the ground shook. A great dead tree tore its roots from the earth and stepped into his path. Its trunk split into a face, deep-set eyes and a gaping mouth. Branches spread like arms. Mushrooms clung to its bark. The horse reared. Peter fought to hold his seat. The tree swung a heavy limb. Peter ducked. The branch cracked the air where his head had been. He wheeled the horse and struck back. The glowing blade bit into the wood. The tree groaned and pulled away. Peter did not press. He lowered the sword. "I don't want your death," Peter said. "The witch made a monster and it killed people I swore to guard. She took the rose that heals them. Let me pass and I'll leave you standing." The tree's eyes fixed on him. It studied the soft white light on the blade. Slowly, the great limbs drew back. The trunk shifted aside. A gap opened toward the stronghold. Peter bowed his head to the tree. He rode through the gap, sword lit, horse steady beneath him. The ravine lay behind him now. Witchspire Keep stood close, its gate plain against the stone. But the leap and the fight had cost him distance. Morgatha's voice drifted from the keep, thin and sharp. She knew he had crossed. Whatever waited inside, she had time to ready it. Peter fixed his grip on the glowing sword and rode for the gate.