The journey back west was not a march; it was a race against time. Geneviève no longer rode like a knight errant in search of adventure; she rode like a messenger of the apocalypse. Leaving behind the toxic fog of Marienburg, she crossed the invisible border separating the Wasteland from the sacred land of Bretonnia.
As Duraz ground out the kilometers, Geneviève felt the change within herself. The clash with Valentin de l'Ombre had broken something in her spirit, but the recomposition had made her stronger. It was no longer just a matter of technique or faith. She had become fast. During a night stop, she was attacked by three starving wolves. Geneviève didn't even fully draw her sword. It was a flash. A fluid movement, without thought. Snick. Snick. Snick. The wolves fell dead before the first body touched the ground. Geneviève looked at her gloved hands. The sword was no longer heavy. It had become solid air. She had reached the Fourth Level of the Way of the Sword. Her blade now struck not only flesh but the very essence of things (Ki Strike: Magic), capable of cutting spirits and magic as if they were silk.
After a week of forced riding, the immense white walls of Couronne appeared on the horizon. The capital. The King's Throne. The beating heart of chivalry. Built on ancient elven ruins, the city shone with an elegance that made the cities of the Empire look like brick pigsties. Slender spires defied the sky, colorful banners fluttered from every tower, and the sound of silver trumpets was as constant as the wind.
But Geneviève did not see the beauty. She saw the fragility. She looked at those immaculate walls and thought of the mud of Mousillon, the vampire in the hold, the lead crate. These people lived in a golden dream, while to the south, the nightmare was sharpening its teeth.
Geneviève arrived at the Lion Gate. The line to enter was long: merchants, pilgrims, peasants with carts of grain. The guards, armed with polished halberds and wearing blue and red liveries, checked everyone with bored arrogance.
When they saw the armored war destrier arrive, black as night, ridden by an iron giant with an unknown crest (the Chevron and Nails painted on the heart), the guards straightened up.
"Halt, knight!" ordered the sergeant of the gate. "Declare your name and your business in the King's City."
Geneviève stopped Duraz. The horse snorted, steam issuing from the metal visor of his barding. "Sir Gilles," replied the gravel voice, deep and unsettling. "I return from the Empire. I bring news for the Council of Dukes."
The sergeant looked at the missing shield, the dwarf-made armor (which Bretonnians consider "soulless" but effective), and the hand-painted crest on the chest. "Sir Gilles? Never heard of you. And the Council does not receive knights errant without a sponsor. If you seek a tournament, the arena is to the east. If you seek glory, go hunt orcs."
Geneviève did not move. "I do not seek glory," she said, and her voice carried a supernatural authority. "I seek to prevent your throats from being cut in your sleep. I killed a Lord of Mousillon in Marienburg. The evil is moving."
The name "Mousillon" brought silence among the guards. It was a taboo word. The sergeant paled slightly, but protocol was rigid. "Heavy words, milord. Enter, but do not create disturbances. If you want to speak with someone important, go to the Temple of Shallya or seek the Marshal of the Tournament. Only champions are heard at court."
Couronne was a labyrinth of splendor. Grail Knights with armor glowing with its own light rode through the streets, venerated like living saints by commoners who threw themselves into the mud as they passed. Geneviève felt like a crow among peacocks. Her armor was black, functional, scarred by Ogre blows and Troll acid. She had no pages, no squires, no ladies' favors on her lance.
She found lodging in an inn for knights of fortune, "The Broken Shield", near the royal stables. There, amidst cheap ale and mercenaries playing dice, Geneviève listened. The city was buzzing. There was talk of a great upcoming tournament for the King's birthday. There was talk of Orc raids to the east. But no one spoke of Vampires. No one spoke of the Cancer in the South.
"They are blind," she whispered to herself in her room, while oiling her sword. "They have forgotten fear."
The next day, Geneviève decided to go to the Great Temple of the Lady. If the nobles wouldn't listen, perhaps the Prophetesses would. As she crossed the market square, a commotion blocked the road. A noble carriage, decorated with golden lilies, had run over a fruit stall. The coachman was whipping the merchant who dared to complain.
"Make way, peasant! This is the carriage of Baron de Montfort!"
Geneviève felt the rage rising. The old rage from when she was a peasant. But now she had the power to do something. She dismounted Duraz. In two steps she was beside the coachman. Before the whip could strike again, Geneviève's armored hand grabbed it in mid-air. She didn't pull. She simply squeezed. The coachman tried to free the weapon, but it was like pulling against a mountain.
"Enough," said Geneviève. Her gravel voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise of the crowd like a razor.
From the carriage door leaned a young noble, dressed in silk and velvet, with an arrogant face. "Who dares touch my servants? A knight without a shield? A mercenary?"
Geneviève let go of the whip and turned to the noble. "A knight who remembers the Code, milord. 'Protect the weak.' You are protecting only your pride."
The young man flushed with anger. He put his hand on the sword at his hip. "Insolent! I challenge you here and now! To first blood!"
Geneviève sighed inside the helm. She could disarm him, undress him, and put him back in the carriage before he finished drawing his sword. "I do not waste steel on tantrums," she said, turning her back to mount her horse.
"Coward!" yelled the noble, launching a charge at her back. The crowd screamed. Geneviève did not turn. She felt the rustle of the air. She felt the intent. She pivoted on her heel. Her left hand snapped out, grabbing the noble's wrist mid-thrust. With a minimal twist, using leverage, she sent him flying through the air. The young man landed in the pile of rotten apples of the destroyed stall.
Geneviève stood still, hand still raised. "First blood is spilled," she said, pointing to a tiny scratch on the noble's nose, caused by the fall. "The challenge is concluded."
A timid applause started from the crowd, then became a roar. But Geneviève wasn't looking at the people. She was looking at an elderly knight, sitting on his horse at the edge of the square, who had watched the whole scene. He bore the heraldry of the Knights of the Quest. And his eyes were intelligent, calculating. It was Tancred, Duke of Quenelles, one of the greatest undead hunters in the kingdom. And he had just seen an unknown knight move with the speed of an elf and the strength of a dwarf.
Geneviève remounted Duraz. She had found a way to be noticed. Now she just had to hope that the Duke's attention was an opportunity, and not a death sentence.