Fiendhunter

**"A sirocco of heat lashed against Bai Lang's cheek.** 

"Ambervine," he murmured. The destrier nuzzled his palm, seeking solace in the caress of mutated fingers. He withdrew abruptly—crimson smeared his calloused hand. Mounting the warhorse in one fluid motion, they vanished into the arboreal cathedral as pursuit erupted behind them. 

"Imbeciles!" The captain's whip cracked across a subordinate's face. "A decrepit nag outpaces you?" 

"Fear not, my lord," groveled the marked man, "the hounds shall tree this freak." 

Through leaf-filtered sunlight they raced—Bai Lang's crossbow bolts finding more hound-flesh than human. The detonation of a wildfire arrow scattered pursuers like startled quail. 

Emerging onto the plains proved no sanctuary. Before them materialized new riders, their leader's arrow already singing—not toward Bai Lang, but through the captain's spleen. 

"Witcher," spoke the double-eagle emblazoned knight, "you disappoint. I expected grandeur, not this fox hunt." 

"By whose authority?" The captain spat blood through broken teeth. 

"Roper Hanke," came the thunderous reply, "First Blade to His Majesty Philip V of Franik. This mongrel," he gestured at Bai Lang, "is royal guest, not your baron's quarry." 

As the chastened hunters retreated, Bai Lang studied the vellum scroll—its gilded edges catching the dying light. "Franik's throne seeks salvation from shadows," he mused, "and I'm to play exorcist?" 

The inn materialized like a drunken phantom at twilight. Hanke's men stabled the horses while Bai Lang sought solace in bitter ale. 

"Freak!" A drunkard's dagger quivered in the oak between his fingers. "This ain't no haven for your kind." 

The tavern held its breath as Bai Lang snapped the fool's wrist—bone singing its sharp aria. When royal steel intervened, the would-be assailant's screams soon joined the chorus of crickets beyond the stables. 

"Merely a leg," shrugged the guardsman. "His Majesty's justice is... efficient." 

Bai Lang ascended to his chamber, the Bloomweave armor humming with residual magic. Through warped glass, he watched windmills carve moonlight into the rye fields—their endless rotation mirroring the dance of medallion against chest. Somewhere beyond those golden waves, a king's desperation waited. 

The ale's aftertaste lingered, sharper than any silver blade.