22nd Jahrdrung (Early Morning) 2512
They left the farm at dawn. Frost lay thick on the ruts of the road as Salundra, Ferdinand, and Gunnar made their farewells. Franz stood in the doorway, pressing a bottle of Tilean spirits into Gunnar’s hand. “The strong stuff,” he said, grinning. Even Eugen, small and red-eyed, was given a keepsake — Gunnar’s old axe, the edge blunted but the gift heavy with meaning. The hardest parting was that of Salundra and Janna. Salundra knew Janna would be safe and happy with Franz, Maglyn and the kids. Janna held herself with the noble bearing of her rearing. Salundra held the tears at bay until they departed.
The cart rolled on through the frozen Reikland countryside, breath misting in the air, the road long and silent save for the creak of wheels and the occasional curse when Franz hit a rut. Gunnar rode his horse competently as they moved from the forested hinterland of the city to the marshy surrounds. By afternoon the fog rose to meet them — Altdorf fog, damp and heavy, carrying the smell of the Reik.
They found Josef’s barge, Bierbele II, tied up near the Lock and Quay Inn, its decks empty of cargo. A stroke of luck, or fate perhaps; Josef was in the city.
As they made their way through the misted streets of Altdorf, the noise of the city seemed muted beneath the roll of the river fog. Traders barked half-heartedly from doorways, and the air smelled of wet rope and tallow smoke. Salundra kept her cloak tight against the chill, but the fog wasn’t what unsettled her.
They passed a the halfway point on the long street, Salundra dimly remembered — the same one place, months ago, a ragged preacher had stood shouting to the heavens. She could almost hear his cracked voice again, warning of “shadows in Bögenhafen,” “the power beneath the throne,” and “the Empire in ruins.” She shook the memory away, but it clung like smoke.
A hand brushed hers. She turned to see a young woman, poorly dressed but smiling with genuine politeness, pressing a folded sheet of parchment into her palm. “Schaffenfest, madam,” the girl said before disappearing into the crowd. Salundra unfolded the flyer. The Bögenhafen Schaffenfest — printed in bold ink, cheerful fonts, and the seal of the city.
Her stomach sank. Some coincidences, she thought, weren’t coincidences at all.
Josef’s laughter carried down the street and pushed the thought from Salundra’s mind. As they came to the open doors of the Boatman’s Inn Franz, Salundra and Gunnar were soon drawn inside by warmth, ale and the promise of comeraderie.
Ferdinand lingered at the threshold. The noise, the laughter, the smell of roasted meat — it all felt distant, unreal. His chest burned suddenly, as if something inside him had caught fire. He staggered back into the misty street, gripping the wall for balance.
The world around him dimmed.
Along the bustling street, people passed — sailors, merchants, drunks — but no one seemed to see him. The pain grew sharper. His vision swam, and through the blur of tears he saw his own reflection in a puddle at his feet… and it wasn’t his.
A deep rumbling voice echoed through his aching head. “Soon is now” it intoned.
The water rippled, and another man’s face stared back — sharper, younger, unfamiliar yet remembered. Kaster Lieberung.
He gasped, the name unspoken, and the pain subsided slightly. The red handprint that had branded his chest was gone. The silence broke — voices, footsteps, laughter returning. The world carried on, indifferent, as Ferdinand stood trembling, touching a stranger’s cheek that now bore his name.
Back inside, Salundra was only half-listening to Gunnar’s boasts. She’d been uneasy since they entered the tavern — some instinct gnawing at her. When she realised Ferdinand was not at the table, she rose, muttering a curse, and pushed through the crowd to the street outside.
He was there, in the fog, leaning against a post. For a heartbeat she didn’t recognise him. Then he turned.
Her breath caught.
The features were all wrong — not Ferdinand’s, but the face of a corpse they’d left behind months ago. Her voice failed her. Only his eyes, wide and terrified, told her it was still him.
She said his name, softly, like a prayer. He managed a hoarse reply: “It’s me.”
Back on the busy street outside The Boatman’s Inn, Salundra caught sight of two men standing where the fog pooled deepest. They weren’t talking, not really — just watching. One lifted his right hand and idly scratched the lobe of his left ear with the little finger, a small, deliberate motion that fixed her attention. When he realised she’d noticed, he leaned toward his companion and muttered something. Both slipped into the mouth of an alley, vanishing like smoke.
She was after them at once, boots splashing through puddles, shoulder-checking sailors out of her path. Ferdinand stumbled after her, half-lost in the crowd. The alley twisted sharply, then opened into a narrow lane. One of the fleeing men slipped on the slick stones and went down hard, but before she could reach him a crossbow bolt hissed past her ear and struck the fallen man clean through the neck. He collapsed without a sound. Spinning toward the direction of the shot, Salundra glimpsed the shooter — a lean, hard-faced man with cropped brown hair and a short beard — lowering his weapon with grim precision. Then he was gone, swallowed by another alley and the fog beyond.
She collected Ferdinand and returned inside the inn.
Gunnar was midway through a display of balance and axe-work — spinning himself in circles while Franz roared encouragement. Salundra guided Ferdinand to a seat, eyes darting toward the dwarf. She prayed — actually prayed — that Sigmar would grant her patience, or at least delay Gunnar’s curiosity until the wizard could find his words.
The noise seemed to dim again. Franz’s laughter stopped. He laid a hand on Gunnar’s shoulder and said, almost mechanically, “That’s enough. Your friends need you.”
When Gunnar looked up, the room felt… still. Salundra, pale and strained, sat beside a man who wore another’s face.
The inn continued in raucous celebration as though the moment of stillness had been imagined.
Recognition came like a hammer blow. Kaster Lieberung — the dead man from the coach ambush, the bounty letter, the blood in the snow. And now, somehow, sitting alive beside Salundra.
Ferdinand spoke — his tone still his own, though the voice was wrong. He spoke of pain, of change, of something within him reshaping what he was. He showed them his chest; the mark was gone.
Gunnar’s hand closed white around his axe. For a moment, instinct screamed to strike what he did not understand. But the Slayer held back — barely.
One truth settled among them like silt in a glass: whatever this was, whatever Ferdinand had become, the next answers waited upriver, in Bögenhafen.
Until next time,
Owen