In the blind hour before true dawn, when the world still belonged to gray half-light and the first rooster had not yet found courage to crow, an old man sat cross-legged on the narrow straw pallet in the Rathaus cellar.

  He wore a plain white robe, threadbare at the hems, the kind of garment that had once been a vow of poverty and now simply looked poor.

  The crown of his head was shaved clean in the ancient monastic tonsure, leaving a horseshoe fringe of silver hair that hung lank against his weathered neck. His lips moved in low, almost inaudible prayer, the words soft as breath against stone.

  A thin shaft of pale light slipped through the high, barred window and brushed across his folded hands, for a single heartbeat his fingers seemed to glow, as though the dawn itself had paused to listen.

  Beside the heavy iron-bound door, the cellar guard slouched on a three-legged stool, mace resting across his knees. The old man's murmured devotion had been going on for hours steady, unhurried, maddening in its persistence. Finally the guard's patience snapped. He rapped the mace haft sharply against the door, the iron rang like a cracked bell. "Hey, old man. Shut your pious mouth before I kill you myself."

  The prisoner stopped at once. He lifted his head slowly, eyes traveling to the narrow window where the first ghost of day waited. Then he lowered his gaze again and was silent.

  Meanwhile, in the bright afternoon streets of Rovic, Chickenman hurried through the thinning market crowd. His arms were full, four red ginseng roots still neatly warp in cloth cradled awkwardly against his chest, nine remaining silver clenched in one sweating fist, the wrapped phials still tucked carefully on his chest like fragile secrets. His original plan had been simple tailor, then tavern to meet Lucien. But the market had other ideas.

  Halfway across the square he noticed the press of bodies gathered on the far side. A low murmur rolled through the crowd like distant surf, rising and falling in uneasy waves.

  At first he dismissed it another merchant shouting wares, perhaps but then he saw the wooden platform erected near the Rathaus steps, the stark silhouette of the gallows pole rising above the heads, and the familiar blue chaperon of Lucien standing motionless in the front row.

  Chickenman hesitated, stomach tightening, then shouldered through the throng.

  When he reached Lucien he nudged the taller man's shoulder. Lucien turned, face lighting with recognition.

  "Ah, done with the stuff?" Lucien said, voice low but cheerful. "I was about to head to the tavern, but I couldn't miss this one. Here let me help you," He reached out and relieved Chickenman of the four ceramic phials, cradling them easily in the crook of one arm.

  Chickenman looked up at the stage.

  A man who could only be the local bailiff paced the boards doublet of fine wool dyed deep burgundy, light-blue chaperon wrapped on his head and pinned with practiced elegance. He moved with the easy authority of someone who knew the crowd was already his.

  "Today," the bailiff called, voice carrying over the square, "We gather to express our profound dislike for the self-proclaimed 'Holy Order.' Here we will execute one of their own a so-called preacher who has done nothing but spread hatred and division in our lands." He gestured toward the gallows pole, then toward the Rathaus doors.

  The heavy cellar door groaned open. Two guards emerged, the old preacher between them. His wrists were bound with rough hemp, his white robe dragged in the dust, collecting dirt like a shroud.

  He climbed the Rathaus stairs slowly, head bowed, steps deliberate, as though counting each one like a prayer bead. Two more guards flanked him, one in front, one behind.

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  The bailiff continued, arm still raised, then pointed at the rope. "We will no longer tolerate their poison… their false holiness… their wars and their acts of burned villages in this land."

  The executioner clad shoulder to toe in black dragged a thick log beneath the noose and positioned it with practiced care.

  Lucien's voice came quiet at Chickenman's ear, cold and flat. "Hope you burn in hell, old fool."

  Chickenman flinched at the words, glancing sideways. Lucien's face was calm, almost serene, but the gentleness that usually softened his features had vanished, replaced by something hard and unreadable.

  The preacher stepped onto the log. The executioner slipped the coarse rope around his neck, drew it snug, tested the knot once with a quick tug. The old man lifted his eyes to the sky and resumed his silent prayer, lips barely moving.

  The executioner looked to the bailiff.

  The bailiff nodded once. "This is our warning," he said, raising his hand high. Then he dropped it in a sharp, final motion.

  The executioner kicked the log away.

  A collective gasp rose from the crowd. The rope snapped taut. There was a single, wet crack sharp and unmistakable as the preacher's neck broke. His body jerked once, limbs twitching in brief, involuntary spasm, then swung slowly, toes brushing empty air.

  Chickenman flinched hard enough to step backward into the person behind him. Lucien never moved.

  For a long heartbeat the square held its breath. Then the murmurs began again, low and restless, spreading outward like ripples from a stone dropped in still water.

  Chickenman shook his head, turned, and pushed back through the crowd without another word, leaving Lucien and the gently swaying silhouette behind him.

  He walked fast, the scene replaying in his mind the snap, the sudden stillness, the way the preacher's feet had kicked once and then nothing.

  His pace quickened until he was almost running, nine silver clenched in his fist, four red ginseng roots pressed against his ribs like a fragile shield.

  The market was quieter now, traders were beginning to pack up, folding awnings, stacking baskets. Chickenman reached the tailor's stall just as the man was lifting the first plank to cover the front. "Sorry," Chickenman panted. "I know I'm late."

  The tailor paused, plank balanced on one shoulder. He glanced at Chickenman, then jerked his chin toward the far end of the table. "That's yours. Belt and satchel too. Change anywhere else."

  "Thank you." Chickenman gathered the neatly folded bundle gray wool trousers, a simple but well-stitched shirt, sturdy leather belt, and a good-sized satchel of waxed canvas.

  He tucked the ginseng inside the satchel, murmured another thanks, and hurried away. The tailor waved a hand more dismissal than farewell and went back to closing up.

  Chickenman half-walked, half-jogged toward the tavern, the new clothes clutched against his chest. The image of the hanged preacher still burned behind his eyes the slow sway, the empty air beneath his feet.

  When he reached the yard, the wagon was already loaded. Baskets, sacks, and crates were lashed down neatly, Lucien stood on the tailboard, tightening the last rope with quick, practiced pulls.

  Lucien looked up and waved, rope still in hand. "Hey! Where have you been? You left me standing there holding the phials like a lost child." He laughed, then noticed the bundle in Chickenman's arms. "New clothes? About time. You were starting to look like you'd been living under a bridge."

  Chickenman's smile was thin. "Yeah. Just… tired of wearing someone else's stuff every day." He reached into the satchel, pulled out the four red ginseng roots, and tossed them lightly toward Lucien.

  Lucien caught them one-handed open the ginseng warp reveal red ginseng inside it. "Huh. Did Tobias ask for red ginseng?"

  Chickenman shrugged. "He said ginseng. Didn't say what kind, remember? Anyway, when are we leaving?"

  Lucien examined the roots, then shrugged and warp it back neatly, then tucked them between two baskets. "I hope you're right." He finished the last knot, hopped down, and patted the nearer horse on the neck. "Tomorrow. The road's too dangerous after dark these days. Remember the dead soldiers we found this morning?"

  Chickenman scratched the back of his head, new clothes still awkward in his arms. "Ugh. Don't remind me. But… where are we sleeping tonight?"

  Lucien chuckled. "In the tavern, of course. It won't be a king's chamber, but your back can tolerate one night on straw." He patted the horse again. "Come on. I hear the wine here is as good as the king's wine cellar."

  Chickenman hesitated and thinks for moment. "I have to change first."

  Lucien smirked. "Alright. Meet me inside. The barn's probably the best place it's private. Just make sure there's no snake waiting to bite your leg." He clapped Chickenman on the shoulder and headed toward the tavern door.

  Chickenman made his way to the barn. The smell hit him immediately hay, manure, warm animal musk. He grimaced.

  "Good," he muttered sarcastically, again. "At least no one's here to make fun of me."

  The thought made him pause. He chuckled under his breath. "God, I'm starting to sound like Tobias. Next thing I know I'll be wearing his beak mask."

  He hung the new clothes over a clean section of fence rail, then began peeling off the old, travel-stained shirt and trousers.

  The wool trousers were sturdy but soft, the shirt simple yet well-stitched clean, fresh, smelling faintly of lanolin and the tailor's workshop. He buckled the belt, slung the satchel across his shoulder, settled the kettle helmet back on his head, and adjusted the short sword on his left hip.

  When he stepped out of the barn he felt… different. Not noble, not even particularly impressive. Just cleaner. More like a person who belonged somewhere.

  The tavern yard was lively but not crowded. A few men sat at outdoor tables playing dice, tankards in hand, voices low and relaxed. Lanterns hung from iron hooks, spilling warm yellow light across the packed-earth yard.

  Chickenman took a breath, squared his shoulders, and walked toward the door new clothes, new satchel, nine silver left in his hand then tuck inside his satchel, and the memory of a snapped neck still heavy behind his eyes.

  Inside, the smell of woodsmoke, ale, and roasting meat waited. And Lucien, somewhere in the crowd, with wine that was supposedly fit for a king, he say.