(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man did not rise to answer the door. He sat in his chair, his hands still folded in his lap, his eyes fixed on the fireplace where the flames had died to embers. The Scholar watched him, his heart pounding, his quill forgotten.
"A knock," Aurelio said, his voice low. "Just a knock. But in a world like ours, a knock could be a death sentence. It could be a friend. It could be an enemy. It could be a stranger with nothing but bad news and a desperate hope."
He looked at the Scholar.
"It could be all of those things at once."
— Memory —
The knock came again. Louder this time. More insistent.
Aurelio rose from his chair and walked to the door. His hand went to the sword at his hip, but he did not draw it. Not yet. Not until he knew.
He opened the door.
A man stood on the threshold. He was young, perhaps thirty, with a weathered face and eyes that had seen too much. His clothes were torn, stained with mud and something darker. In his hand, he held a leather satchel, worn smooth by use.
"You are Aurelio?" the man asked. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been shouting for hours.
"I am."
"I have a message for you. From the north."
"The north?" Aurelio's hand tightened on his sword. "Who sent you?"
The man hesitated. "A woman. She did not give her name. She said you would know her by this."
He reached into the satchel and pulled out a small wooden bird, roughly carved but recognizable. A songbird, wings spread, beak open as if mid-call.
Aurelio felt the breath leave his lungs.
"Charlotte," he whispered.
"She said to tell you that the preacher is marching on Lyon. She said to tell you that Armand is going to meet with him. She said to tell you that she needs you. That France needs you. That if you do not come, everything she has built will burn."
"And what am I supposed to do? I am one man. My companions are scattered. My army is a handful of survivors."
The messenger shook his head. "She did not say. She only said to give you the bird and to tell you that the old alliances still hold. That the wolf remembers the grove. That the grove remembers the wolf."
Aurelio took the wooden bird. It was warm from the messenger's hand, and it seemed to pulse with a life of its own. He turned it over, studying the crude lines, the simple shape.
"Where is she now?"
"Lyon. Or what is left of it. The preacher's army is at the gates. She is buying time. But she cannot buy much more."
"Tell her I am coming."
"Tell her yourself." The messenger pressed a folded piece of parchment into Aurelio's hand. "She said to give you this. She said to read it alone."
Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the morning mist.
Aurelio stood in the doorway, the wooden bird in one hand, the parchment in the other. The Scholar watched him, saying nothing.
"Charlotte," Aurelio said again, the name a breath, a prayer, a curse. "She should be dead. We all should be dead."
He closed the door and walked back to his chair.
"Chapter 39 begins," he said, "with a letter."
— The Letter —
My dear grove-keeper,
I do not know if this letter will reach you. I do not know if you are still alive. I do not know if the world you are living in is the same world I am living in, or if the plague has fractured reality into a thousand pieces, each one more terrible than the last.
But I have to try.
Godbrand is at the gates of Lyon. He has an army. Thousands of followers. They call him the Prophet of the Cleansing, and they believe that he is doing God's work. They believe that the plague is a gift. They believe that the only way to survive is to submit.
Armand is going to meet with him. He thinks he can negotiate. He thinks he can buy time. He thinks that if he is reasonable, if he is patient, if he is clever, he can find a way out of this.
He is wrong.
Godbrand does not want to negotiate. He wants to conquer. He wants to convert. He wants to remake the world in his image, and he will burn anyone who stands in his way.
I need you, Aurelio. I need your sword. I need your wisdom. I need your stubborn refusal to give up, even when giving up is the only sensible option.
Come to Lyon. Bring whoever you can. Save my brother. Save my city. Save what is left of my kingdom.
Or die trying.
Yours in the shadow of the wolf,
Charlotte
P.S. The girl. Cecilia. Tell her I am sorry. Tell her I never meant for any of this to happen. Tell her that the Shade was not her fault.
P.P.S. If you do not come, I will understand. But I will never forgive you.
Aurelio folded the letter and tucked it into his tunic, next to his heart.
"We are going to Lyon," he said.
"We are going to Rome," Liam countered. "Nero is the threat. Godbrand is... Godbrand is a symptom."
"Godbrand is a monster. And monsters do not wait for us to be ready. They act. They strike. They burn."
"And what of Nero?"
"He will still be there when we return. Or he will not. Either way, we cannot fight two wars at once."
Liam studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Very well. Lyon it is."
— Present —
The old man leaned back in his chair.
"We went to Lyon," he said. "Not because we wanted to. Because we had to. Because Charlotte was our friend. Because Armand was our ally. Because Godbrand was our enemy, and we could not let him win."
He looked at the Scholar.
"We went to Lyon. And we found something we did not expect."
He paused.
"We found hope."
The Scholar dipped his quill. The room was silent except for the scratching of the nib and the soft crackle of the fire.