One of Us Will Die
Curse of Strahd
Adventure Report 18: Three Good Men

The mule plods along the dirt road, its hooves puffing up little clouds of dust under the orange tint of late afternoon. The cart behind it is half-empty after a long day of selling, but Isaac doesn’t feel any lighter for it. He drives in silence, reins loose in his hands, eyes drifting over the road that never seems to change.

“I miss you so much, Hope,” he says, the words escaping like a sigh that has waited all day to be spoken.

No one answers. Only the creaking of the wood and the mule’s soft grumbles fill the quiet.

He grew up beside her. Hope and Asha always close, always smiling, always dragging him into trouble or pulling him out of it. Her family’s doorstep was his second home. Their hearth was where he learned to laugh. Even after he married her, and she left to search for her sister, Isaac still felt connected to her. A warmth in his chest that followed him like a shadow. A presence that never wavered, no matter the miles.

Until the day it vanishes.

He is harvesting grain when it happens. The sun sits warm on his neck, the scythe cuts through the stalks in steady rhythm, and then—nothing. Something ends inside him, clean and quiet. A tether snaps.

Her presence is gone.

He knows what it means. She is dead. He can feel the truth deeper than grief. No letter comes. No raven knocks. No rumor reaches his door. There is no body to mourn. Only the sudden absence of her in his soul.

Since then, the days blur. Work. Sell. Sleep. Repeat. He cares for the sister who still lies unseeing in bed, combs her hair, sings Hope’s favorite songs though she can’t hear them. He kneads dough the way she taught him, despite how heavy his hands feel now.

He lives because he must. Because someone has to hold the fort until the world finally lets go of him, too.

On a field, not too far away, John stands watch over his flock, the late afternoon light brushing the grass in gold. The sheep graze in a gentle hush, their wool catching the breeze as it rolls in from the treeline. The wind feels wrong. Cold, metallic. It carries a scent that tightens his chest.

He knows it before he sees them.

Five wolves step out of the forest. Their eyes fix on him, not on the flock. These are hunters, but their prey is not sheep.

“Kasey,” he calls, his voice low and steady. The sheepdog’s ears lift, her body ready. “Away.” He gives the command the way Marjorie taught him, though he will never speak to animals the way she did. He doesn’t have the gift. But all three of the children do.

Kasey herds the flock, guiding them to safety, but the wolves don’t turn their heads. They do not care about the sheep. They only care about John.

He does not run. He walks backward toward the gear he left propped against the fence. The grass whispers under his boots. His breath stays calm. If he turns his back, he is dead.

The largest wolf lunges.

John fires before he thinks. The blunderbuss roars, the sound cracking across the quiet land. Smoke falls from the barrel as the weapon tumbles from his grasp. He reaches for the spear next, blood pounding in his ears.

He used to sleep beside a woman who seemed like she could make flowers bloom with a whispered word. He used to watch her teach their children how to speak to ravens and foxes, how to listen to the earth breathe.

Now the wolves come for him, and she is not here.

Back on the road, Isaac slows the cart as he spots a young woman by the roadside. Her clothes are rumpled. Her breathing, uneven. The hillside behind her is empty, the road quiet but for the steady clop of hooves.

“Please, sir,” she calls out, stepping toward him. “I need a ride home. My coach left without me.”

Isaac nods without a word. He gestures to the back of the cart. The woman climbs aboard, brushing dirt from her skirts, and settles in among the empty flour sacks.

“Do you travel this road often, sir?” she asks, her voice light and practiced.

“Yes, ma’am,” Isaac answers. His tone is flat, distant. He isn't looking for company.

“You must be strong to haul all this. Those are some fine arms,” she tries again.

He remains still, eyes forward. “Thank you.”

She leans forward just a little, voice honeyed. “Are you married? Your wife must be very lucky to have a handsome man like you.”

Isaac’s hands tighten around the reins. “She is very lucky,” he says, voice weighted. “She is beautiful as well.” He still can’t bring himself to speak of the dead in the past tense.

“Oh,” the girl says, her eyes flicking with mock embarrassment. “Is she waiting for you at home?”

He refuses to respond to that. The question hangs in the air like smoke.

When they reach her home—a quiet wooden house on the hill—Isaac pulls the mule to a halt. He turns and tips the brim of his hat politely.

“Stay safe, ma’am. These roads aren’t fit for walking alone.”

“Won’t you walk me to my porch?” she asks, stepping down. “It’s just a few steps, and I live all alone.”

Isaac shakes his head. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Her smile falters, turning sharp. “Please, sir. The nights are cold and your wife won’t miss you for an hour or two.”

That’s enough. She has insulted his fidelity for the last time. His wife’s corpse probably isn’t even cold yet.

Isaac breathes out once, slow, a final line crossed. “Perhaps the cold doesn’t come from the night,” he says quietly. “Good day, ma’am.”

He flicks the reins. The mule shifts.

She moves fast.

A glint of steel arcs from her belt. A dagger, polished and cruel. Barovian make. She surges forward for the kill.

But Isaac is quicker.

His pistol is already in hand. He fires without hesitation. The shot cracks through the still air. The woman falls hard, clutching her chest, blood flowering across her dress. He’d dealt with bandits before, and he was always prepared.

Three figures pour out of the house: men with blades drawn. Bandits. It was all a trap. A quiet house, a lonely woman, a script they’ve run before.

But today, they picked the wrong man.

Isaac holsters the pistol and draws his cutlass in one motion. He snaps the reins, forcing the mule forward. The bandits mount and give chase, hooves thundering across the dirt. One draws alongside him, sword ready.

Isaac meets his eyes, then slashes him across the throat. The bandit falls, his horse panicked beneath him.

That’s for treating my wife’s memory like dirt, Isaac thinks. His face doesn’t change. His heart doesn’t lighten. He just moves forward. Another day, another struggle, and nothing in the world to wait for him at home.

John drives the spear upward and feels it slide through fur, muscle, and bone. The wolf collapses, twitching at his feet. Four remain, circling now, wiser than before. Their yellow eyes gleam with hunger, but tonight it isn’t mutton they are after. It’s him.

He keeps the spear braced between them, stepping back toward his fallen pack, never turning his back. He can’t speak their tongue the way Marjorie could. If she were here, she would have calmed them, found their reason, traded for his safety. But she isn’t here. And they aren’t here to bargain.

He steadies his breath and tightens his grip. Tooth and claw meet steel again. They lunge, snapping at his arms and legs. The shepherd moves with practiced precision, jabbing, retreating, striking again. These aren’t the first creatures he’s put down in the wild—but there are too many of them this time, and they are not fighting for hunger. They are fighting for blood.

Across the miles, under the same setting sun, Isaac can feel the thunder of hooves behind him. The bandits give chase, reloading as they ride. He waits. He listens. He loads his shot. The moment he hears their shots ring empty, he pulls hard on the reins, dragging his cart to a jarring stop. The mule squeals. The bandits flood toward him on horseback.

Perfect.

Isaac pulls his pistol, breathes once, and fires. Another man slumps and falls. He reloads as the last one leaps onto the cart, knocking him to the dirt below. They roll in a tangle of fists and blades, the earth cold and hard beneath them both.

The bandit reaches for his dagger. Too slow.

Isaac’s hand is already on him. His fingers clamp tight around the man’s neck as his knee drives hard into his ribs. The bandit’s vision blurs, panic rising—how is this man so strong?

He wasn’t always.

He was a baker once. Up at dawn, kneading dough, hauling sacks of grain, running a millstone by hand. Every day turned him harder. Stronger. He never knew how much, not until the world took Hope away.

The man beneath him gurgles once. Then no more.

Isaac rises, dusts his hands, and gets back on the cart. The road ahead is quiet now, but it feels colder than before. He flicks the reins.

John spears another wolf, but the others don’t fall back. They press forward, jaws dripping, breath fogging in the late-night air. One lunges for his arm and John barely gets the spear up in time. Teeth scrape wood. The beast recoils.

He sees a chance.

With a grunt of effort, John swings with the butt end of the spear and slams it across the wolf’s skull. The crack echoes across the field. The animal falls limp. Three remain.

John’s breath fogs the air. His arms burn from the effort. Alone on this field, he fights not for glory but for the right to go home.. just the same way Isaac does, alone on the road, covered in dust and blood. Both men, hardened by grief, still holding fast to the small worlds they’ve sworn to protect.

One against a pack.

One against a gang.

They fight with the quiet rage of good men who have already lost too much.

The knock on Isaac’s door comes just after dawn a few days after the incident. He answers with his shirt still damp from the morning’s labor. A knight stands on the step in polished breastplate, sunlight gleaming off a badge of authority.

“If this is about the men, and that one bitch I buried on the road,” Isaac says, voice gravelly, “I can explain.”

“It isn’t.” The knight looks him in the eye. “You’re Isaac?”

“That’s right. What’s this about?”

“You were attacked by bandits,” the knight says. “Tell me what you know.”

“They weren’t local,” Isaac replies. “Looked like nomads.”

The knight’s gaze drifts across the fields. “Large farm for one man.”

“It was my wife’s. Hers and her twin sister’s.” Isaac’s tone hardens, not in anger, but endurance. “Now it’s just me, and my other sister-in-law. She’s bedridden. Has been for years.”

The knight nods once. “The twins. Where are they now?”

“Asha left ten years ago with some adventurers from Daggerford. Hope left a week ago to look for her. Neither came back. I reckon they’re both gone.”

The knight holds Isaac’s silence with a moment of his own. Then:

“There’s a roadhouse a few miles from here. The Crimson Mare. I want you to meet me there.”

Isaac hesitates. “If this is another trap like the last one—”

“It is not,” the knight interrupts. “I may have information about your wife.”

He leaves without waiting for a yes. Isaac watches him go. The air feels still again.

Hours later, when the sun hangs high and merciless over the hills, Isaac finds himself at The Crimson Mare. A rough-built inn made for rougher crowds. The shepherd, John, sits in the corner, looking worn, face bandaged, hand in a sling. The knight, Ser Herod Sand, sits across from him, armor now traded for traveler's clothes.

Isaac walks in. Their eyes meet. Herod rises to greet him.

“I’m glad you came,” he says, offering his hand. “Ser Herod Sand.”

Isaac shakes it.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Herod says, signaling the keep.

“What’s this about, ser knight?” Isaac asks, taking a seat.

Herod rests his elbows on the table. He’s confident, but his eyes hold worry under the surface.

“Your wife might still be alive.”

The words land like a blow.

Isaac sits forward slowly. “What?"

“She left the Sword Coast with a group that included one of my kin,” Herod says, nodding toward John. “And his wife.”

Isaac turns to the shepherd. He sees he’d also been attacked. “You too?”

“Wolves,” John answers. “Nothing natural about them. They only wanted me dead.”

Herod draws a shallow breath. “I believe the bandits who attacked you, Isaac, were Vistani.”

Isaac frowns. “Traveling folk?”

“Yes. Nomads. Clairvoyants. Able to curse a man for life or cross between worlds given the right conditions.”

“Like Hope,” Isaac mutters, thinking aloud for the clairvoyant part at least. “Not that we ever knew how she did it."

Herod continues. “The Vistani have a cursed reputation. Towns refuse them work. Kings drive them out. Dark lords employ them for dirty tasks, which makes everything worse for them. It’s a vicious cycle.”

John grunts. “Not seeing what any of this has to do with us, ser.”

The knight stands, restless all of a sudden.

“I think your wives, and my niece, are trapped on another plane entirely,” Herod says. “And whatever’s there has reason to target the three of us. I was attacked as well. It seems the three of them really pissed somebody off.”

The room falls quiet. Only the muffled scrape of tankards in the background.

Isaac rubs a hand along his jaw. “Yeah, Hope seems like the type of person who would piss somebody off that much if she tried. Whoever it is, I assume they did something to deserve it.”

John’s voice is low. “Marjorie never had enemies. She wouldn’t hurt a soul.”

Herod's hands press into the table. “We don’t know what’s happened to them. Or how long it’s been for them compared to us.”

The weight of it settles over the three men like a closing door.

Their wives are out there.

Fighting for survival.

Or worse.

Herod leans forward in his chair, the firelight catching in his wary eyes.

“I don’t know about the two of you,” he says, voice steady as iron on an anvil, “but my family needs my help and I’m not going to take it sitting down.”

He stands, motioning to a shadowed figure in the corner of the dim roadhouse. Isaac and John rise almost instantly, like men ashamed to have taken the weight of this news sitting. The stranger steps forward, the lamplight drawing his hood back just enough to reveal a sharp face and eyes like burnished iron.

“This is my Vistana contact,” Herod introduces.

The Crimson Mare Roadhouse always has a shadowed corner where unnamed men step from darkness. This morning is no different.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the hooded man says, voice low and rough. There’s no courtesy in it, just fact. Luvash removes his hood to show them his face.

He scans each of them like a man counting weapons.

“I have been in contact with your kin in the valley of Barovia,” He says. “It is in my interest to help you, but the price is steep. I can let only one passenger enter that cursed land. After half an hour, I bring him back. No wandering. No schemes. I will not risk more than that.”

The air tightens between them. John shifts, Isaac slowly curls his fingers into fists.

“Take whatever supplies you mean to gift your loved ones. Once we load the wagon, we leave for the Sword Coast,” Luvash continues.

Herod nods and folds his arms. Isaac steps closer, jaw hard.

“I’ll go,” Isaac says. His voice is firm, like a man deciding the world has asked too much already, but he would gladly continue giving if it means he can see her again. “No ferry back. If she’s there, I stay.”

John raises a hand in response, tone just as determined. “No. Marjorie left because of me, and she’s in trouble because of that. If I only have one chance to help her, I will take it.”

Luvash barks a dry laugh. “Fools. This isn’t a lovers’ reunion. You get one chance, one window out of that hell, and you want to throw it away?”

Isaac does not stand down. In a flash, he grabs Luvash by the collar, slamming him back against the wooden wall. The room goes silent except for the groan of old timber.

“Why just one? Why the rules? How do I know this isn’t a gods-damned trap?” Isaac growls, breath hot. “You expect us to follow your rules without a word of truth?”

Luvash’s eyes narrow, but he does not pull away. He stares back, long enough to prove he is not shaken. Then his lip curls.

“You know my face, mister baker,” he says. “And I know yours. That’s because your wife got reborn into bloodline old enough to get her killed ten times over. You are also Strahd von Zarovich’s brother by the bonds of marriage. That place will eat you alive, boy, and me for bringing you in!”

He shoves Isaac off him, straightening his coat. “You’re lucky I am risking even this much.”

“Who the hell is Sad von Zarobitch?” Isaac snaps, thrown off-kilter.

“It does not matter,” Luvash spits. “I am risking my kin, my neck, and my honor for this. And I will do it one time. No more.”

Herod breaks the silence.

“I will go,” he declares. “I am a knight. I know when death is part of the bargain and when it can be cheated. I swear not to linger. I will take a parcel of supplies, speak to them face to face if I can, and return.”

Luvash regards him with something like approval. Then he nods once, brusque.

“Very well. Speak with your gods tonight, ser knight. At first light we ride for the Svalich Gate.”

Isaac and John fall into a heavy stillness, staring at the man who just took the duty out of their hands. But when Isaac looks up, there is relief among the rage. He wants to argue further. And when John finally exhales, his eyes meet Herod’s with something like hope buried beneath grief.

Outside, the wind cuts across the roadhouse yard. Inside, three good men wait for nightfall, the weight of Barovia already in their bones.

A day later, the dust of travel still clings to Ser Herod Sand’s cloak as he sits across from Rowan Daggerford in the quiet back room of the Blue Water Inn. The lanternlight flickers between them, revealing the old scar that still marks his jaw, and the new lines of worry and fatigue ringing his eyes.

The moment he stepped down from the wagon, Rowan had been on him in an instant. Armor, status, and the weight of her mission forgotten. She hadn’t run to anyone like that since her aunt’s funeral. He held her tight, one arm firm across her back, the other threading into her hair, holding her the way he used to when she was small and scared of storms.

“I am just glad to see you alive,” he says now, settling into the chair opposite her. “All of you. There were days on the Sword Coast where I feared I’d never get the chance to say these words.”

Rowan’s face softens, but the sadness doesn’t quite leave her eyes.

“How did you convince them to let you be the one to come?” she asks, half-smiling. “Isaac and John both seemed determined to throw themselves through the gateway.”

Herod snorts into his drink. “Isaac only stood down when I told him what Hope would do to him if she woke up one morning and found out he'd left her sister in a sickbed. And as for John, that man would have marched straight into Hells to apologize to Marjorie. I had to pull rank, and a speech about duty, and maybe threaten him a little.”

Rowan shakes her head, the first hint of a laugh breaking through. “Marjorie doesn’t blame him,” she says. “If anything, she blames herself. She thinks every shadow in this world is her fault.”

Herod leans back and chuckles.

“Two peas in a pod, those two. She is about the only person I can imagine softening that stubborn old ox.”

At the back of the room, Sabrione, Luvash, and his niece, Arabelle continue unloading the heavy crates from the wagon, hands moving fast, faces kept low. Discretion is currency in Barovia.

Herod’s smile fades. “I am sorry about your aunt,” he adds quietly.

Rowan doesn’t flinch this time. “I should be saying that to you,” she murmurs. “You would be married by now, if she were alive.”

“Or we’d both be trapped in this gods-forsaken valley, fighting revenants and wolves with you.” He pauses, breathing a dark laugh into his tankard. Herod will deal with his own sorrow his way. He need not burden the girl with it. “Best not live too long in what-ifs. This land… it has a way of turning possibility into torment.”

Rowan nods. “It is a terrible place.”

“…But look at you,” Herod says suddenly, his expression lifting as he gestures at her armor, her sword, her growing reputation. “Ser Rowan Steelheart. Conqueror of a revenant lord. Paladin. The pride of the house.” He raises his glass. “Your aunt would be beside herself with pride.”

“It’s what you both would have done,” Rowan replies.

Herod sets his drink down, then leans in, voice quieter, but steady.

Herod watches her as she processes it. The way her fingers curl slightly around the edge of the table, the quiet flicker in her eyes. The Rowan he remembers is still there—earnest, eager, longing to protect—but there’s something else in her gaze now. Something harder. Something forged.

“…But you need to understand something else,” he continues, his voice dipping low. “Your aunt… Dahlia Starlyng was righteous, but she was never gentle. Not when it mattered.”

Rowan’s eyes become glassy as she listens. Herod presses on.

“There were times, Rowan, when she could have taken the peaceable route. Negotiation. Diplomacy. Mercy. Sometimes she did. But other times, she knew that being merciful meant letting cruelty grow. That sparing one tyrant meant burying ten farmers. That forgiveness could be its own kind of weapon—turned back on the hand that offered it.”

He sighs. It is a tired sound.

“I saw her kill men who knelt and begged. Saw her have people stabbed in the back before they could get to her. She never reveled in it.. but she never flinched from it either. Not when the safety of her people was on the line.”

Rowan’s throat tightens. She remembers reading Dahlia’s letters in her youth, the soft, elegant script that spoke of freedom and justice and honor. She never imagined a battlefield behind the words. Never saw the blood on the quill.

“Do you know why she was called the Lady of the Quills?” Herod asks.

“It was her writing, wasn’t it? She was good with the quill.” Rowan answers.

Herod continues.

“That is one interpretation, yes. One propaganda sells like hot potatoes. She was called Lady of the Quills not just because she wrote like a firestorm… but because she fought like one. She understood the truth we all learn eventually, and you are learning now. Many of the people she executed were pelted with so many arrows, they resembled porcupines.”

His words steady themselves like stones being laid.

“In a perfect world, Rowan, you’d never have to choose between two evils. You’d never have to let someone die so others could live. You’d never have to harden your heart just to keep your oath. But this world, this valley, you are not fighting a bandit, or a tyrant with a crown. You are fighting one of the oldest evils that ever learned to wear human skin.”

He leans back, studying her.

“If you want to win… you will have to become the kind of force he fears. Not just the kind he hates. You need to know when to show mercy… and when to put an arrow through the heart of the thing that would burn a village to watch you cry.”

Rowan looks down at her hands. Hands that have healed. Hands that have blessed. Hands that have also killed.

“I don’t want to lose myself,” she whispers.

“You will,” Herod replies, without apology. “That is the cost. But if you lose yourself piece by piece, for every life you save, for every child who gets to grow up free of fangs at their throat—then you are not lost. You are given. To the world. The way Dahlia gave herself.”

He lifts his glass slightly.

“You will not survive this war by being gentle, Rowan.”

His voice holds both warning and pride.

“You will survive by being true.”

Rowan closes her eyes for one long breath. Then opens them again. There is fire beneath the softness. Steel in the quiet.

“I understand,” she says.

And Herod sees the woman his sister raised. The heir Dahlia forged. The knight Barovia will learn to fear—and to follow.

A sharp whistle calls out from the doorway. Luvash stands there, dusting off his coat.

“It is time to go, Ser Sand,” he calls. “Unless you want the rest of the valley to wake up and know a trafficker left them gifts in the night.”

Herod stands, every joint protesting, and turns back to his niece.

“I’ll visit her grave,” he promises. “I’ll bring news of you. And I’ll be ready when you come home.”

She rises, and wraps her arms around him once more. This time, she clings, like she did when she was small.

“Thank you,” she breathes. “For everything.”

“Come back to us,” he tells her. “When your oath is done, and not a moment before. We will have stories to trade by the fire… and wine enough to drown the ghosts.”

He turns, then reaches into the wagon and pulls a long object wrapped in burlap. He tosses it lightly toward her.

Rowan catches it. The weight is unfamiliar, ancient. When she pulls the wrapping aside, she stares at a spear carved of pale, almost ivory bone.

“Dragonbone,” Herod says with a grin. “May it prove worth the hunts it survived.”

He bows, climbs into the wagon beside Luvash, and within moments the horses are trotting toward the road west, wheels thumping over uneven stone until the wagon fades into mist.

Rowan stands alone, dragonbone spear in hand, eyes bright with tears, chin lifted with resolve.

Ser Rowan Steelheart remains. And her mission has only just begun.

Marjorie wakes with a shudder, every muscle humming like it has just been torn apart and rebuilt. Her skin prickles with pain, patches of feathers pushed through it overnight like wild growth forcing itself through stonework. She stumbles to the mirror, bracing herself on the wood.

Two yellow eyes stare back. Bird-like. Predatory. Her nails have grown into hooked talons. Every bone and sinew feels wrong, shifting under layers of skin never meant to hold them. The change spreads like frost through blood.

She takes in a long, trembling breath.

The scholars had said it, once. Those who linger too long in the Shadowfell are reshaped by it, turned into things their world fears. It was true. True for her. True for Hope. True for Asha, Ivan, and Morgwyn. Only Rowan remained untouched—held steady by the power of the Silver Dragon. And Sabrione… well. She had already stepped away from mortality long before any of them walked Barovia.

Marjorie drags herself to her door. Every movement is an argument her body wins or loses.

The tavern's ground floor is half-lit by morning gray, half-shadowed by crates stacked in perfect rows. Rowan, Urwin, and Dannika stand over them—expressions a mixture of awe and disbelief.

“So many weapons,” Rowan breathes.

“Enough for a small army,” Urwin adds, tracing the rim of an open crate.

“They are arming the people,” Rowan says quietly, her jaw tightening.

Dannika’s mouth falls open. “What? Who would—”

“When the Dukes of Daggerford needed to crush enemies they could not challenge directly,” Rowan explains, “they used a simple strategy. Arm whoever hates your enemy more than you do. Rebellion, insurgency, foreign raiders. The face does not matter—only the outcome.”

Urwin frowns. “They cannot fight Strahd. So they’re arming us. Why? Why does Daggerford want him dead?”

“Because they want to avenge Lady Dahlia,” Rowan murmurs. “And because they resent him for trapping me here.” She pauses, her gaze steady. “They do not know. I am not trapped. I am here to break his hold.”

Marjorie stands silently in the doorway, feathers brushing the frame. Her chest tightens with something bitter and sharp. Pride? Fear? She cannot tell.

At Rowan’s feet, two smaller boxes sit neatly labeled. Marjorie. Hope.

“Just them?” Dannika asks, her voice tentative. “Nothing for Sabrione?”

Rowan exhales slowly. “I do not think Sabrione has any family left outside Barovia. No one who would send her gifts. Or warnings.”

The words land heavy.

From the shadows near the wall, Hope emerges. Her pupils are wide as black holes, nostrils flaring at the scent. Hunger throbs through every strand of her being.

“I smell something,” she growls softly, pointing one clawed finger toward the box with her name on it. “What is in that?”

Rowan nods to her. “Maybe you should open it.”

Hope doesn’t need to be told twice. Her hands tremble as she tears through the clasp and lifts the lid. Inside is a folded parchment, held together with a ribbon of deep blue wax, stamped with the crest of Daggerford.

She pulls it apart, eyes darting over the words.

A letter.

And for the first time since she was brought back, Hope looks less like a creature of hunger—and more like a woman suddenly remembering the shape of her heart.

My darling Hope,

Your journey has been long and treacherous. Mr. Luvash told me as much as he could, but there is so much still that I know he keeps from me. He says you are alive even if I can no longer feel your presence from all the way over here at the farm. You can imagine my relief.

He says Asha is alive too. I hope you two are doing well... or as well as well can be in that place. Your sister has been dreaming lately, calling out to the both of you in her sleep.

Every sunset I see as the work day ends reminds me of you. I've made sure to keep a flower vase beside your spot on the bed for when you return and I hope Mr. Luvash keeps his promise to deliver the basket I made him bring to you.

I don't know exactly what you're facing and how you're trapped in that place, but I want to remind you that you are the strongest person I know. That man... Sad von Sourbitch or whatever his name is... you're not trapped in there with him. He's trapped in there with you, and I already know you're making his life a world of pain.

Give him hell, Hope... Then come home for cookies. There are many more adventures to be had. I know you can do this.

Yours forever, Isaac

Hope’s smile stretches wide across her face, a glimmer of real warmth cracking through the pallor. For a moment, the hunger recedes. The beast quiets, and she just looks like Hope again—gentle, tired, and deeply, simply loved.

“My husband made me cookies,” she says softly. Then louder, with a wild spark in her eyes, “My husband made me cookies!”

She tears into the tin with both hands, devouring one after another in a delighted frenzy. Crumbs scatter like snow. Butter and sugar and warm memory. The table creaks under her eager elbows.

“Are those for sharing?” Marjorie asks breathlessly as she practically tumbles down the stairs, feathers still shedding from her clothes. Her talons click across the stone floor. “Please tell me one is mine.”

“Yes!... Just one though.” Hope beams, her mouth full. She gestures toward another box with a half-eaten cookie. “That one came for you. Your husband sent you a care package too.”

Rowan, stacking other crates, pauses mid-motion. Her jaw tightens just slightly. “Why did no one make me a care package?”

Marjorie glances at her. “At least you got to see your uncle in person.”

“But you all got something,” Rowan says, letting out a sigh that sounds just a bit theatrically wounded. “I got lectures. You got snacks and… love letters.”

Hope snorts crumbs.

Marjorie is already tearing open the parchment tucked into her box with a talon. She unfolds it, stares at the elegant handwriting… then blinks. Once. Twice.

“I can’t read this,” she mutters grimly. “This is not John's handwriting. This is… is this script from a duke's library? Who writes like this? It looks like someone turned a bird into a quill and made it dance across the page.”

“Your husband probably met with a ducal scribe or something because he wanted to express himself in a meaningful way. The words might not be his, but the feelings definitely are.” Rowan says.

She sighs deeply. “Hope?”

Hope, still blissfully crunching her way through a mouthful, takes the letter. She prestidigitates her fingers. She swallows. Looks at Marjorie. Looks at the parchment.

Then, in between bites, using telekinesis to feed herself now, she begins to read aloud; voice half full of pastry, half full of care.

And for one quiet moment, in the heart of a cursed land, they feel the presence of home.

Dear Marj,

I'm sorry I couldn't be there in person. That Vistana coachman told us he was only willing to bring one of us in, and this Herod fellow seems to know his adventuring.

I am taking the time to write you because I want to tell you that this entire mess is my fault. When we gave Morgwyn away, I kept telling myself it was for the best. When we discovered who the Lady of the Moors really was, I told you that we were manipulated and that she alone was at fault.

Over the years, I constantly lived in the denial that I sold my daughter out and left you to take all the blame. I wasn't there for you when you blamed yourself, and all I did was tell you that you were wrong to feel that way. I realize that in dismissing your feelings, I left you alone to grieve our baby girl alone. Mr. Luvash told me what had happened, and I can't imagine what you must be going through now. He says that only you can grant yourself escape from that horrible place and he seems to know more than I do.

I know you left because you couldn't live with what we did to our child, because the weight of carrying that guilt all by yourself nearly destroyed you, and I wasn't there. I wasn't there for you when you needed me, and now you're in danger in a place I can't reach... I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you when I could be. I've failed as a father to Morgwyn, and I've failed as a husband to you.

If When you get home, I promise to be better. No burden will be yours alone to bear, your hand will always be held, you will never be devoid of warmth for as long as I draw breath. If, by God's will, I am granted another chance to be your husband, I will be the best husband that you could ever ask for.

May His light guide your way home. John.

PS. I hope Kellam likes the doggy treats. Tell him he's the best boy!

Marjorie smiles like she hasn’t smiled in days. She claws into the rest of her package and finds it lovingly packed with lambchops—her favorite, seasoned and ready to cook. Nestled among the meat is a bag of treats labeled: “For Kellam and his excellent nose.”

She turns, holding up the bag. “Look what Dad sent you,” she coos.

Kellam’s ears snap up and he scrambles over, tail wagging like a pendulum. The moment the biscuit lands in his mouth, recognition lights in his eyes. He circles her twice, whining with joy. To him, she still smells like home. Like mother.

Even with feathers creeping from her arms and talons where her nails used to be, she is still Marjorie. To Kellam, she always will be.

A little distance away, Rowan slumps over a table, half-drunk and dramatically sulking. “Even the old lady got a love letter,” she groans. “She got lamb. Hope got cookies. Is this… pity? Has my family forgotten me!”

Dannika pats her on the shoulder, not unsympathetic. “You got a spear forged out of dragonbone, dear. And look, Herod left his wine.” She lifts the jug, which is as large as her head. “He must have meant for you to have it.” He did not.

Rowan gives the jug a long stare. “...I accept this offering.”

The tavern door opens then, letting in a breeze and a shadow that stretches long across the floor. A familiar figure strides through: tall, thin, dressed in satin black and amber lace. Her neck adorned with pearls. Her hair in silver coils.

Lady Fiona Wachter.

“Heroes of the hour,” she announces. She speaks to Urwin first, then crosses the room, smiling with political precision.

“Good evening,” Rowan says, rising on unsteady legs. “Lady…?”

“Lady Fiona Wachter,” she confirms with a nod. “I am running for burgomaster. And I came to ask for your endorsement.”

Rowan tilts her head. “Well. I suppose we’ll need to get to know your intentions better first.”

Fiona nods sharply. “Fair enough. But I will ask for this much—help me tonight. The baron intends to move against me. If you put in a good word for me with the townsfolk, I will owe you dearly.”

Before anyone replies, the door crashes open again.

Esme stumbles inside, supporting a staggering man with blood pouring down the side of his face. His fine clothes are torn. His pale eyes are struggling to focus.

“Help!” she cries. “I found him bleeding out in the street—someone split his face open with an axe! He won’t last without healing magic!”

“Vasili…” he mutters, and then, breathlessly—and somehow even more painful: “Ireena…”

Rowan’s stare clears in an instant. “Take him upstairs!”

Together, Rowan and Esme haul him away, pressing cloth to his wound. Rowan tries to cradle his head gently, drunk or not. “You’re staying here. Heal. Can’t get married with a face like that, can you?”

That one sentence.. married.. sends a ripple through the room. Izek’s strange obsession with Ireena suddenly means much more. Was Vasili targeted because he intended to become Ireena’s groom? Were the baron or his enforcer behind this? Or was someone else pulling the strings?

“We have to go,” Rowan says. “Now.”

Dannika steps forward. “I’ll tend to him. Go.”

The others gather their weapons, their resolve. Rowan, Esme, Marjorie in her half-changed body, and Hope… still clutching her basket of cookies.

Kellam leaps through the narrow, cracked window, his paws landing silently on the cold marble of the Vallakovich foyer. Outside, the rest of the party stands before the grim facade of the Burgomaster’s Mansion, its once-grand gables now worn and hiding shadows in every crevice. The house looms like a monument to fading nobility, its black iron gates rusted, its windows like dark, unblinking eyes. Ivy crawls up the stone walls like veins frozen mid-throb, and no light seems to reside within. The burgomaster was away at the Festival of the Blazing Sun.

Rowan’s breath hangs in the air. Marjorie flexes her new talons. Hope shifts her weight, eyes fixed on the doors while chewing on another cookie. Then, with a soft click from the other side, the lock turns. The door creaks open just enough for them to slip inside. The hunt for Ireena has begun. The Burgomaster’s Mansion looms black in the night. Dark. Silent. But not empty.

The four enter.

Marjorie pauses in the foyer, touching the inside of the wall with her clawed fingers. “Free food,” she calls quietly.

Two rats tumble out of a crack in the floorboards. One sniffles with a wobbling pink nose. “Food?”

“Yes,” Marjorie coaxes. “We brought lambchops. You can have them… but only if you invite us into your home.”

“Yes yes!” the rats squeak in harmony. “Welcome to the mansion! Give us the food!”

Marjorie grins. A loophole. A vampire cannot enter a dwelling unless invited by someone who lives there. No one ever said that someone had to be human.

Rowan stalks through the abandoned dining room, listening. Chains rattle. Fists pound the walls. Someone is struggling upstairs.

Hope enters the den. She senses presences: minds flickering like dying lanterns. So many voices. All afraid. All hurt. She leaves curses of her own behind; places a fork for the baroness to sit on, hides a book beneath the baron’s favorite rug so he’ll trip.

Marjorie bargains with the rats. “Tell us about the residents.”

“They punish the unhappy!” one squeaks. “The scaryman brings victims upstairs!”

“They make you smile until your soul breaks,” the other nods. “No one escapes happy. No no.”

“And in the attic,” the smaller rat adds, trembling. “Something worse. Rats don't go there. Never ever. Rats go there, they vanish.”

They are paid in lambchops and one cookie. They shake with joy.

“We will open a restaurant,” one declares suddenly. “We will find a human, live in his hat, make him cook food!”

“Yes yes!” nods the other.

They vanish into the dark.

Rowan signals the others. Two staircases lead up. They split—

They creep up the narrow wooden staircase at the back of the mansion, the smell of dust, old wine, and blood thick in the air. The second floor is dim, lit only by flickering sconces that paint cruel shadows across the walls. Marjorie moves first, her stride quiet, almost as if her hollow bones reduced her weight. Esme follows, her sling of tools shifting with every slow step. Kellam pads along at her side, hackles raised, nose twitching.

The hallway ahead forks in two directions, the walls lined with peeling portraits of stern-faced ancestors. One painting hangs crooked, a smear of dried red marring the edge of the frame. From somewhere beyond one of the doors, they hear rattling chains and a soft, muffled whimper—someone is definitely being held here.

“We need to split up,” Esme whispers, tugging her goggles down. “The faster we find her, the less time we give her captors to—”

She stops. Ahead of them, at the far end of the corridor, a figure steps out from a side room. The gleam of polished steel glints in the torchlight.

“Halt!” the guard bellows, already drawing his longsword. His face is tight with zeal. “By decree of the Burgomaster, you three are under arrest for malicious unhappiness!”

Marjorie freezes, eyes widening. “Malicious… what?”

“The law is clear,” the guard snaps, stepping forward, blade leveled. More footsteps echo from behind him—reinforcements, rushing their way.

Kellam growls. Esme reaches for her belt, fingers brushing the hilt of a concealed blade.

And just like that, subtlety is gone. They are no longer quiet intruders.

They are fugitives.

“You will face punishment for your crimes against joy—”

But they are already moving.

The fight has begun.

Vampire by Olivia Rodrigo plays over the credits

A post credits scene shows a cell nearby, Sabrione’s eyes open. Her wrists are bound by silver lined shackles. Her jaw drops and she screams into her gag.