Fiendhunter

**"Dawn's first gilded finger pried through the shutter's embrace when Bai Lang's chrysopoeic irises snapped open.** 

Netherforce thrummed in his marrow—a revelation that slumber itself could nourish this alien energy. Descending to the tavern's underbelly, he tossed silver marks across ale-stained oak. "Milk warmed by hellfire," he drawled, "and boar flesh charred black." 

Beyond the threshold, Ser Roper Hanke awaited with twin steeds. "The Sovereign's Seat beckons," the knight-baron proclaimed, tendering reins to Bai Lang's destrier Ambervine. Their procession wound toward Lionthrone's spires, where twin-headed eagles glared from ramparts. 

"War breeds caution," Hanke explained as gatewards scrutinized the witcher's blade. The baron pressed a sigil-engraved seal into Bai Lang's palm—rice sheaves shimmering under cursed sunlight. 

Through winding wynds they rode, Bai Lang's fingers brushing the witch-woven satchel at his hip—its dimensional folds whispering of lavender and betrayal. "What of Duvellia's rot?" he inquired. 

Hanke's visage darkened. "A corpse-king rules there now. His demon legions..." 

The revelation hung heavy until castle gates loomed. Ravens wheeled in precise murder—sixteen carrion augurs for every tower. Over the Bridge of Seven Sages they passed, each stone effigy weeping lichen tears. 

"Your steel, if you please." The chamberlain's smile cut deeper than any blade. In the bathchamber's steam, princely venom seeped through marble: "Charlatans find quick graves here, mutant." 

Bai Lang emerged sheared and sheathed in midnight velure, the looking-glass revealing not a witcher, but some courtly phantom. As the heir's threat echoed through vaulted halls, his medallion pulsed—not warning, but hunger. 

The selection of ceremonial blades took precisely seven heartbeats. When Bai Lang's fingers closed around the swept-hilt rapier, its quillon dragons woke with a hiss. "This will suffice," he told the trembling tailor, "for cutting through royal theatrics."**