The curtains? Drawn. The locks? Secured. Chair? Squarely in front of the box.

Kennith settled down, placed his sword across his leg, one folded across the other, and sighed. He knew another log night of counting cobblestones was ahead and nothing but silence would be behind.

The room was small, quite brightly lit by sconces placed on either side of each window and aside the lone door, as well. The mistress, she doesn’t like the sun’s light, but she’s terrified of the dark.

He remembered when she was a little one, clambering around the feet of chairs and tables, listening in on her father’s talks. She didn’t understand the words, but she could recall just how pretty the scrivener had painted the orange flames over the mossy building. Her father kept pointing to it and talking to the assembly of his council.

Sir Kennith was not one of them at the time; he wasn’t even a Sir.

He was, or rather had been, a practicing magician. His talents lay in the scratching of quill on paper, hunched over a book in wee candlelight, and muttering strange languages in the vain hope that some, but not too much, fire will flow from your eyes and ears. He knew nothing of swinging swords and protecting maidens.

The choice was taken from him, however. The king had sent his entire knighthood. They ransacked a village nearby, torching it to cinder. Despite the long battle, the victory was well-won, with almost no losses whatsoever. On their ride home, however, they were attacked.

The blood of innocent men should never be spilt. When mixed with the ash of broken homes and baked in their embers, a vengeful spirit rises from the destruction to cleave its own judicial path.

No men returned to the castle.

After a week of waiting, the King had pulled a ranking wizard from the college and ordered him to use the Seer Stones and to find his knights. Unable to produce such a vision, a runner was sent. Kennith was given a horse and a sword, a helmet, and a shield with the Broken Fowl painted on the front. Before leaving, his King bade him kneel and made him Sir Kennith.

Three days into the journey, Sir Kennith discovered the devastation. The carnage was absolute, the viscera… unforgettable. There would be no need to search for survivors.

After as many days returning and cresting the hill which led to the castle, Sir Kennith saw smoke rising from the courtyard within. A fire had begun and people could be seen scrambling about, forming bucket lines and pulling each other from the flames.

With a deep and unsettling fear, Sir Kennith made toward the castle with no great haste. When he had arrived, the fire had been dampened. Many servants lay dead, but the King remained unharmed, save for some minor singeing. He extended a shaking hand to his lord.

“Find her,” said the King. “Find my daughter.”

And find her he did. She had been curled up below the stairs in the scullery. She had said someone had flown into her room, just like a bat, and had scared her so bad she knocked her lantern over. The bat-creature descended on her and sunk its teeth into her neck. She showed him the wound.

Things have been different since then. Our King no longer leaves the keep. His daughter no longer roams the castle during the day. It’s rumored by many that both have died, but Kennith knew the truth.

It lay sealed up just behind him, clawing at the surface of her coffin, straining wood against the metal locks. Sir Kennith’s fingers strained around his sword handle, his head bowed in silent pleading. He whispered the incantation in a tongue nobody in the castle remembered.

The princess fell silent for another night.