The Inquisition does not compromise. But when the ground runs thick with enough split throats, even the holy men will open their purses for a killer who wears their robes. It is a foul business, reeking of old blood and choices that cannot be undone. Now, I am the one laying out the terms with a flat, quiet smile. Either they let me scrub the rot off their maps, or they burn on the pyre.

Ahead is the long, miserable haul north. Up there, whole towns are just waiting around to die, and a stolen thought or a cold piece of iron will finish you faster than anything crawling out of the Abyss. If I am going to outlast the bastards who still want me dead, I will have to ride at the head of their lines. Break a few minds. Become the exact nightmare that reaches the end of this road, no matter who chokes on the dust.