He’d seen it a dozen times before, the charred remains of a comely old town, and sensed something wasn’t quite right. The once esteemed order called Vigilant had become a joke in the modern age. After a decade of trying to prove otherwise, Gregory Pavane abandoned all attempts. Gregory, who preferred Gregor after discovering the name in an old fantasy novel, made a life as the Witch Hunter.

For over fifteen hundred years, Vigilant had protected the nation from threats foreign, domestic, and unnatural. The order existed to enforce the laws of the Compact, which regulated technological evolution, lest the world again fall to ruin as it had two millennia before. Sentinels were the highest officers in the order, each presiding over a region of the country. To the average person their exploits were fantastical tales of monsters and magic, much better than the lackluster reality. Though on occasion the order encountered foes worthy of the books.

For twenty years Gregor reigned over the northern branch of Vigilant and served as a crusader for twenty years before that. Gregor and his estranged brother, Matthew, were the order’s shining stars. Though his brother abandoned the order, Gregor clawed his way to the top position. He pined for the times that he’d slay evildoers to glorious fanfare, however few of his days were spent living the life romanticized as monster hunting. Most of his jobs had him killing fools, unearthing long-dead machines, or destroying tech not yet allowed by the great law. It was seldom glorious and often rigidly cruel, but it was a calling he yearned for since the days of his misbegotten youth.

At the ripe age of sixty, he was a capable leader, but his body lagged behind his mind. The wear and tear from the job was finally starting to show. Broken bones and torn muscles no longer healed at the rate required. Gregor could still fight, but he had to be more careful while his wits were within the acceptable parameters of a leader. Gregor knew it was time to groom a new leader, and the only ones worthy were not much younger than him.

Gregor adjusted the chainmail armor under his white robes, while the other members under his command scoured the areas for clues of the Grey Sisters. The Grey Sisters were a pervasive cult that worshipped the outlawed technologies of the Old World, ranging from robotics to genetic modification. Over the past few years, these cults had grown more numerous and dangerous. Gregor removed his simple bucket-shaped helmet and ran his fingers through his white beard. A few flecks of snow landed on his hair, a last defiant stand of nature before the emergence of spring.

He tried to recall the name of the town, but he came up short. The village was abandoned back in his days as a young mercenary, before his capture and conscription to the order—a fate he had come to appreciate only after an exceedingly long time. Abandoned towns served as little more than gang hideouts. They littered the upper reaches of the continent, and for good reason: the brutal winters of an untamed wilderness.

This town was nothing special, nor had it ever been from what Gregor could tell. These remote places had gained infamy over the last few years for one distinct feature: a single, metallic cylinder jutting out of the ground with a glowing red light at the top.

The cylinder was thirty feet high and fifteen feet wide, completely smooth. With its glowing eye, it gave the appearance of an otherworldly lighthouse. The machine stood among the devastation, mocking the smattering of humanity that once fought to carve out a life in the untapped potential of the north. Civilization died around the bizarre structures, and their numbers were growing. When Gregor moved close to the device, it whispered in his head—languages and numbers he could not even begin to process. His body grew feverish, followed by crushing pressure on his temples. Gregor dreaded their purpose. He had no name for them, but his men had taken to calling them Hell Gates, believing that evil emerged from them.

A Hell Gate meant his targets were near. Gregor’s men surrounded the metallic construct, which thrust up from what appeared to be the center of town. Vigilant encountered many bizarre forms of tech, forcing them to always develop tools to destroy it, advancing their own tech in the process. Using newly fashioned superheated torches, they sliced through the obelisk halfway up, at the structural weak point where the pieces connected—an arduous process, but eventually the tower came crashing down with a final flicker of red light. With the gate deactivated, Vigilant could worry about the rest a bit later.

Vigilant had dealt with their fair share of these monoliths over the past few months but failed to discern their purpose. Hell Gates sprouted up with alarming frequency all across the Northern Frontier, the uninspired name for the nation’s northernmost state. Gregor turned to face the mountains under a starless night and reflected on the sad state of the once prestigious order. Often, he needed to convince himself of Vigilant’s relevance; it took moments like this for the convincing to stick.

He left the obelisk to scour the area for clues. Walking through the town, he found evidence of his prey. Foot imprints in the snow and mud, burned logs, and the signature electricity rippling through the air told him he was on the right track.

“Lord Sentinel!” came a voice from inside a dilapidated church. Gregor rushed toward the call with a speed surprising to the younger members. Inside the church, his men stood over a young woman in tattered clothes, whimpering and bleeding out amid the rotted pews. The damp wooden beams of the church gave off a rancid odor, only slightly better than the corpses he expected to find. Large icicles hung from the ceiling, dripping through to the cracks in the floor. The woman was beyond help. Lacerations trademark of a wendigo attack covered her arms and torso, though the lack of precision suggested something else—something had wanted her to suffer. She had light olive skin, auburn hair, and dull blue eyes. Gregor put her age at around seventeen. She had an air of innocence about her, the disenfranchised type cults attracted. She bore no markings or evidence of body alterations. He got down on one knee and gave the woman a warm smile. One of the brash young soldiers cried out, drawing his sword. Gregor raised his hand.

“Fetch the medic.” Gregor usually executed those who abused technology, as the Compact dictated. Not everyone or everything he hunted deserved to die; yet regardless of their intentions, disaster often followed. Seeing her shredded body, he pitied her. He placed his hand on her chest, feeling her faintly beating heart. His stern demeanor grew welcoming and grandfatherly.

“What happened?” he asked, with one hand firmly gripped on his blade, just in case.

“I tried to flee from them… I… couldn’t let—” She forced the words out as she fought the drowsiness of encroaching death.

“Where are the others, witch?” an overzealous soldier growled. He stood close to Gregor and received an elbow to the groin. He fell to the ground, whining. Gregor made a mental note to reinforce the groin area of the armor should this happen to him someday.

“Shut it!” Gregor bellowed. The other crusaders moved out of groin-hitting distance.

“I took it. They… found me and took it back,” the woman said. Her words grew faint. Gregor hurried the conversation along. “What?"

The woman fought to move her hands up, mimicking the shape on an orb.

“The Eye.”

Gregor thought about the timing, realizing it to be no coincidence. Spring is almost here, he thought.

“Where?”

“The mountain, the one with the tower. Bal… Balder’s—”

“I know it,” Gregor said. Vigilant interrogated sisters before, most never caved even under pain of death. Gregor wanted to know. “Why are you helping me?”

“They weren’t what they said. Friends… died—” Her words came out slow and choppy. She opened her mouth for more words, but they never came. Gregor inspected the body for any other clues, but he possessed the intel needed.

“Burn the body; be quick about it. We move out as soon as you’re done.”

With the town scrubbed, body burnt, and the base of the gate dismantled, the crusaders marched toward Balder’s Bane resting at the top of Mount Caellic. Through the forests and fjords, Vigilant made its way to the Jotun Mountains in the northwest region of the country, a few hours ride from the ruined town. The mountains peeked out over the forest ahead. Vigilant had traversed and scouted these mountains thoroughly in the past, reporting Old World technology still functioning in the heart of the mountains.

The horses grew increasingly agitated as they approached the mountain but pressed on after stopping to feed. The Jotun Mountains dominated the horizon, reminding Gregor of serrated blades. The group marched on parallel to the river, toward the mountain.

At the base of Mount Caellic, Gregor and his crusaders hitched their horses at the old station to finish the journey on foot. He kept focused on his mission. This was no simple group of tech abusers breaking the law, and reports from other branches suggested it wasn’t isolated to the Northern Frontier. On rare occasions, violators of the Compact had the ability to become a serious threat, capable of war and death. He knew this was one such time. The last time strange events of this scale happened was centuries ago and resulted in fire consuming a large chunk of the nation’s east coast that took over a decade to recover from. Gregor had to stop whatever threat to the nation this cult posed, and he’d kill any that got in his way.

Donning thick furs, the crusaders trekked up the mountain. Remnants of stone walkways and cracked bridges snaked up its sides. Snow began to fall more steadily as they climbed, bringing light to the oppressive blackness. Gregor let out a breath and watched it spirit away. The small bridges that snaked up the mountain were crumbling, pieces falling off along the way. Centuries of neglect reduced the splendorous creations of the mighty Blackthorne Empire to little more than expensive rubble a thousand miles away from anything that mattered. Despite ruling the country, the Blackthornes had almost no presence up north anymore.

The snow fell harder as dawn approached. Gregor sent a scout to go on ahead. Snow turned to a wintry mix that impaired the already poor visibility. He waited for nearly an hour for the scout to return, fully expecting to never see him again. Near the top of the mountain, the scout finally came into view. He approached the group with a face wrinkled in confusion.

“No sign?” Gregor asked. The man didn’t respond, only stared at him with glossy eyes. The scout stopped just in front of Gregor on the narrow path overlooking the chasm below, jagged rocks descending like rows of monstrous teeth awaiting a meal. Gregor had seen this sort of thing before.

Gregor spoke in a soft, relaxed tone. “I’m going to wake you up.” The enchanted scout remained as still as the dead, the pupils of his eyes gigantic. “I’m going to count backward from five. As I say the numbers, you will become more aware.”

“Five, four,” he began. The scout did nothing.

“Three.” The scout twitched and mumbled. Gregor braced himself for the worst.

“Two.” The mumbling continued, and the enchanted man’s eyes began to roll around wildly. Gregor’s hand gripped his blade.

“One,” he said using a louder, more assertive tone. The convulsions ceased. He waited; the enthralled soldier glanced over the path and down the mountain. Gregor took a defensive stance.

“You’re fine now,” Gregor said. The scout’s head turned slowly and met his gaze.

“I’m afraid he’s not,” the man said, the voice not his own. “Just another little soul you let down.” Without warning, the scout hurled himself down the mountain. The other soldiers watched the scene in shock.

Gregor looked back at the soldiers behind him.

With hastened steps, the group continued to move up the mountain. Thunder roared above, and his men huddled together. Events like this happened few times in Gregor’s life. He watched cities driven to murderous frenzy and nightmares prowl the dark of the woods. Cults like this possessed the ability to transform scraps of discarded machinery into walking instruments of death. Gregor would kill and die to preserve the law and expected no less from anyone that dare call themselves Vigilant. Gregor addressed his men.

“I’ll keep it short and sweet. You know why we’re here. We follow the balance of the Compact. Any who threaten that balance must face justice. The Old World must remain dead. Ever vigilant,” Gregor said.

“Ever vigilant,” the crusaders roared back. The tension rose sharply when they peered up over the rocks. Outside the redoubt walls, five figures stood, covered head to toe in dark robes. Gregor scanned the snow-covered rocks for possible traps. Vigilant saw the targets through the holes of the walled yard of an old fortress serving the northernmost structure in the country. Fortresses like these once honeycombed the expanse of the mountains, though he was yet to find any that were more than a pile of rocks. In the back was a fat, stubby tower not meant to house more than a few people that spied on travelers coming from the neighboring countries. There was a single hole in the side of the tower, giving it the appearance of a rotten tooth. The group watched in nervous anticipation, seeing the hooded figures standing in a circle. The figures had yet to notice Gregor and his men. An impatient soldier grew antsy and inched in closer. Gregor placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and pulled him back as quietly as possible.

At the ritual site, one of the hooded figures facing away from them stepped to the center of the circle and placed a large green orb on the ground. Atop the crumbling tower, another figure emerged wearing crimson robes. Using his binoculars, Gregor got a better look at the figure.

“Sisters,” the leader cried out. “The time has finally come. Our faith and loyalty shall be rewarded at long last! We’ve paid a heavy price to see this day. We have been ostracized, betrayed, tortured. Yet we remain. We have survived the corruption and failures of this wretched world. This world is now nothing but a half-remembered dream, one that ends now! Awaken!”

The leader removed her crimson robes, exposing her naked flesh and bald head. Her body consisted of pieces of metal embedded in her arms, abdomen, and chest—a twisted symbiosis of metal and flesh. Gregor watched the scene to study his foes. All forms of body modification Gregor encountered provided enhanced strength, speed, and reflexes. Her followers did not possess modifications, making her the only true threat among them. The woman’s eyes turned from hazel to ethereal green. The orb flickered to life, turning the same green as the woman’s eyes. He remembered what the dead woman from the town said.

“Eye,” he muttered. The orb rose slowly from the ground like a miniature moon rising to replace the one obscured by blackening clouds. The icicles in the tower began to melt. The orb spun around as if looking at each of the figures.

Faint words stirred in Gregor’s head. The words were beyond his comprehension, no more than hellish rattling in his skull.

“Lord Sentinel!” a crusader said, giving Gregor a push. The push jolted him from the trance.

“We have done all that you asked. Now we call upon you!” the leader cried out. Gregor had heard enough. The crusaders leapt over the rocks and rushed the cultists. Their leader did not seem surprised and continued chanting. When their gaze met, Gregor’s head throbbed, and his body went numb. He closed his eyes and ordered his men to avoid her gaze.

The sisters fled toward the center of the yard and the crusaders followed suit. The archers maintained their distance and pelted the old ruins with arrows, none of which hit the leader. Inside the fortress walls, the witches kept their distance, brandishing daggers.

They slashed blindly at the soldiers moving in on them. One sister screamed out, and a shot rang out from the gun in her hand. Her bullet hit nothing. An archer landed an arrow through her wrist, and the gun fell from her hand and off the tower. A thunderous roar cracked the sky, forcing the attackers to pause. The thick wintry mix grew denser, and electricity surged around them. The orb flew into the crumbling tower and vanished. The order took a defensive stance quickly, forming a shield wall. The tower filled with green light. Mist started to form inside the tower, seeping out over the mountainside.

The strange mist moved like a phantom snake, winding and zipping around the peak until it wrapped around the sisters and enveloped them. Peeking through the shield wall, Gregor watched as the sisters appeared to vanish inside the serpentine mist, disintegrating into nothing. The mist zipped up toward the top of the tower and circled around the coven leader. She closed her eyes for its divine embrace. Then the mist flew out over the sea and dissipated. The leader was now alone and surrounded by enemies.

“I am worthy!” the woman screamed at the sky in vain. “They have forsaken me,” she sobbed. Her sorrow did not last long; the sight of the crusaders filled her with intoxicating rage. ”Defilers!” she roared. With the fury of a lioness, she dived toward them like a javelin.

“Hold,” Gregor said. The wall held strong as she came flying toward them. Her eyes burned with green fire, which now surged through the metallic parts of her body. She hit the shield wall with the force of a cannon ball. Soldiers, swords, and shields went flying in all directions, some straight off the mountain. Gregor flew backward, landing mere feet from the thick walls of Balder’s Bane. The enemy rose to her feet, using her green eyes to enchant the soldier rushing at her, who, without hesitation, ran his blade through his own unarmored neck.

Gregor scrambled to his feet and grabbed the closest tower shield. The sister pulled the sword from her latest victim and pointed at Gregor with it. He moved in to prevent any further casualties. The woman tried to enchant him. He shook off the mental attacks by dipping behind the shield. Numbness crept up his arms. He shook it off, running into her with his shield. She stumbled back but rushed again and raised the bloody sword to meet his. The swords clashed again and again, her inferior combat skills evident. But fatigue soon set in. Gregor’s attacks became clumsy. She overpowered him with the sword. His sword arm went numb. He threw all his weight into one final shield attack. The impact knocked her backward.

“You are not the first witch I’ve killed,” Gregor shouted. The metal weaving through the woman’s arms like veins glowed with inhuman power. She slammed her fist into his stomach. Gregor flew backward, bouncing off rock and sliding back through the snow. Frantically he scoured the snow for the sword and shield. Finally spotting the shield, he crawled toward it. The witch sprinted now, cutting down another soldier. Gregor’s whole body ached with pain. He flipped the shield over and grabbed the handle.

Pushing himself up, his shield crashed hard against the attacker, knocking her off her feet. On the ground she accepted defeat.

“The past will never stay buried,” she said.

“Maybe not, but you will,” Gregor said. He drove the blade straight through her heart all the way through flesh, muscle, and bone to the cold, snowy ground beneath. Her very human blood spilled out onto the snow. The battle was over. Of the twenty men sent on the mission, eight were dead and five were missing.

Bruised and broken, the surviving crusaders made a hasty yet thorough search of the tower, finding nothing of value. Vigilant claimed the body of the sister and began the climb down the mountain. Gregor would send scouts to track the missing soldiers, however after 72 hours they would be declared dead. As Gregor made his way down the broken mountain path, he gave one last look at the Frozen Sea in the direction the mysterious mist had gone, seeing nothing.

Gregor pondered the situation. He killed the threat, but couldn’t be sure what happened to the others gobbled up by an unknown force. Perhaps like so many others that came before them, the remaining cultists were destroyed in their own quest for ascendancy. He feared these witches may not have failed in their plan. This mist, and whatever horror lay within, warranted investigation. The nagging inside told him this was far from a victory.