A man’s heavy, honey-brown eyes took in every detail of his surroundings, but all he could see was a poor village called Grinstead. The homes were made of logs held together with mud, and their roofs were thatched with straw. Most had only one room, with a hole in the ceiling to allow heat and cooking smoke to escape.

His name was Leon Shields, and he was a Templar from Norman Church. A couple of days ago, he volunteered to retrieve his headmaster’s blade from Durham Village. It wasn’t because he was trying to win favor—he had already managed that once upon a time. He simply felt it would do him some good, at least to get away for a while. Lately, he had been having a difficult time focusing on anything other than the dream he’d had the night before. It was a recurring dream… about a beautiful woman who teased him with her unorthodox, sensual ways. The dream made him feel special and powerful at the same time. She acted as though he were the only man she had ever taken pleasure in, especially in the way his body reacted. Lust was always a quick factor with this woman, and resisting such temptation was difficult.

However, these feelings were forbidden by the Templar Hood. Originally, such things had once been allowed, but marriage was eventually banned from their order after the church noticed headmasters appointing their own sons to positions of power. From that day forward, during prayer, they were always told to recite:
“An unmarried man is anxious about the things of the Lord, how he may please the Lord. But a married man is anxious about the things of the world, how he may please his wife, and he is divided.”

While exploring the market, the sound of ringing steel echoed from the forge just outside the city walls. A massive man hammered away at a red-hot piece of metal atop an anvil. His hammer came down again and again before he finally used a pair of tongs to drop the heated steel into a small barrel of water. The blacksmith wiped the sweat from his forehead as he finished.

Leon passed tables displaying wares—bread, meat, cloth. Nothing wealthy, and nothing that particularly interested him. While browsing, he stumbled across his oldest and closest friend, Fenix Spencer. The two hadn’t seen each other in years, not since Fenix had been exiled from the Templar Hood for refusing to obey the dress code.

Leon thought fate had brought them back together. Fenix, on the other hand, brushed it off, saying,
“It’s just a coincidence, Leo.”

Leo was the nickname Fenix had given him when they were lads—mostly because Fenix half-assed everything, including people’s names.

And of course, Fenix claimed he had been much better off without the Templar Hood—that they had always held him back from reaching his true potential. Regardless, he seemed happy to see Leon, though he still held onto old grudges. He wanted to settle the score once and for all, to see who was the better fighter in a sparring match. Leon knew the only thing Fenix had gained during his absence was muscle; he still lacked cunning. To prove it, Leon accepted the challenge, determined to show that a Templar’s skill could not be outmatched by Fenix’s barbaric fighting methods.

The two prepared to spar outside the village, where the ground was covered in vegetation used for grazing sheep, pigs, and cows.

Leon stood wearing a steel-plated chest piece that appeared slightly bloated for extra protection. It was lined with decals resembling religious symbolism, including a red cross. Over the breast area lay a strip of refined bronze coated with steel to give it a shinier appearance while remaining cheaper to produce. He wore no shoulder plates, only chain mail beneath the armor. Around his waist hung a thin, skirt-like sheet protecting his groin and upper legs. Chain mail covered his thighs instead of the heavier armor leggings that restricted movement. His kite shield, constructed from cold steel, bore the same red cross.

Sunlight glistened along the edges of his double-edged broadsword with every slight movement. His brown eyes narrowed beneath his helmet as he stared at his opponent.

Fenix’s attire differed greatly from Leon’s. A boar’s head, coated in copper with its tusks still intact, was mounted on his left shoulder and secured by a leather strap that crossed his bare chest. On his opposite shoulder hung a distinct rucksack containing a lion’s head—likely used as a scare tactic in battle.
The only protection he wore was from the waist down: a leather kilt and a pair of cowhide boots he had crafted himself from a cattle hunt. Lastly, he wielded a two-handed battle-axe exactly fifty-eight centimeters long, with a distinctive crescent-shaped blade.

Fenix released a vibrant yet repulsive battle cry meant to invoke fear in Leon, but it had no effect.

Unfortunately for himself, Fenix immediately took off into a sprint. His emerald-green eyes widened with excitement as he drew closer and closer. Once within range, he paused and used the momentum he had built to swing his axe.

Leon scurried to the left to avoid the sudden swing. Moving back, he regained some distance between them. He held his shield in an inside guard position, his elbow angled toward his adversary. Mid-step, he stopped with his left foot planted ahead of the other.

Fenix came to a rough halt, then turned to charge back toward him. Leon flipped his shield to an open position, predicting he could bait Fenix into attacking his left side. Seeing the opportunity, Fenix slashed with his battle-axe, but before it could make contact, Leon raised his shield and bashed him square in the face.

Fenix couldn’t recover quickly enough from the unexpected, cunning blow, giving Leon an opening to kick him in the chest.

The kick was strong enough to make Fenix temporarily lose his grip on his weapon.

Off balance, Fenix stumbled and fell to the ground. Dumbfounded, he looked out from between the long black strands of his untamed hair.

“You fell for it again. You’re hopeless…” Leon shook his head in disappointment.

“Shut up!” Fenix snapped, feeling his pride was hurt more than his bruised face.

Leon continued lecturing him. “Fenix, I’ve told you before—you can’t rely on strength alone. You should be more responsible instead of being so careless about everything. Think before you act next time.”

“I am the most responsible person I know, Leo. Whenever anything goes wrong, I’m responsible!” Fenix licked his thumb and grazed it across his eyebrow.

Annoyed, Leon tossed his shield and weapon to the ground before removing his helmet, revealing short, dark, shaggy hair. He held the helmet against his chest as he threw himself back into the grass.

“I’m glad I ran into you, Fenix.” He smiled faintly. “Lately I’ve felt like a headless chicken running around on fire. What I’m trying to say is… I’m not sure I’m suited for the Templar Hood anymore.”

Fenix joined him in the grass, just like old times. They used to lie out in the pastures, enjoying each other’s company.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t go back,” he chuckled. “Hell, I left myself!”

He folded his arms behind his head, his eyes drifting up to the clouds passing overhead.

“Wait—did you just say ‘left’? You mean you were exiled,” Leon reminded him.

“Whatever—same thing, I say! But you know what can liven up any man’s heart? It’s a no-brainer: liquor, of course! You’ll be good as new, I reckon!” Fenix said with a wide grin.

Right then, Fenix stood and offered a hand to help Leon back to his feet.

“Liquor does that for you, not me.” Leon accepted his hand, though he wasn’t interested in getting drunk out of his mind. Even if it numbed his troubles, it wouldn’t solve the problem.

Fenix draped an arm loosely around Leon’s neck from behind. “Trust me—would I ever lie to you, Leo?” he asked with an innocent smile, trying to pretend he’d never wronged him.

Leon frowned slightly, knowing Fenix’s past actions said otherwise. “Do I really have to answer that?” he asked.

The doors of the Brothel Hole swung open onto a wall of noise. The voices of a hundred or more workmen, finished for the day, blasted out through the doorway as each fought to be heard. Wenches sprawled across the littered floor, covered in half-eaten food. Their overpowering smell reeked of greasy meat, half-rotten vegetables, and unwashed armpits. The patrons didn’t wear anything worth gazing at anyway; most lacked the money for tailors and had to spin their own wool to make their clothes.

Leon thought their clothes reflected the condition of the furniture in the room. It had the typical wooden oval tables and stools. Overhead, chandeliers cast obscure shadows across the animal trophies mounted on the walls.

They seated themselves at a table near the back of the tavern. Fenix casually folded his arms behind his head and propped his boots on the table. Occasionally he whistled a tune or two while leaning back carelessly on his stool.

Leon sat properly but kept his helmet on, since Templars were never allowed to be seen in public without their armor.

“I’ve always wondered why you never wore a helmet, and even now you still refuse. It’s the same reason you were exiled from the church—you could never obey the dress code.” Leon still couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“Dress code my ass! There’s no point hiding a handsome face like mine—especially behind those buckets you people mistakenly call helmets!” Fenix fiddled with his bracelet, made of fish bones twined together with a spiral wire.

One of the wenches approached their table and rudely interrupted their conversation.
“What do you want? Are you two going to sit there and blather? There are others to serve ’ere.”

“An ale here will do,” Leon responded, unimpressed by her tone. He thought she could at least show some respect in the presence of a Templar.

“Wait—an ale? I demand two fire-spit ales, pronto, woman!” Fenix barked, slamming his fist against the table.

The wench hurried away, though not quickly enough to escape Fenix’s long, googly-eyed stare at her plump bosom.

Leon slumped down in disgust, wishing he were used to this by now. Fenix always made a fool of himself in public.

A red-haired woman approached their table. Despite being ruled by her basic desires, she wasn’t entirely unreasonable. Someone older and wiser had once told her that the selfish pursuit of one’s own desires was a form of Satanism, but the warning meant little to her and had never dissuaded her from the life of a whore.

Her attire was a dead giveaway of what she considered a wealthy—somehow healthy—profession. She was clearly displaying her breasts for anyone who cared to look; they were barely concealed by her partially unlaced red bodice. The sleeves of her blouse were pulled up and tied at the shoulders. Her white skirt was decorated with black lace and cinched with an elastic black belt. Beneath it, she wore tall leather boots that reached just below her knees.

The only thing that came to Leon’s mind was that this whore must be very busy to afford clothes like that. Surprisingly, it made her stand out in a poor town like this—he’d give her that much.

As she neared their table, she hissed seductively, “Nice armor you’ve got there. Mind if I help you take it off?”

She ran a finger erotically across the front of Leon’s armor, but he snatched her hand away.

He wasn’t keen on being touched by anyone of such filthy nature, even if he was protected by his armor. Nevertheless, it made his skin crawl. The encounter reminded him of his dream again, and deciding he could no longer bear it, he left.

Fenix tried calling out to him, but Leon simply ignored him.

“Forget him then!” he snapped angrily. “It’s foolish to let all these beverages go to waste.” At least, that’s what he told himself. In truth, he was a bit delighted—more for him to indulge in.

His attention quickly shifted as the wench returned with the drinks. She slammed them harshly onto the table, causing the foam to spill over.

“Damn, gal,” Fenix muttered, “I’d hate to see how you manhandle other things.”

The wench ignored his comment and continued on with her rounds.

The redhead may not have won over her first pick, but she wasn’t about to turn away seconds. Fluttering her eyelashes in a devilish manner, she gave him a look most men would recognize—she was after something of value.

Puckering her luscious lips, she said, “Mm… I’ve never seen such a strong, handsome man like you ’round ’ere before…”

Fenix was too occupied with himself to care about the woman, even though she was practically throwing herself at him. He grabbed both mugs and toasted himself, clanking them together.

“Cheers, mate!” he exclaimed before tilting his head back to chug both mugs at once. As a result, much of the ale splattered all over him.

Still desperate for his attention, the redhead leaned in closer and whispered, “The name’s Holic. Mind if I have a sip?”

Fenix set the mugs back on the table and wiped the remaining residue off his face with his forearm.

“Only a dumb broad comes between a man and his drink. You should’ve been taught better! By a better man—a real man—like me.”

A few other jealous whores took notice of Holic trying her best to grab the attention of one particular man. Most of the women around here were ridiculous enough to dress up in hopes of meeting a wealthy man willing to marry them in a single night. Men don’t fall for their schemes, unless they are drunk of course.

'This must be my cue to go…' Leon thought.

The blonde-haired whore was short of breath and barely managed to say,
“He needs a real woman — a wife to attend to his every whim! You’re just a stupid, dried-up cow!”

Fenix spat his whiskey everywhere before he yelped,
“W-wife?”

'This must be my cue to go." Leon thought.

The conflict kept him too intrigued to make any real attempt to leave. Proudly, he stood from his stool and punched himself in the chest.

“Gals, gals… look! There’s no need to fight — there’s enough of me to go around ’ere. I can please each and every one of you, guaranteed!”

“I don’t share my personal possessions — NOT with anybody! The prettiest one here is the only one well-suited for someone of his magnitude. And of course, everyone knows I, Holic, am the only one capable of fulfilling this role.”

With that, she smothered his face against her chest, nearly suffocating him between her breasts.

Fenix drooled and stammered, “Fenix likes… Fenix likes…”

“Ye hath no sense! One suckling of them suckers and they’ll shrivel up and fall off!” the blonde sneered, one hand planted firmly on her hip.

“Gals, there’s only one way to solve this! All yah have to do is remove your garments — all of ’em! And whoever has the biggest rack can have some quality one-on-one time with me! Since I’ve already gotten a peek at yah, you can be first…”

Fenix tried to reach up to grope the blonde, but she slapped him hard across the face, sending his head flying in the opposite direction.

Not fazed by the slap, he tried again, so she slapped him once more. Still desperate, he gave it another go — and received the same result.

“You put the goods in my face and don’t expect me to try a sample?! What the hell kind of democracy is this anyway?”

Out of frustration, he took one last chug from his mugs, drinking whatever was left.

When the very last ounce touched his tongue, he smashed them against the floor. The little temper tantrum earned him a lot of unwanted attention. Now all eyes were on him, and he was about to get himself into a heap of trouble.

Rejection or not, he went for it — wrapping his arms around Holic and pulling her in for a sloppy, wet kiss.

Screaming at the top of her lungs, she retaliated with hard punches. The bartender called out from behind the counter, trying to determine what all the commotion was. Fenix wasn’t sure what the bartender might have in store for him if he stayed around long enough.

“You’re a filthy ass pig!” The blonde came to the Holic rescue by smashing a stool over the top of his head.

“You are so two-faced that any woman who marries you would be married to a bigamist!”

Leon overheard the thrashing Fenix was taking from outside, where he was leaning comfortably against the wall beside the door. “Any moment now…” he snickered.

A moment later, Fenix was seen being thrown out the door by the bartender and two other customers.

The bartender, red-faced and furious, screamed nonstop, “Don’t you ever come back ’ere ever again! I don’t take too kindly to broken merchandise!”

Fenix looked over to Leon for sympathy, but Leon refused to give him any.

“Broken merchandise… what did he mean by that? The women? Isn’t that the truth…”

Fenix burst out laughing.

“Thick as a ditch…” Leon sighed quietly, disapproving of his idiocy.