Chapter V

The air, now strangely empty where the monstrous form had stood, hung heavy around Watters and Grimm, thick with the scent of burnt flesh and settling dust as the remains of the once towering mutant became nothing more than ash on the wind. 

"Grimm," Watters began, his brow furrowed in confusion, "The logic… it's impossible. Lycans returning? We, the Order, meticulously purged them from this world generations ago." 

Grimm turned, his steps measured as he moved towards the skeletal outline in the ash. "Logic," he stated, his voice carrying a dry edge, "has little purchase here, Doctor. Warlocks deal in the impossible. Resurrection is merely a… tool. This Lycan is not the endgame. It's a message of what is to come." 

"Warlocks?" Watters scoffed, incredulous. "A warlock here, in Barrowham? I've read of them, in tomes… but seen—never." 

"Seen," Grimm echoed, his interruption sharp and dismissive. "You have never seen a warlock, Doctor. But I assure you, one walks among us." 

Grimm knelt amidst the grey drifts, his movements deliberate. With a sweeping gesture, he cleared the ash, revealing the silver hilt of his knife, a stark glint in the dim light. He retrieved it, the motion precise, brushing away the clinging residue before sheathing the blade with a definitive snick. He rose, purpose in his stride, moving towards the deeper shadows cast by the ravaged beast. 

"Warlocks," Watters mused aloud, a skeptical curl to his lip. "A warlock… here? In Barrowham? I always dismissed them as fireside tales for the gullible." 

Grimm paused in his grim examination, his posture stiffening. "Dismiss at your peril, Doctor," he warned, his tone low and serious. "This is no fireside tale." 

Grimm knelt again, his movements curt and dismissive, sweeping the ash aside like cobwebs. The silver letter opener re-emerged, cold and sterile amidst the soot. He recovered it, his fingers brushing absently at the grime. He straightened, his silhouette blocking the flickering firelight, his attention already drifting back to the ravaged town. 

"Alright, alright," Watters yielded, though doubt still clung to his words. "Assuming there is a warlock… how do we even begin to find him? To undo this… chaos?" 

Grimm turned, his cold eyes fixed on Watters, a chillingly direct gaze. "We," he repeated, the word a flat correction. 

"Yes, well," Watters backtracked hastily, smoothing his rumpled suit, "I meant… I can contact the Order. They have protocols for… mystical threats, surely." He trailed off again, unsettled by Grimm's unwavering stare. 

"Protocols," Grimm repeated, the word itself laced with scorn. "Protocols for order, Doctor. Not for wickedness like this." He gestured a hand towards the burning town, a wide, encompassing sweep. "Look around you, Doctor. This is not a breach of protocol. This is a breach of reality itself. And your 'Order'… they are conspicuously absent." 

Watters shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Grimm's gaze. "Perhaps," he murmured, trying to salvage some semblance of hope, "Perhaps their… communications are disrupted. They haven't received our message yet." 

"Or perhaps," Grimm interjected, his voice now carrying an edge of dark prophecy, "they will not." 

Tension coiled tight in the air. The bitter winter wind whipped at the doctor's face, and Grimm's coat snapped and billowed around him like a storm-torn sail. The bone-deep chill of realization – the Order wasn't coming – struck Watters, leaving him numb with dread. "Then what do we do, Grimm?" Watters questioned, his tone edged with panic. "Just… cower here and wait for them to finish us?" His brow creased in a desperate plea, his gaze fixed on Grimm. 

"Hmph," Grimm grunted, the sound a rumble in his chest, his gaze riveted to the silver edge, as if seeking answers there. "No." He lifted his head, his gaze now a burning brand locked on Watters. "No, Doctor." Grimm extended his hand, the silver blade held out not as a gift, but a gauntlet thrown down in the twilight. Watters hesitated, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly before reaching out, accepting the letter opener from Grimm. "Tonight, we fight. Are you ready, Doctor?" 

"Are you ready, Trenchman?!" The spectral echo of his former lieutenant bishop's raspy voice tore through Watters' mind, a phantom command from a life left behind. Watters' brow knitted, not in fear, but a nascent steel. His gaze locked onto Grimm's icy stare, mirroring its unwavering focus. "I'm ready," he replied, his voice firm, surprising even himself, nodding a single, decisive nod. 

"Very good, Doctor." Grimm's voice held a thread of grim pragmatism, devoid of sentiment. He raised a hand, barely lifting his bandana, and a sharp, piercing whistle cut through the tense silence, shocking Watters with its suddenness. From the shadowed maw of a nearby alleyway, the heavy thud of hooves erupted, growing swiftly closer. Grimm's horse, a creature of midnight and muscle, emerged into the firelight, trotting with a spectral grace to its master's side. 

"Incredible," Watters breathed, his gaze fixed on the sheer scale of the beast, "It dwarfs any horse I've ever…" His observation ended abruptly as a hand clamped down on his jacket, yanking him backwards. Before he could protest, Grimm had effortlessly hauled him upwards, depositing him onto the broad back of the animal with the casual strength of a man lifting a sack of grain. 

"Well, I…" Watters began, his voice trailing off, still processing Grimm's incredible strength. 

Before Watters could coherently stammer a reply, Grimm was already mounted, his movement swift and economical. "Logically, Doctor," Grimm stated, his voice level, devoid of patience, "the Order is no longer a factor. Had they the means or the will to intervene, Barrowham would not be burning." He paused, his gaze sweeping the horizon, assessing the next threat. "The Mayor… he is your liaison to The Order?" 

"Yes," Watters replied, shaking off his awe, a flicker of renewed purpose igniting within him. "Mayor Mikkelson. He possesses… secure channels. Protocol dictates immediate contact in cases of…" He hesitated, the word catching in his throat, "…emergency. Why do you ask?" A prickle of anxiety underscored his curiosity. 

Grimm waved a dismissive hand, a gesture of pure impatience, brushing aside Watters' reliance on protocol. "Where is this Mayor, Doctor?" His tone brooked no further explanation, demanding direction. 

"There," Watters directed, his arm extending towards a distant Manor, a solitary island of light in the encroaching darkness. "The Manor on the hill. His residence." 

Grimm tightened his grip on the reins, a subtle but decisive signal that spurred the warhorse into motion. "Then the Manor it is," Grimm declared, his voice firm, resolute, the new direction now unquestioned.