The bells of the Church tower tolled once, long low and heavy. Not a sound meant to call the faithful, but

  meant to remind humanity of its

  chains.

  Jericho stood beneath the vaulted

  cielings of the Sanctum Hall, surrounded by stone colums and air thick with incense. He watched as the delegations from cities across Kaldris filed in one at a time.

  Robes rustled. Rings flashed. Eyes weighed what the soul could never measure. These were not men of prayer, but merchants in guise, here to sell piety in exchange for grain, stone and obedience. They were here for the Festival of Tithes.

  There was shouting from the center as viscount Archibald of Valenmoor stumbled right into the back of an enormous dress, causing the unfortunate lady’s outfit to tear.

  Unfortunate for the newly risen noble· The husband of the victim, duke Royset was besides himself with anger. Veins bulged in a maze along his sweaty, red, bald head.

  "I heard the previous duke was killed for pursuing a man's wife, "said a bored voice to Jerichos left around a pillar, “Seems the son's luck isn't much better than the father’s with women. "

  Sister Solenna of the pyric communion leaned against the pillars glaring at the masses as they entered.

  "We must give him a chance to prove himself...”

  Jericho cut off and frowned as the duke began punching the viscount

  Solenna couldn't help herself, she

  giggled at the violence though

  Only Jericho heard the whisper:

  “I say we throw him to the Great Fire. Too many mouths to feed as it is—even after the losses from the last cycle.”

  Out past the massive double doors of the Church, down the stone steps and across the city, the old wall of Jinaral stood—wounded. Scaffolding clung to its side like bone splints, rope lines swaying in the morning breeze. The breach gaped wide, ugly and unfinished.

  The Wellsprings had always provided for humanity. Magic. Life. Survival. But halfway through their lifespans came the Blight—the curse tied to their generosity.

  Plants either rotted in place or grew beyond nature’s laws, strangling forests with vines as thick as ships’ masts. Animals once playful or preyed upon turned monstrous. The Wellspring’s magic warped them—not into tools, but terrors.

  And when the Blight ended?

  The world turned again. Predator became prey. The strong fell. The cycle reset.

  The last Cycle, a mountain boar had emerged alongside the Wellspring. It evaded hunters for weeks, roaming the edge of the city—until the Blight twisted it. What remained was no longer beast but brute myth:

  A Wrought Tusker.

  The size of a cottage. Bones like columns. Tumorous soulstone growths along its tusks.

  It had taken moments—just moments—to barrel through Jinaral’s wall like parchment

  Dozens had been killed as the soldiers of the Scourged Hand fought to protect adventurers and citizens alike. The edge of the Wellspring had crept so close that its magic now lapped at the city’s outer limits. Though those living on the outskirts had long endured the cycle’s dangers—monsters, blighted beasts, and worse—it had been years since the wall itself had fallen.

  The wall was supposed to mean something.

  Stone meant safety.

  But now, with the breach yawning wide and fresh scaffolding clinging like a bandage, that promise felt thin as smoke.

  “We lose more than enough lives to Tharumms judgments as well as the advances of the Northmen. Why is it I always find you two bickering?”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Jericho and Splenda both turned to the giant of a man who walked up to them.

  Jore Bask clanked up to them with each heavy armored step he took. The armor was dull and scratched, dented in at some places and rusted in others. A giant broadsword was slung across his back.

  “ no one is bickering Jore” sighed Jericho, “ just wondering what to do with these oh so useful nobles”

  “I hear that fencing is coming back into style”

  “Yes, for the flashy showmanship. None of these boys are going to pack it up for the mountains tomorrow because of it. It’s a sport to them”

  Jore grunted, “ and you people wonder why the scourged hand has a reputation for taking in the worst. I mean. When all we get are the inmates and the exiled. The church can forgive the sins of the past but it’s the men of the present who have to do something. The northmen push harder everyday and the nobility do nothing to protect their interests. The free cities have all but forgotten the mountains if not for the presence of our soldiers in their cities.”

  Jericho shrugged,” most are not willing to throw away their lives.

  “Cowards,” Solenna hissed.

  Jore scowled at her but said only, “It’s not cowardice to want to survive. It’s the absence of honor that damns us. If only the old guard had led by example. Instead, we bicker and scheme over what little we can take from the Wellsprings—refusing to negotiate, even over the scraps we hoard.”

  He looked pointedly at Jericho, who answered with a casual smile.

  The Scourged Hand defended the world. The Pyric Communion spread the word of God. But the Silent Stones—they were the ones who truly knew what was hidden in the Church’s storehouses and caches scattered across Kaldriss.

  Resources, hoarded in preparation for a time when the Wellsprings might vanish.

  Resources that rotted.

  Spoiled supplies quietly discarded so no one would see the waste—not while hundreds starved in the outer cities.

  The Church’s promise of a crust of bread and a sliver of meat was often enough to lure recruits into the Scourged Hand—if not pressed by the free cities or kingdoms.

  The Church held the sole right to maintain a standing military. So long as a city drew from the Wellsprings, it surrendered the right to raise its own army. And perhaps that was for the best. Without that control, factions would seize and guard their Wellsprings like warlords, cutting off others from what little kept humanity alive.

  The Church protected humanity from monsters, yes.

  But mostly, it protected humanity from itself.

  The bell tolled above them again, reverberating down to their bones. Jericho turned to the alter at the center of the chamber

  “Mass is beginning”

  Mass was a nightmare of hellish endurance for Jericho.

  At eighty-six, he was old—older than most lived to be in this world of little and less.

  His bones ached and cracked as he forced himself to kneel with the congregation. Spine rigid, he recited the scriptures as proudly as ever, but the words had long since lost meaning. They were air—nothing more.

  The true battle raged within him.

  His body begged him to surrender.

  But still, he fought it.

  He would not bow. That was not his way.

  Not here. Not now.

  He would not let age or weakness break him—especially not with the heads of the three factions standing before them, presiding over Mass at the opening of the Festival of Tithes.

  So he endured. Silent. Steadfast.

  Kneeling while pain lanced through his joints, his spine stood straight. His faith did not