Beyond the outskirts of the Vasierian Palace, a shattered church windowpane melded into the surrounding decay, nearly hidden beneath the overhanging rampart stairways. The cool fall breeze, fresh with the scent of autumn leaves, shied away from the church’s stagnant, slum-born air. It was here, in this forgotten corner of the kingdom, that the esteemed Bishop Arcadius brought bread and wine to a packed congregation of disenchanted cross-worshippers.

  From the modest podium, his disciple's anguish poured into the crowd, his raised hands twitching with fervor.. “Fate is not punishment, nor are we forgotten. It is a test—a test of faith.”

  His words, burdened by lower classes’ sorrows, echoed through the church like the toll of a mourning bell. “The golden gates will open widest for those whose devotion endures life’s harshest trials.”

  Pausing, he braced against the lectern, his posture heavy, as though crushed by a demon unseen. “Eternal salvation is within you—within all of us. Especially those who are not with us today. Aye, many have fallen this past year. Their valiant souls, we pray, reach those glistening arches among the clouds.”

  His voice wavered, but his bitterness grew sharp as he continued, “For it should not be the kind-hearted believers of the One True God bearing these sacrifices! Yet we are treated like pigs for slaughter, with the devil’s thumbs pressing down upon us. His machinations manipulate the faithless, the corrupted, the heathen. They hide their schemes, but we see. Oh yes, we see. It has taken our children, blinded our beloved queen, and now it demands our charity to feed the source of this evil. Charity! YOUR squalor, YOUR labor, THEIR CHARITY.”

  A restless murmur spread through the congregation, heads nodding in agreement, a tide of suppressed anger rising.

  The disciple steadied himself, breathing composure back into his voice. “Indeed, we are tested. But how long until mere survival becomes our trial? My fear is not for your faith—it is that betrayal may find us unprepared. And if we do not question our neighbors, are we not culpable for that betrayal? So before we depart, let us rise and make our promise heard to the One True God. For our children, and in His name.”

  A feverish Amen resounded, the room pulsing with a suppressed mixture of fear and hatred. The oppressive air seemed to lift slightly as Bishop Arcadius moved through the crowd, his reassuring touch offering a faint breath of hope.

  As the congregation prayed, they received charity from a blind monk, his bandaged eyes unable to conceal the blackened, crusted flesh that spread as far as his shaved eyebrows.

  Behind Vasiers inner walls that marked wealth and status, the royal palisade rose, piercing the orange dusk sky like a crown. Draped in purple and gold, it glistened like a beacon for sea-weary voyagers and a sundial for overworked serfs toiling in the fields. For all who dared glance upward, it was a stark reminder of who ruled above and how far beneath them they stood.

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  On this hazy autumn day, banners of the white and red cross cut through the royal purple, marking the inner walls from the palisade to the grand cathedral. Here, former Prince Gideon trudged behind High Priest Davos, his head shaved low in disgrace. The terms of peace with Mansour demanded his public humiliation, a spectacle that drew both the presence and disdain of Venessa.

  “Where’s the bishop?” Vanessa whispered, her words tight with seething rage, keeping her accompanying nobles unsettled within their seats.

  Her fury, almost palpable, summoned the ever-opportunistic Sir Tristan. With a polite tap on the backrest of her chair, he leaned in, his voice smooth with quiet confidence. “Addressing the people, my lady.”

  Vanessa shot him a sharp look of disapproval before turning back to her entourage. “I’ve changed my mind. This farce must end.”

  Sir Antwan, arms crossed in a defensive posture, sighed heavily. “This is the price of our peace?”

  “Humiliated in victory is not how I define peace,” Vanessa replied.

  Sir Tristan, delighting in the whispered undertones of disdain, leaned further on her chair. “What if the queen were to establish a personal chapel within the palace to accommodate her brother’s… practice? For legitimacy’s sake it would likely require oversight from Davos or Arcadius, but such arrangements can be made temporary.”

  Vanessa’s response came quiet but unequivocal. “Make it so.”

  Ever the indispensable middleman, Sir Tristan offered a discreet two-fingered salute to a stationed messenger boy, who slipped a scroll into his hand and hurried off through the aisles. The subtle movement caused a ripple of whispers, drawing a sidelong glare between Davos’ procession and Vanessa’s entourage.

  “Lady Vanessa, word from Castell,” the underling announced, approaching with the scroll.

  “That damn Castell,” Sir Tristan remarked, smirking as he unrolled the parchment. “Loyal to a fault, yet a rebel the moment he’s told to stand still.”

  His veiled insult stirred a ripple through the gathered nobility—some stifling chuckles, others exchanging disapproving glances.

  Vanessa snatched the parchment from Tristan’s hands with a flick of her wrist, unraveling it quickly. As her eyes skimmed the contents, she said, “You have your merits, Sir Tristan, but don’t think I’m unaware of your ambitions. Surprised you haven’t yet asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  “If it would serve you better, my lady, it would be my honor.”

  “In service of your own bottom line, I’m sure,” Vanessa said, swiping the parchment toward his retreating face. Tristan plucked the document delicately from her fingers.

  With unshaken politeness, he replied, “As Vasier’s prime landholder, I do more than hoard wealth. I maintain the roads, ensure the grain flows. My actions sustain this city, not just my lineage.”

  “And does that include the Pragian calls for aid?”

  “Already sorted,” Tristan said smoothly. “Enough rations to see them through the winter, but not enough to let them forget whose hand feeds them.”

  Venessa raised an eyebrow, her curiosity edged with quiet menace. “So, tell me—how did you earn my daughter’s blessing without mine?”

  “I did not,” Tristan replied with a respectful bow. “I merely set the wheels in motion. The wagons are on their way. We just need to decide whose insignia will fly on the banners and whose name they’ll praise—the queen’s, or the queen’s mother’s.”