“Statistical analysis confirms hereditary transmission patterns between Elevated progenitors and viable offspring. Subjects of documented lineage exhibit accelerated adaptation to conditioning protocols, indicating enhanced utility for societal advancement. Data support implementation of Strategic Bloodline Management through ‘Elevated Lineage Matrices.’ Controlled breeding programs could optimize Elevated emergence rates within acceptable parameters. Recommend immediate resource allocation for generational cultivation initiative.”

  – Ministry of Orthodoxy, Brief #9G72, Lhasa

  Omvar sat across from Orhan in the secluded garden café. The morning sun filtering through the lush foliage around them, a cooling cup of tea before him. Untouched. Despite the calming ambience in the Pilgrim’s Pause, Omvar stared blankly into the distance, unable to shake his thoughts of death and tragedy.

  Orhan hesitated, glancing at the almost full cup in front of Omvar. He cleared his throat. “Would you like to... talk about what happened? Maybe going through the details might help. There are some reports from Maht where they found talking through a traumatic event can help the affected process events better.”

  Omvar snorted but his attention remained far away. “What’s there to discuss, Orhan? I did nothing when Leftos slowly drained Ravena’s powers. I just watched. Talked. Didn’t make a difference. Then I watched her fight, watched her struggle, watched her weaken. And then... then...” He could not finish, voice choking on the memories. It was all too damn painful.

  “But how did he know?” Orhan pressed. “How did Leftos know where he had to be to catch Ravena in the act, and at that exact moment!”

  “What do I know,” Omvar shrugged. “What do I care, in fact. He probably followed her around, like the trail of slime he is.”

  Orhan briefly pursed his lips but did not continue his line of inquiry. “How about we talk about what happened before, Omvar.” Orhan’s voice was steady as he reached out to squeeze Omvar’s shoulder. “Yes, what happened to Ravena was horrifying. No question about it. A crime, in every sense. But perhaps understanding more about how Leftos did it might help us counteract such actions in the future.”

  “Sure, whatever you say.” Omvar considered the words for a moment before he nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right on one thing. We can’t let something like this happen again. Ever. So, let’s start at the beginning. Leftos was siphoning Ravena’s powers away from her. They’d built this scheme, assigning some of her believers to other Elevated. Cleverly routed through third parties. It all looked almost innocent, routine transferals clustered just enough to be effective but not too much so that they’d be spotted. The goal was to weaken her gradually, in a way that neither her nor the Ministry would pick up on it.”

  “Good, good.” Orhan’s brows knitted together. “So he was leeching her believers, you mean?” At Omvar’s nod, he continued. “You know, there is precedence for this. About 150 years ago, one of the Delegates then—Urgun, a shapeshifter—did something similar. Shifted away believers from a rival. Shifted them to someone who didn’t exist, in fact. Started an enormous scholarly debate about the liturgical consequences of believing in someone who doesn’t exist. Where does the power go? Curious thought, isn’t it?”

  With a glance, Omvar broke his far-gazing and caught sight of Orhan’s face. The man seemed to drift into a deeper consideration of the topic. Omvar could swear that Orhan’s hand was twitching, as if searching for a pen. “So what happened to him?” Omvar asked, half-interested, before he returned his attention to a sparrow rummaging around the fallen leaves.

  “Hmm?” Orhan looked like someone had just woken him from a pleasant dream. “Oh, right. Urgun. His fellow Delegates executed him. Rather grisly affair, from what I’ve read. Manipulation of the purity of faith and all that. At least that’s what the texts say. I think it more likely that he was being punished by his colleagues for acting out of line. Can’t have that precedent.”

  The two men fell into silence. Omvar mulled over the parallels of Orhan’s story with Leftos. He certainly would not have anything against a grisly execution in the near future. He wondered what implications Leftos’ actions might have for the man. Hoping against hope.

  Eventually, Orhan cleared his throat. “So, what about the aftermath, Omvar? What happened?”

  “Chaos,” Omvar sighed heavily, shoulders slumped. “People were confused, angry. They couldn’t understand what happened, why there was a dead Delegate in the heart of the Ministry. Why she’d done what she’d supposedly done. People talked about war, about justice. Or they did at first, before thoughts of opportunity and maneuvering entered their minds. Leftos... he just stood there, smirking when he thought no one was looking. As if he’d won some kind of game.”

  Orhan winced at the cold bitterness in Omvar’s voice. “And the Ministry? What is the stance of the leadership? Tarene must have been furious.”

  “Divided,” Omvar admitted. “Some think Leftos was justified, others are outraged. Norgus—you know the guy, mousy fellow doing Belt-knows-what in the Ministry—nearly came to blows with someone from the prayer guard division when the fool wanted to congratulate Leftos. But there are not that many people who really liked her, you know? Even those who are outraged seem more affronted by the principle than the person. And the rest... they’re just lost, Orhan. Like me.”

  “It’s a shock, my friend, I know,” Orhan began gently. He studied Omvar with concern, seemed to want to say something. Omvar knew what his friend must see, what he himself saw every day in his mirror. Bloodshot eyes. Deep creases on his forehead. A husk of a man.

  A hollow laugh escaped Omvar’s throat. “That’s quite an understatement, Orhan. I watched her die. No, not just die—Ravena was butchered in front of my eyes.” He clenched his fists, knuckles turning the color of the marble table before him. “How am I supposed to come to terms with that?” He shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself.

  “I’m doing my best to understand you, Omvar. I truly do.” Orhan reached over and clasped Omvar’s shoulder. “But consider, just for a moment—Ravena endangered us all with her lust for power. This was an extreme response, yes, inexcusable really, but her scheming for war did pose a threat. To the entire city. To our whole world, really. It may seem harsh right now but, when you can, look at the silver lining—the military build-up has halted for now. Will likely vanish into thin air altogether. Think of all the lives saved by this one death.”

  Omvar slammed his fist on the table, making Orhan jump. “Do not—do not—try to justify this, Orhan! Nothing excuses this cruelty. Nothing!”

  Orhan collected himself again but withdrew his hand, sighing heavily. “Of course. You’re right. I apologize for speaking so callously about her fate, I didn’t mean to dismiss your pain. Ravena didn’t deserve her end, whatever her faults.”

  Half-standing, Omvar’s chest heaved, mind awhirl. He immediately regretted the intensity of his outburst. He just felt so angry. At the world, at Leftos, and now even briefly at Orhan. Slowly, he sat down again and lowered his head, trying to calm his ragged breathing. Silence enveloped them, punctuated by the soft warble of birds in the tree.

  Finally, Omvar looked up and met Orhan’s kind, patient eyes, nestled in a crisscross of creases. “I know you meant well. Forgive my outburst, old friend. It seems my emotions have overwhelmed me. Again.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Orhan waved any concern away with one hand. “Your anger is justified.” His voice took on a serious tone. “But you should take care, Omvar—don’t let this experience harden your spirit. There is already enough darkness in this world. Don’t add to it. Remember the joy you shared with Ravena, not the pain.” He paused briefly. “You know I dragged you along that expedition to Algis not because I needed it but because I felt you did. Omvar, you need something—or someone—that forces you to see the good in the world. It’s the only thing stopping us from spiraling into a very, very dark place.”

  “Ever the wise mentor,” Omvar managed a faint smile. “Thank you, Orhan. For listening, and for your counsel. I’ll try.”

  Orhan nodded and relief flickered across his face. Or was that doubt? “It’ll take time. But you’ll get through this. Believe me. Sometimes,” he began, his gaze becoming distant, “our entire world ignites, burning everything to ashes. And sometimes—rarely—from that fire-enriched soil, new life sprouts. Not stronger, not more vibrant. But alive. We humans... we’re not so different. We can begin anew. We find ways to bloom from our own ashes.”

  That sounded… personal, Omvar thought. Briefly confused, he realized that he did not actually know too much about the past of his friend. He had met Orhan as one of his teachers in university and—to his shame—never really asked about Orhan’s life before that point. The things men revealed about themselves through their actions. Or inactions.

  Around them the wind picked up slowly. The breeze rustled the leaves in the garden, a gentle susurrus that belied the chaos in Omvar’s mind. Ravena was dead. Gone. Never to come back. Despite their rocky relationship—especially at the end—an ache of loss pierced his chest. By now, it almost felt familiar, like an old friend returning home after some time apart.

  Omvar stared at the cup of spiced tea before him, then he looked up to the giant rosewood tree.

  Yet.

  There was something in him, he was sure of it. Was that a smidge of peace he felt stealing over him? An infinitesimal calm in the storm that was his life these last few weeks. Not so much as accepting Ravena’s death. No, not that. Likely not for a very long time. But peace. That at least. A tiny sliver of brightness, lodged in his bleeding heart.

  As much as it ached, he simply knew in this moment that he would find a way to survive this. Somehow. He nodded his thanks to Orhan and forced a weak smile onto his face. “I should go. There’s work waiting.”

  Orhan’s eyebrows rose. “Well, if you’re really sure that’s the best path forward.” His friend watched Omvar rise, his eyes filled with quiet concern. “Take care of yourself, Omvar.”

  Omvar nodded and stepped out of the café, through the narrow corridor, and into Kel’s streets. The bright sunlight of Ebonshade felt harsh after the calm of the secluded garden. He squinted and raised a hand to shield his eyes as he adjusted to the sudden glare.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The Ministry buildings spread out before him. Even now, in his… vulnerable state—in which all color and sound seemed subdued to him—they did not fail to impress. Complexes of ancient stone structures with high towers and intricate carvings, interspersed with newer additions, as the purview of the Ministry increased. Ever increased.

  He remembered someone—probably Orhan—telling him that the main building had been a temple, a long time ago. It showed. It still was, after a fashion.

  To his right, the grand edifice of the main Ministry building towered over the entire complex. Sunlight danced off the polished marble fa?ade, highlighting the enormous bronze emblem of Kel, the stylized sun blazing over his city. The building hummed with activity—delegations from all corners of the city moved in and out, their colorful attire a vibrant contrast to the monochrome stone hosting them. Usually, the murmur of their voices created a constant drone that oddly comforted Omvar. A reminder of the daily grind of life. Usually.

  Today, despite the buzz of activity around him, he felt isolated. Just like every day in the past weeks, a keen awareness of the void left by Ravena’s absence spread throughout him. Around him, the world continued to spin, oblivious—uncaring—to the tragedy that had unfolded. What was it to a trader if one or another of the Delegates died? Especially if it had not been theirs.

  Far more important to glean which distant land would raise its number of Elevated, offering lucrative opportunities for export voyages. Or be the first to know about the powers of Ravena’s eventual replacement, spurring new industries or making old businesses implode. Whether they knew it yet or not, opportunities would abound. He imagined that several of his colleagues were very busy right now. Reallocating a whole Delegate was a massive project, especially on such a short notice. He distinctly remembered the last time it happened like this, with Lhasa demanding the prompt empowerment of their newest prodigy, Tornel Alveth. He did not envy them.

  Omvar paced down corridors, squeezing past a throng of petitioners and the officials who served them. Or, at least, gave the impression to do so. Same thing, almost, if someone would have asked him a month ago.

  Nearing his office, Omvar slowed as hushed voices reached his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut. This again. Really? That cursed door to a nearby chamber stood slightly ajar. Of course, they still had not fixed it. Feeling his hands forming fists at his side, Omvar considered for a moment. Abandoned the thought. Considered it yet again. He cursed himself under his breath. Then he crept closer to the door, straining to make out the words.

  Yet the low timbre of murmurs inside was still indistinct, individual words blending into a frustratingly elusive mumble. Omvar’s brow furrowed in concentration as he strained to decipher the sounds. Frustration simmered inside him as he considered to simply move on, dismissing his curiosity. Just a few more paces and he would be inside his office, a tall stack of papers waiting for his return. Probably a very tall stack by now. But then, just as he was about to get up, a familiar name pierced through the indistinguishable whispers.

  “…Ravena...”

  Omvar froze. His breath hitched as the air in the corridor suddenly became thick and suffocating. Listening, he remained rooted to the spot as the soft echo of his heartbeat filled his ears. Slowly, he dared to inch his head closer to the chamber.

  Another voice, this one smooth and cultured, slipped through, “...blind ambition... danger...”

  The clinking of glasses chimed like a discordant bell. Laughter followed, low and resonant. This. The whole casual cruelty of this sent a cold ripple down Omvar’s spine. These vultures, pontificating from their armchairs, picking at remains. After briefly considering to charge into the room and… do something, Omvar started to rise, disgusted, and prepared to leave these pathetic officials behind. When he heard another conversation fragment.

  “...took advantage of Ravena’s lust for power. Smart move, I must admit...”

  Omvar froze mid-motion. Mind utterly blank. He slowly—ever so slowly—turned back to the door.

  The deep voice again. “…have to understand... what was she to do, with the war... strategic removal...” Words uttered with a chilling calm. Omvar was now fully turned toward the nearly closed door again.

  The next words were an indistinguishable mumble. They seemed to disagree with something the baritone said, because his next words sounded defensive.

  “…Lavelle’s words, not mine… who are you to doubt her plans?”

  Omvar blinked. Once, twice. And, just like that, facts fell into place. Like a glistening boulder tumbling down a slope, blocking the flow of water. Blocking everything for a terrible, beautiful moment. Click, click, click.

  Oh, no.

  Lavelle’s serendipitous arrival. Her immediate collusion with Leftos after entering that blood-soaked room. Maybe even Omvar finding this damning letter in Ravena’s chamber in the first place. What had Orhan said? Delegates punishing one of their own for acting out of line. This had been no accident. No unfortunate tragedy, however opportune, no rash act of defense.

  This had been coldblooded murder.

  Omvar bolted from the Ministry as the tight corridors and the labyrinth of rooms suddenly became too suffocating, closing in on him from all sides. He burst out into the open, gulping in lungfuls of the warm, languid afternoon air. Yet it did nothing to ease his tumultuous thoughts. Omvar leaned heavily against the wall, his breaths short and sharp as he fought to regain control.

  The bizarrely discordant chirping of birds that surrounded him, the bright sun that did permit no shadows in her burning gaze, all swirled around him in a kaleidoscope of impressions.

  Then, after a few minutes of desperately deep breathing, he straightened. Omvar forced himself to settle into an analytical mindset—an escape—and started to dissect the words he had just overheard, putting together pieces of the puzzle.

  He replayed that night in his mind. A sharp stab of pain lanced through him at the thought of their last night together, brief as it had been. Not now. Now, only what came after was important. That unexpected discovery of Feldar’s letter. So invitingly placed on her desk. And then that day. Ravena’s violent response, Leftos conveniently appearing out of thin air to ‘save’ him. Omvar’s mind whirled. He slammed his fist into the wall, anger seeping through the shock. He had been so focused on Leftos, so obsessed with the man, that he had forgotten the other Delegate in this plot. Lavelle had manipulated them all. Ravena with her thirst for power. Leftos as the instrument. Himself as the unsuspecting catalyst.

  A bitter laugh tore through him, momentarily distracting Omvar from the blossoming pain in his hand. All this time, he had thought himself an observer, a passive player drawn into the machinations of others. All true. But he had been a piece in the game as well. A pawn, manipulated to make the first move, to topple the very domino that led to Ravena’s demise.

  Omvar looked at his hands, knuckles still white from the force of his punch, little droplets of blood seeping through split skin. These were the hands of a man who had unwittingly set a murder in motion. And the deity he had worshipped for decades—since he was a teenager—had been the puppeteer.

  And so Omvar sat, slumped against the wall, for the better part of the afternoon. Ignoring his hunger, his thirst. Thinking. Remembering. Ravena’s laugh. Her soft skin. Their frequent verbal duels. Usually with Omvar being left flummoxed. He smiled.

  And, finally, he allowed the tears to come, tracing silent paths down his cheeks. Above him birds circled, around him a whole city churned through its day, yet within him turmoil settled into a hollow foundation.

  With a shuddering breath, Omvar rose and pushed himself off the wall. The world had shifted beneath him once more. So be it, he was getting used to it. But this time, he was no unknowing pawn. This time—by the Belt—he was armed with knowledge and a burning hunger for justice. He was ready.

  A newfound determination in his stride, Omvar set off toward the library where he suspected Orhan would be. He had no clue what time it was, but finding out Orhan’s location was not too hard, to be honest. The man spent most of his time here. Omvar made no effort to mask his heavy footsteps, the loud thud of his boots echoing off the stone walls as he walked down the corridor.

  Several heads turned in his direction as he entered the library, an accusatory hush settling over the usually quiet room. Omvar did not care. He methodically scanned the endless rows of bookshelves until his gaze found Orhan, engrossed in an ancient tome larger than Omvar’s chest. Without a word, Omvar stormed toward him, causing several of the ancient librarians to throw them disapproving glares, accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like snarling.

  Looking up and noticing Omvar’s mood, Orhan hastily marked the page and closed the book, accompanied by a small cloud of swirling dust. Without a word, he grabbed Omvar by the arm and led him into his private office, just to the side of the library, away from prying eyes.

  Omvar wasted no time. “Lavelle orchestrated the whole thing, Orhan!” he exclaimed, his voice trembling.

  “Slow down. What do you mean ‘orchestrate’? What is there to… ohh.” Orhan closed his mouth for a moment, thinking. “Lavelle? Are you certain?” he finally asked cautiously as he guided Omvar to a chair.

  “I overheard some people discussing it,” Omvar nodded vehemently. “They weren’t even trying to hide it. They laughed, clinked glasses, celebrated their ‘smart move.’ This wasn’t even just murder, Orhan. It was a cold, calculated execution. Like you said with this guy a hundred years ago.” His voice shook with anger and disbelief. “And I want them all to pay for it!”

  Orhan leaned back in his armchair and stroked his beard thoughtfully. When he finally spoke, he did so slowly, as if unsure where his words would take him. “Omvar, I understand this may be difficult to hear, but you should tread carefully here. Lavelle is no ordinary Delegate.”

  “I don’t care who she is!” Omvar snapped as he jumped to his feet. “She murdered Ravena in cold blood and that’s all that matters!”

  “Please,” Orhan raised a hand placatingly. “Lower your voice, if you don’t want this to become unpleasant for us all.” He waited for Omvar to reluctantly sit down before he continued.

  With a heavy sigh, Orhan began to talk. “Lavelle is ancient, Omvar. It’s said she’s been a pivotal figure in Kel since the time of Selvi himself, over 300 years ago. I’m old, no question about that, and I still remember her as a young woman when I was just a little boy. It’s not quite a secret, just not well-known. But can you imagine the knowledge that comes with centuries of practice? The power?”

  “That doesn’t excuse her actions,” Omvar shook his head, unwilling to comprehend the implications. “She needs to pay for what she’s done. Probably not the first time either, if she really lived that long already.”

  Orhan sighed heavily. “You’re not listening, Omvar. Lavelle has seen epochs come and go, civilizations rise and fall. Do you really think a single bureaucrat could topple her? She plays a long game and you—we—are not in the same league. Not even close!” His voice softened. “I know you’re upset. I know you’re seeking culprits and reasons. But, trust me, making an enemy of Lavelle would be unwise. Besides, she’s not even in Kel anymore. Been sent on some important mission to the north.”

  For a while, Orhan remained silent, ostensibly in deliberation, before he resumed again. “You know, I’ve read the reports, Omvar. Pretty much all of them that survived, anyway. Lavelle was among the original Delegates of Kel. Just think. Having been made a god by the sacrifice of her leaders and being sent out to topple another? This woman knows all about the danger that living gods pose. By the Belt, the fact that she resisted the temptation to make herself a living goddess for hundreds of years already tells you how important this is to her. And then to see one of her colleagues do the very thing that once nearly consumed our entire world? No, Lavelle wants stability and she’ll do everything in her power to maintain it.”

  “So, what am I expected to do? Stay silent and accept this? It was all for the greater good, after all, and I should really go thank Lavelle for saving us? Maybe even pray extra hard for her in return?” Omvar retorted furiously. At his side, his hands were rhythmically balling into fists and releasing again, grasping for something—anything—to hold on to.

  At this last, Orhan raised his brows a fraction. Right, Omvar thought too late, the secret of allocation. Not supposed to tell anyone my target of worship. Well, damn it all. But Orhan did not follow up on his lapse. “I’m advising caution, that’s all,” he instead said gently. “Maybe there’s more to this than—”

  Omvar stood abruptly, cutting Orhan off mid-sentence. “I’ve heard enough excuses. Maybe there’s more to friendship than just words, you know. If you won’t help me expose the truth, then fine, I’ll do it alone.”

  Before a stunned-looking Orhan could respond, Omvar stormed out and nearly crashed into a dark figure lurking outside. Brushing past the stranger without a glance, his thoughts were far away, consumed by plots and plotters.

  Behind Omvar, unseen, the dark shadow followed his departure with narrowed eyes—and then followed him down the long Ministry corridor.