As of late, discord would poison the banquet hall following every Night of Repentance. A bard's sickly melody would play as lords and ladies laid blame to each other, cursing and brawling to vent the frustration of lost land or a trusted vassal, the kingdom crumbling further under the scourge of corruption. It was not a rare sight to see a peer storm from the castle, never to return.

But today was not like that.

Mugs of spiced wine clinked and laughter erupted along banquet tables. Guests sampled savory meats and nostalgic deep-sea fish as minstrels graced the atmosphere with cheerful melodies. And, on the dance floor in the center of the hall, nobles from across the kingdom mingled, voices abound in hope. While many amongst the peerage were absent, perhaps bemoaning the baseless rumors of the month prior, the banquet hall hadn't felt this lively since the days of the Gestalt Empire. The reason was two-fold.

First, the return of Her Royal Majesty's heiress, whose yellow felt dress frolicked with every twirl around Lord Valter Kuhn. Unlike the sulky glares she oft displayed in the court, Her Royal Highness Saphiria graced the guests with a stalwart visage becoming of Malten’s eventual ruler.

The second was a young apostle. Pale green eyes gleaming, he waltzed with Baroness Schwarz of Hankerfurt. Although The Most Reverend spoke distant words, unheard amongst prattle and the twanging of lutes, all knew his utterances as divine plans given voice.

Nobles danced closer to the archbishop and the princess. They raced to exchange social partners so they might negotiate business, arrange diplomatic marriages, and receive Zera’s blessing before night’s end.

Flies to shit—the lot of them.

Not that Warnfrid Meier was any different. He would have been first in line if he could grace that marble floor once more, but aged lords brandishing peg legs did not make for excellent dancers. Instead, he sat at a near-vacant table, spiced wine burning down his throat, hoping to numb the searing pain where his limb once was.

Ten years had passed since the battle of Rondal’s bridge, where the Demented Emperor had taken Warnfrid’s leg, yet the agony never ended. Aching. Twisting. Cramping. Warnfrid developed prosthetics, risked wearing relaxia enchantments, and even bought potions concocted with dungeon reagents. Nothing cured the pain of a possessed limb.

But perhaps the Jade Surgeon could. Who better to treat a leg possessed by the ancient evil than the apostle himself?

A week ago, Warnfrid would have thought himself a fool to pray to Zera again, to think a youngster—a man, no less—could carry her blessing, but how could he believe otherwise after hearing the holy thunder, that raging monsoon, the divine smiting on the Night of Repentance? And while fighting along the north-western walls, his son saw everything in person. No doubts remained.

If the Jade Surgeon could channel Zera's love into medicine, weaponry, and miracles, surely he could exorcise a severed leg.

But Warnfrid was unsure if he would get the chance to ask his favor. He couldn't compete upon the dance floor with his peers, and even after they had all spoken with the Jade Surgeon, others awaited their turn.

Among them was Gratius Schumacher. He sat across the table, eyeing the surgeon like a falconer's goshawk. The perverse baron planned to speak to the apostle as well.

Warnfrid had to eliminate his competition. He swigged some spiced wine and locked eyes with his enemy. "Gratius, I understand you have business with the Jade Surgeon, but you must let me go first."

"Oops!" Gratius overturned his mug, spilling red-brown droplets onto an obscure, emerald-bedazzled shoe. With slow and mocking gestures, the slimy baron knelt and dabbed away liquid with a handkerchief. "Allow me a guess, Earl of Canterburg. You'll bother even him with your pain?"

Warnfrid's grip around his mug tightened. He deserved praise for losing his leg to a ballista javelin in service of Malten, yet the fool—who knew not the difference between a pike and a halberd—mouthed only disrespect! "And you'll market your shoes to him?"

"Though a male archbishop is obscure indeed, even he will have bishops and priestesses. Surely the apostle has no need for commoners' footwear."

"So go pester him like those dancing vultures!"

"And crease my lovelies?" Gratius polished the pointed ends of his shoes with his thumb. "I just had them made."

"I'll buy two pairs of those... monstrosities if you let me speak to him first." Warnfrid massaged his thigh. "My leg is killing me."

"Forgive me for my ignorance, but how can a leg that isn't there hurt?"

Warnfrid slammed his fist into the table. "I’ll buy a dozen pairs if I go first and you speak no more."

"Fifty."

"Fifty?! Celeste and all her maidens couldn't have used so many gaudy shoes for their pilgrimage across Remora!"

Gratius grinned. "But perhaps the apostle and his faithful could, Earl of Canterburg. The flock herds to him even now."

A glance back proved the baron's words held merit. Nobles hounded the Jade Surgeon, each nearing to bark their piece, him listening and offering sympathetic nods.

Warnfrid paused. Only now did he realize he was witnessing the birth of a new era—a moment in history akin to the founding of The Holy Kingdom. One man sought to guide his followers to construct a hold upon the coast. Just as Celeste did centuries ago.

Though Warnfrid was unsure if this era would be of calamity or peace, one thing was for sure. “The world is changing once again, Gratius.”

“Of that, there is no doubt.”

Leaning back against a wall, Dimitry lifted a glass of ale to his lips and subtly stretched his calves, which had grown sore from hours of mingling. A rare opportunity to recuperate and rehydrate. He would have to take advantage before another—

"I hope the evening finds you well, The Most Reverend Dimitry." A middle-aged nobleman tipped his feathered hat as he approached.

And Dimitry's break was over. With newfound respect for politicians, who maintained false personas for decades, he emulated the saintly demeanor of an archbishop like the queen had taught him. "We praise Celeste for guiding us to another tranquil night."

The nobleman removed his hat and spent a moment in silence.

After waiting approximately four seconds, Dimitry nodded. “We may now speak.”

“To experience the Transition Prayer from a divine once more—it puts me at ease.”

His guise worked.

Again.

Dimitry thanked his past self for memorizing verses from the Gospel of Awakening. Not that he enjoyed regurgitating them. One day, when Malten was ready, he would carve all superstition from the scriptures and his mannerisms. Until then, Dimitry could only set the stage. "Prayer is good, but virtue is better. Don’t you agree, sir..."

"Ah, how rude of me." The nobleman knelt and held out an upturned hand—a gesture of religious praise. "This one is Volkmar Wendler, Earl of Astrea."

A weak yawn came from Dimitry's uniform. "Another schemer." Although being near nobles elated Precious at first—hushed 'oohs' and 'ahs' coming from the internal breast pocket she sat in—her elation turned to boredom hours ago.

And Dimitry knew why—predictability. Every noble spoke politely, but their flattery was almost always self-serving. Dimitry had even started playing a game: what does this one want from him?

Usually, the answer was access to bombs and enchanted rifles. Some had asked Dimitry to bless their keeps, while others demanded he feed the refugees on their territories by building soup kitchens. One viscountess had even offered her daughter's hand in marriage to secure her ties to the apostle.

But not everyone was opportunistic. Several of tonight's guests paid unnecessarily hefty sums for medical treatment, including a nobleman who was delighted to learn that his phantom limb pain could be managed or even eradicated. A select few offered to provide resources for the heathen barrier's construction without asking for anything in return.

This sea of greed had some pearls of altruism, meaning Dimitry had allies amongst the nobility. Would this one be another? "It's good to make your acquaintance, Earl of Astrea."

"Please, The Most Reverend Dimitry. Just ‘Volkmar’ is fine."

Not having to memorize honorifics—the best perk of being an archbishop. "Volkmar, if you don't mind, I prefer to cut pleasantries short."

"We are of one mind." The earl rose to his feet and straightened his mink-trimmed coat. "I come to ask a favor."

What a surprise. "Since my resources are limited, I can't promise much."

"Ah, it is nothing so grand. My youngest, Alerith, is the grandest gift Celeste has guided to me. But while I adore her immensely, she does not possess the qualities of an heiress. My wife and I would be humbled if you recited the blessing of fertility so that we may conceive a more suitable daughter.”

Crap. Dimitry had little time to study the gospel, so how the hell was he supposed to recall every prayer and chant? He envied people with eidetic memories. Not being so fortunate, Dimitry had to lie. "Although I would like nothing more than to help, I consider it blasphemous to recite Zera's prayers without the scriptures on hand.”

"But of course. Of course."

"Another time."

"Please, visit us in the market town of Astrea at your convenience. The pheasants are still plump, so bring your Thunder Rifles if you wish."

"As soon as I find the time." Dimitry offered a pleasant smile. "You can probably imagine that I'll be too busy to hunt for quite a while."

"Such is natural for anyone with responsibilities over man." Volkmar tipped his feathered hat. "Celeste guide you."

"Celeste guide us all."

As soon as the earl left, Dimitry nodded at a small cluster of lesser nobles watching him, doubtless eager to make his acquaintance. He placed a fist at his mouth as if coughing. "Anything?"

"He was testing you." Precious sighed. "These pampered brats aren't as fun as people make them out to be."

Testing Dimitry? An understandable reaction. Few would immediately accept a foreign-looking man as Zera's messenger in a world where women reigned over religion. At least Volkmar didn't despise Dimitry. He was unlikely to have been the one who attacked Dimitry or his facilities.

"Dumitry. I want a grape."

He pretended to cough once more. "Now's not a good time."

"I'm really, really hungry."

Although Precious deserved a reward for helping Dimitry, he decided against sneaking fruit into his clothes. An archbishop who packed his uniform with grapes was a damning precedent to set. The faerie would have to wait.

Dimitry's gaze returned to its most frequent spot within the banquet hall—at the princess whose yellow dress restlessly fluttered across the dance floor. Saphiria had watched his cathedral on the Night of Repentance, perhaps knowing something he didn’t. Before another noble could pounce on him, Dimitry approached her.

Upon seeing Dimitry draw near, the gray-haired nobleman dancing with Saphiria bowed and stepped back into the wallflower crowd.

Damn. Being the archbishop sure had its perks.

More proper than ever before, Saphiria lifted the ends of her skirt and curtsied. "It is my pleasure, Dimitry."

To keep up appearances, Dimitry knelt. "Your Royal Highness."

As was the role of a noblewoman in this kingdom, Saphiria took Dimitry's hands and initiated a two-step dance simple enough for any drunken noble to perform. She leaned in, the scent of assorted berry shampoo wafting closer. "What did Precious say? Does anyone here intend to harm you?"

"Not sure, but I'm pretty sure she's pouting at me."

"I'm huuungryyyy," an exhausted moan slithered from under his uniform, just loud enough for them to hear.

"See?"

"Come." Pulling Dimitry along, Saphiria glided closer to a table brimming with lemon pies and sweet rolls. "Ready?"

"For what?"

Saphiria launched into a twirl, the frills of her dress fluttering on the wind, skirt blossoming like a yellow tulip rotating at the stem. The dexterous display of grace elicited awes from onlookers.

As clapping barraged them from all sides, Saphiria grabbed his hand once more.

Feeling a grape in his palm, Dimitry realized what had happened. The out-of-work assassin employed her prior work skills—distraction and sleight of hand—to steal fruit in clear sight of an audience. "Impressive."

Saphiria pulled in close. "I know."

Using the princess as cover, Dimitry rolled the grape under his uniform.

Greedy hands slithered beneath his undershirt to grab their prize. Slurping sounds followed.

Dimitry grimaced at the thought of mushy fruit guts splattering inside his clothes, but his demeanor swiftly changed when his thumb glided over Saphiria's hand. It was swollen. He pressed down.

Saphiria winced.

He furrowed his brow and pressed down harder.

Saphiria sucked in air through gritted teeth and averted her gaze.

Palpating the back of her gloved hand, Dimitry found out why. The knuckle of her small finger, which should have been pronounced despite an inexplicably swollen hand, had lost its bumpy shape. Further examination past her depressed fifth metacarpophalangeal joint revealed a crooked pinkie—an apex dorsal angulation of at least thirty degrees.

"So that’s why you’re wearing gloves. When were you going to tell me about this?"

"We have more important matters to discuss," Saphiria said.

"More important than a broken bone? Who the hell did you have to punch in the face so hard? Was it during the cathedral riots?"

"I punched no one."

"This is a boxer's fracture—it means you hit something with enough force to break bone. I'm assuming it wasn't a wall."

Saphiria met his gaze with sharp, indigo eyes. "Snow fell on my hand."

"What?"

"I was hanging from the ledge of a building when a sorceress collapsed the roof with dropia. Although I dodged the oncoming bricks, weighty snow fell onto my hand."

Despite the baffling excuse, crush injuries infrequently caused boxer’s fractures. Hanging from a ledge would have left Saphiria's fist clenched, and a heavy mass from above could apply enough axial pressure to break a metacarpal bone.

Dimitry smiled and danced to appease onlookers, but he definitely wasn’t jolly. "Why were you fighting a sorceress? And you couldn’t bother to tell me you got hurt? It's been two days!"

"I was busy."

"... Fuck. I hope it didn't heal wrong. We're not wasting any more time here. Let's go."

"Wait." Saphiria squeezed his wrist. "We cannot leave yet. You as well as I must give my guests an impression of impartiality."

Dimitry froze. Not because Saphiria was right—that suddenly leaving together would propagate rumors of an 'intimate' relationship—but because she prioritized her royal responsibilities for the first time since they had arrived in Malten. "Fine. I'll entertain two more nobles. No more."

She nodded. "Then meet me in the kitchen."

"The kitchen? Why the kitchen?"

While Saphiria blended an obscure mixture of goat milk, yogurt, honey, and egg yolk, Dimitry reduced the angulation of her broken pinkie with the 90-90 method and immobilized the injured hand in a makeshift ulnar gutter splint. He didn't ask about the concoction she was boiling. Instead, Dimitry questioned her about the Night of Repentance.

Apparently, Saphiria had killed one rogue sorceress, arrested another, and chased bandits across Malten before asking Leandra to take the credit so that the queen wouldn’t learn of her reckless behavior.

Dimitry didn’t like her story.

He had warned Saphiria to avoid the chemistry lab; there was a damn land mine in the lobby! While thankful that the bandits activated the blast before she had arrived, Dimitry needed to stress the dangers of explosives. So he lectured Saphiria.

He lectured her as they left the kitchen and traversed the castle district. Dimitry stepped through a narrow alley and around a horseshoe that gleamed green under an engorged moon. "I can't reattach your legs if they're splattered across the walls and full of shrapnel. I'm not a miracle worker."

Eyes lurking in the shadow of her cloak's hood, Saphiria glanced back at a pair of conversing merchants. She pressed a finger to her lips. "Not so loud. What shall I do if the apostle was revealed to be a fraud? Besides, I do believe you to be a diviner."

"If I was a diviner, I'd be able to get you to listen."

"More than anyone else, I listen to you."

"Yeah. When it's convenient." Under the assault of icy winds, Dimitry's fist clenched tighter around the handle of the massive bag Saphiria made him carry. "Just tell me you understand. No more risking your life."

"I understand, but note that words of caution mean little coming from a man who would assault a bishop to free a Zeran Servant."

"That was a long time ago, and I didn’t have much cho—"

"We're here." Saphiria skipped ahead to knock on the door of a wide house.

Dimitry sighed. Although he enjoyed seeing the girl’s eyes full of determination, he was a decade too old to keep up with her whimsical nature. Where did she even take him?

Within the house, footsteps stomped closer. "Who is it?"

"Me."

The door creaked open, revealing a long hallway and an upturned chair in the parlor beyond. Barking and children's laughter echoed from deeper within.

A woman in a maid's gown stepped out from behind the door. She bowed. "Lady Julia. His holiness."

Dimitry recognized the woman. She brought a patient to the hospital last night. "Celeste guides you," the words reluctantly oozed from his mouth.

The maid bowed lower.

Rushing through the entrance, Saphiria held up a bag smelling of leftover meat, fish, and whatever else they had ransacked from the kitchen. "Annette, where are the babies?"

"By the fireplace, my lady."

"Bring them to me."

"At once."

Babies? Dimitry followed Saphiria into the parlor.

The tumultuous room paused. A girl, scribbling chalk doodles on a plank, glanced up. So did the boy tugging on her twin ponytails. They and eight other children stampeded Saphiria while a spaniel and a gargantuan poodle paraded around her legs.

Everything clicked into place.

Saphiria was a Disney princess.

As she patted rascals' heads and scratched furry chins, a greyhound lunged at Dimitry.

From the half-healed scars on the animal's spine, Dimitry realized he reunited with his former patient—the dog Saphiria brought to the cathedral for him to treat. He raised a hand to shield his face from the eager tongue lashing at his cheek.

Once the dog relaxed, Dimitry stroked its neck and glanced at Saphiria. When he saw her dignified demeanor at the summit, he thought she had recovered from grief so soon. But that wasn’t true. Saphiria hadn’t recovered. Her every gesture was a front in service to Malten's most vulnerable. She had found her purpose.

Wondering if he stood in Remora's first orphanage and animal shelter, Dimitry grinned.

"L-Lady Julia?" a meek voice called.

Saphiria glanced back at a young girl teetering closer and frowned. "Root! The physician gave you orders not to walk!"

"But I heard everyone having fun, so—“ The girl’s face brightened. “Jade Surgeon!"

The gazes of eleven wide-eyed children locked onto Dimitry.

He knelt to examine the feet of the little girl hobbling towards him. Blisters covered her toes alongside red-purple marbling—signs of mottled skin. Her symptoms were obvious at a glance: that of superficial frostbite warmed approximately one day ago.

Dimitry knew as much because he had treated Root. She was the patient Annette brought to his hospital last night. That, too, must have been Saphiria's doing. "How are you feeling, Root?"

"She'll feel badly if she doesn't return to bed at once!" Saphiria said. "Go! Now!"

"But I wanna talk to people, too."

Saphiria stomped forward, lifted the girl, and sat her on a silver-trimmed mahogany nightstand. "Don't move!"

The girl swung her swollen feet.

Dimitry smiled. "Quite the operation you're running here, Lady Julia."

"It is a taxing labor."

"A labor of love?"

"My aging has advanced thrice-fold."

"Sure it has."

Cradling a clumped blanket, Annette rushed into the parlor. She lowered it onto the nightstand. "I have laid out supper, my lady."

"Meat!” a boy's exhilarated shout echoed from an adjacent room. “Fish!"

The children and dogs rushed away.

"Annette, bring Root to bed and make sure she is fed."

"Yes, My Lady."

Being carried away, Root waved a small hand. "Bye-bye, Jade Surgeon! Bye-bye, Lady Julia!"

From a glance, anyone could tell that Saphiria suppressed an oncoming smile in favor of a reprimanding frown. "And stay in bed!"

"Like your anger is fooling anyone," Dimitry said.

"You are mistaken." Saphiria's lips quivered. "I am not angry. I am livid. Once I find the filth that ordered a child like her to assault your hospital, I will rend his limbs from his body."

So that was what happened. Dimitry's employees had mentioned seeing children in the riots. To think Root was among them. Strangely, he almost felt bad for the guy Saphiria marked for death. His position wasn’t enviable.

Meek squeaks eked from the crumpled blanket atop the nightstand.

"Yuck!" Precious squirmed beneath his uniform. "Keep those… those things away from me!"

"She doesn't mean that," Saphiria said, unraveling the clumped blanket. Inside huddled two newborn tabby kittens whose eyes had yet to open. She dabbed their butts with a towel, and urine blotted the cloth yellow. “Dimitry, your bag."

He retrieved two sandstone bottles containing the goat milk concoction they had prepared earlier. "You know, it's dangerous to have cats and dogs around children."

"Is even a blessed surgeon afraid of them? They shan’t curse you."

"I’m more worried about dander allergies than superstition."

"They're vicious beasts," Precious said. "Vicious, vicious beasts!"

Saphiria inserted a cloth nipple into the bottle's snout, lifted the kitten onto her splinted arm, and glanced at Dimitry expectantly. "Fear not. I'll lay down my life to protect you both if she grows violent."

"Very funny." Dimitry took the second kitten. The ‘vicious beast’ stabbed into skin and pulled at his blond arm hair as it suckled from the bottle's makeshift nipple. By comparison, Saphiria's kitten looked a lot calmer. "Is this why you brought me here? To feed stray cats?"

“No. I merely found them in passing this afternoon.” Saphiria headed towards the staircase. "Come."

"I'm guessing your mother doesn't know you're doing any of this?"

"Nor does she know I assigned two of my chambermaids to work here."

Dimitry doubted her secret would remain one for long.

Upon reaching the top step, Saphiria fumbled in her cloak pocket while balancing a kitten and a bottle. She retrieved a rusted key and jammed it into a lock.

The attic door opened.

Light flooded into a small room, revealing dust drifting in the air and four cobwebbed walls. Paintings with gold frames hung throughout. Each depicted a portrait of a noble in fine fur or upon a throne. At the furthest end of the attic stood a window whose filth-encrusted green panes overlooked a moonlit cityscape.

Saphiria left the door ajar and stepped through.

Precious glided from Dimitry's tunic and landed on the floor. Hands behind her back, she strolled through the room, examining every painting like an enlightened critic at an art gallery. "Hmm, yes. Very interesting."

"Not the place I expected to be taken," Dimitry said.

"I thought the same, once." Saphiria approached a painting of a black-haired man. Staring into his azure eyes—eyes that looked like they wanted to party and brawl all night—she knelt. "Father, I’ve returned to introduce you to the Jade Surgeon.”

So that was what her dad looked like. Although not one for speaking to the dead, Dimitry lowered his head out of respect for his host. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord..."

"In the home of his ancestors, he would have wanted you to call him Ferdinand The Indomitable or His Grace, The Duke of Beer Binges."

Dimitry cracked a smile. "It's a pleasure, Ferdinand the Indomitable."

Saphiria muttered unheard words, set her well-fed kitten into a wide pocket, and placed the nursing bottle by the wall. "I shall have your reward ready momentarily."

“My reward?”

Wordlessly, she removed the painting to reveal a safe embedded in the wall.

A hidden vault. How cliché.

"Help. Heeeeelp!"

Dimitry glanced back.

Green wings glistening in a dark corner, Precious squirmed to break free from a web. "S-spider! It's crawling closer! Saphiria! Dumitry!!"

Massaging his eyelids, Dimitry approached Precious and tore the sticky strands binding her to the wall.

She darted up Dimitry's shoulder and hyperventilated into his ear. "Y-you saved my life! If I had a father, I'd in-introduce you to him, too."

"Clown."

“What’s that?”

“You.”

The iron clinking of the vault went silent. Saphiria approached, the two obscure strings she carried flashing unnatural aquamarine glints in the moonlight. They looked like truncated plastic shoelaces.

“What are those?” Dimitry asked.

“They were once my dowry, but as the young emperor and Einheart have fallen, they are better suited to our own survival." Saphiria hung a shoelace over his wrist.

Cool and smooth like silicone, the shoelace stretched around his wrist until the opposite ends fused into an armlet. It took on the color of Dimitry's skin, and with a final aquamarine gleam, shrunk into a near-imperceptible layer upon his arm.

Dimitry stared with wide-open eyes.

"Ooh, ooh!" Precious reached closer. "I wanna touch it!"

Saphiria placed the second shoelace over her own arm. Like his, it melded over her wrist and vanished from sight.

Realizing he held a trapped breath, Dimitry exhaled. What the hell should he say after witnessing a technology with morphological capabilities exceeding anything on Earth? How many decades would pass before scientists could replicate something like this? “Is… is this voltech?”

Saphiria shook her head. “They are artifacts the Church had extracted from Volmer’s dungeons. My father purchased them from a smuggler on the day of my birth.”

Dungeons? Ignacius talked about them before—how the Church excavated spell tablets from their depths—and Lukas had mentioned artifacts. Dimitry realized once more how little he knew about this world. And then he realized a much more terrifying fact: the Church had access to equipment exceeding his imagination. “Is it a wrist guard?”

"It is no armor,” Saphiria said. “From what I know, linking bands come in pairs. With vol and a powerful will, one band can summon the thaumaturgic might of the person wearing the other. Since you often use magic in medicine and weaponry, I hope you put it to good use for the outpost you intend to erect upon the coast.”

Possibilities swam through Dimitry’s mind. Did the linking band give him a larger feedback buffer? Or did it allow him to channel magic through Saphiria? Perhaps he could use her spells, too.

"What are its limits?" Dimitry asked.

"I'm not sure." The kitten in Saphiria's pocket squeaked as she approached the window. "Artifacts are few and even fewer know of their uses. I hesitated to give you the band at first, but with untold numbers of heathens, I fear we must tempt fate. Let’s proceed with caution."

"You talk about caution after you stick it on me?"

“I’m sorry.”

Dimitry sighed. “Precious, you’ve been around a century or two. Know anything about artifacts?”

“You think I’d stay around the Church long enough to find out? All I know is they’ve been digging in those dungeon pits for a long, long time.”

Crap. The Church used not only mysterious artifacts, rainbow enchantments, and spell tablets, but they also had the time and manpower to experiment with them all. Hopefully, they would continue to stay far away from Malten. Perhaps Dimitry could assemble a team to explore Volmer’s dungeon in their absence.

Saphiria glanced back at Dimitry. Her indigo eyes beckoned him closer. Saving his worries for later, he joined her by the window. They watched a moonlit city and the shadowy figures roaming its streets.

“Have you noticed?” Saphiria asked in a quiet tone. “There were fewer nobles at the summit than usual.”

“Yeah. The queen predicted as much.”

“It is inevitable whenever a new power arises.”

“I’m not too worried about them,” Dimitry said. “Lukas will force them to show their heads eventually, and when they do, Precious will tell us what they’re thinking.”

“So you seek my wisdom?” Precious rubbed two forefingers together like a scheming mobster. “Everything has its price.”

Dimitry smirked. “Good thing grapes are cheap.”

“… Maybe it’s time for a price hike.”

“If it is necessary,” Saphiria said, “I will handle any unwieldy vassals.”

“Please avoid killing potentially useful people,” Dimitry said. “Some nobles might just be misinformed.”

“I do not speak solely of murder. I speak of diplomacy, trade, union. Whatever it takes to stabilize this kingdom from within so that you may improve the lives of all without worry.”

“So you’ve resolved to become the queen after all.”

“I’ll become whoever I must to prevent the tragedy you saw downstairs. I am not foolish enough to think I can care for every orphan, but if I taper the source—heathens, crime, and famine—fewer children will lose their parents. I must expand my power if I am to aid them.”

Dimitry admired the determination in her poise before nudging her arm. “Remember what we talked about in Coldust? Told you you’d find your place in the world.”

“You were right.” She looked up at him with big indigo eyes. “But don’t you think it is odd?”

“What is?”

“Mother claimed I was to become the archbishop of Malten, yet you have taken my place.”

“Oh. Do you want to trade titles?”

Saphiria giggled and shook her head. “Nope.”

Dimitry chuckled, his eyes absently traversing the greenlit cityscape before him. His gaze stopped at the towers of the crumbling western gatehouse. “Yeah… looks like there’s plenty of work waiting for both of us.”

“Indeed. And we’ve already squandered too much time on politics.”

“Only one thing to do, then. Ready to get started?”

Marching across the attic, she beckoned him to follow. “I know just the way. Let's be swift."

"Sounds like you've got an idea, but do you mind telling me where we're going this time?"

“Mother's planning room. We’ll need her resources, and it'll be in her best interest to oblige.”

Though snow piled on roofs and the recent night of repentance marked the start of Wispwind—winter’s coldest month—Sigmund felt only warm breaths on his neck. Expectant murmurs came from all around, and the elbows of a growing crowd pushed and shoved from every side. Above the expectant chaos, countless heads peered from the shuttered windows of buildings surrounding the market square.

How many have gathered to hear Her Royal Highness and the apostle speak? Five hundred? A thousand? Two thousand?

No.

More.

Much more.

All kinds were in attendance. Laborers, artisans, watchmen, merchants, sorceresses, and even knightly lords. The wealthy watched from tavern balconies, while the serfs—who have poured in through the eastern gatehouse since morning—pooled alongside Sigmund and the other refugees in the market square.

Never had the announcements of town criers caught so many ears, but today was special. Today, everyone knew the heartening news held merit.

Enchantments that cured wicked maladies.

The pacification of aquatic demons that returned fish to the realm.

Weapons that crackled with lightning and purged the corrupted.

A man who channeled Zera’s kindness through the gifting of food.

All evidence suggested the princess had returned with Zera’s blessing like the queen said she would. At first, Sigmund dismissed the queen’s promise as a desperate attempt at maintaining stability in a dying kingdom. He was still a silversmith living in Einheart when rumors of the heiress’s disappearance had begun to spread. Eight years have passed since. After so much time, how could one still have hope in the princess’s return?

But the apostle was real. Zera’s thunder was real. The swift death of a heathen raid on the night of repentance was real. The princess’s return had to be real, too!

Realizing once more that salvation had come, exuberance surged through Sigmund’s limbs as if to pump his fists in the air, but he suppressed the urge to cheer. Silent reverence seemed more fitting. Why risk offending Zera, who doubtless watched on from Remora’s core?

Among the crowd, many heads turned south.

Sigmund stood on the tips of his toes, struggling to peek past a sea of curious observers.

A parade of knights emerged from the street leading to the castle. Their steel armor glistening in the sparse afternoon sunlight, they marched in a circular formation. Twelve wore the insignias of various noble households, while eight closer to the center brandished the red and gold crest of the royal guard.

In the middle of them were two court sorceresses, an apostle with brown-blond hair, and a royal whose crimson dress complimented the gleam of her golden crown. Her indigo eyes were stern yet kind. His poise was caring yet determined.

Sigmund gasped. The apostle and the princess were walking side by side! And he got to see it!

The knights stopped outside a house with fancy stained glass windows. Cloaked figures and sorceresses streamed from the alleys to form a perimeter. Her Royal Highness, the apostle, and both court sorceresses entered the building only to reemerge from a fourth-floor veranda overlooking the market square.

An aged court sorceress held up her hand, and silence took the crowd.

“Good people of Malten,” the princess’s voice carried powerfully on the wind. “I am Saphiria Pesce, Malten’s divinely ordained heiress. On behalf of Her Majesty Queen Amelie, I have spent the last eight years wandering Remora in search of Zera’s light.”

Whispers rose from the crowd.

Sigmund’s eyes widened. So that was why the princess had vanished!

“And I have found it,” she continued. “Or rather, Zera’s light has found me. Today, I share that light with you, my fellow countrymen! May The Most Revered Dimitry Stukov guide us as Celeste did centuries ago!”

Knights, peasants, refugees, and everyone in between raised an upturned hand to pay their respects to Malten’s new archbishop. Sigmund was among the first.

For a while, the apostle watched the crowd with wavering pale green eyes. He cleared his throat. “We, ah… we have all seen Malten for what it is: overcrowded and destitute. I won’t stand here and lie, tell you this kingdom’s future is bright when the next night of repentance might be its last.”

Waves of despair washed over Sigmund. Doomsaying wasn’t what he came here to hear. The fear that gnawed at him for months had returned. Heathens would soon consume Malten, and Sigmund would have to trek through another beast and bandit plagued woodlands to find safety, only for heathens to eventually corrupt that land, too. There would never be a home for him.

“Food shortages starve our neighbors,” the apostle said. “A plague runs rampant in the countryside. We are crumbling under the tides of an unwinnable war against heathens while the Church scoffs at our misery from the safety of their walled cities. They abandoned us when we needed them most, stealing from us Celeste’s guidance, and now we suffer for their heresy.”

As scattered boos and curses pierced the silence, Sigmund clenched his teeth. He once had a house, a shop, and a fiancée. Now his hometown lay in ruins, and Lorriane was gone. The Church took everything from him.

“Zera wept at the Church’s betrayal. In her grief, she sent me to Remora with a vision of what Malten could be.”

Her Royal Highness watched the clouds as if scrying the future from beyond their dimly lit underbellies. “The celestial bodies, too, speak of a future. A future where Malten is prosperous. Expanding. Reincarnates into the golden center of artisan pride and craftsmanship it once was.”

Arms wrapped around two young boys, a woman in a matted dress looked up. Her downtrodden expression flickered.

“A splendorous future is indeed possible,” the apostle said. “However, though I am a messenger blessed with a fraction of her wisdom, the mission Zera entrusted to me is too great. I cannot bless these lands alone.” He paused. “But we can.”

“We?” Sigmund muttered.

The chatter grew louder, and a lady raised an infant over her head. “Your Holiness! It would honor me if my daughter was baptized as a priestess!”

Dozens offered their children to help the apostle complete his mission, while others volunteered themselves to serve as Zera’s Chosen.

“I don’t mean your children,” the apostle said. “I mean you. All of you. From farmers to sorceresses, everyone has a role in Zera’s plan. Do you have a talent? It can be used to purge the corruption. Do you have a skill? If not, one will be given to you. Those of you who are weary of losing their loved ones and possessions, it is time to forge your fates. With divine weaponry and your own two hands, you will obliterate the heathens, purge the unblessed lands, and build a home for yourselves. You will run no longer!”

As people hooted and hollered all around him, Sigmund’s jaw dropped. Would he get to wield Zera’s Thunder? Found a new shop? Start a family? The forgotten ambition of years past reignited, burning deep within his chest.

“And while the western lands are cleansed and colonized,” the princess said, “the rest of the kingdom, too, shall grow. I vow to reclaim the lost fields. To protect those who cannot defend themselves. To restore honor to this kingdom’s craftsmen. Let it be known that anyone or anything that seeks to impede progress will be struck down with furious vengeance!”

A blacksmith waved his sooty apron over his head as the chanting of city dwellers joined the optimistic chorus.

With all hesitation gone from his pale green eyes, the apostle’s gaze beamed down on the ecstatic crowd. “It is time, my faithful, to rally around a new holy doctrine. A holy doctrine that doesn’t leave anyone behind or differentiate between the divine and the commoner. No longer will you be at the mercy of a Church that shirks its duties. The people themselves will enact Zera’s blessing and erect a barrier on the coast. United as one, let us reclaim the prosperity that is rightfully ours!”

Thousands of war cries erupted into an explosive cacophony that conspired to shatter Sigmund’s eardrums. Without realizing it, he was shouting alongside the others.

Hope had truly come to Malten.

End of Volume 1