Noon had come and gone since the night of repentance. Not a minute passed without Dimitry’s thoughts returning to the hundreds of refugees in the market square. Despite lacking basic needs, they had watched him, eyes brimming with hope.

So much untapped potential.

Most present had a profession before they had fled their homes. Farmers, watchmen, merchants, weavers, cobblers, stonemasons, brewers, blacksmiths, miners, forge workers. If focused, their talents could lead to a technological revolution that resurrected Malten.

Unfortunately, Dimitry couldn’t harness that potential. He hadn’t the infrastructure, the land, or the stability. Even if he somehow employed everyone, repurposing churches and monasteries to house every refugee and their workshops, more people would arrive next month. And the month after that.

Malten simply couldn’t provide. The overcrowded city lacked space. Dimitry’s only other option was to set up shop in the countryside, but building an army to defend vast stretches of land under siege by heathens would take months, and commandeering already stable territory from nobles would invite war. A war that neither he nor this country could survive. Not to mention that retreating to the countryside would cut him off from his sole source of income—the hospital—and leave him surrounded by potentially antagonistic parties. Someone had attacked him and his workers on the night of repentance. How much worse would he fare without Malten’s walls or the queen’s protection?

He needed a better solution.

But did such a solution exist?

Dimitry didn’t know, but as he rushed from patient to patient, treating everyone who passed through the hospital doors, his mind scrambled for a fix. He often struggled to focus on work. And there was lots of it.

While most people visiting the hospital had scrapes or minor heathen burns, likely visiting just to praise the apostle, urgent cases presented with everything from severe concussions and bone fractures to traumatic asphyxia—the result of residents trampling others as they stampeded across the city to escape the stone monstrosities that had breached Malten’s walls.

Among the deadlier casualties was a sorceress receiving regular doses of modified oral rehydration solution, a hospital employee injured in an assault, twelve refugees—five of which had passed away—and the decapitated corpse of an esteemed royal guard who died defending the chemistry lab.

A pointless death.

Thieves had raided Dimitry’s church, but all that lay within were the cracked vials and ceramic scraps he had Clewin plant to mislead anyone who tried to steal his technology. And after learning from Saphiria that terrorists were targeting his plague-curing blankets in Amphurt, he had set a backup precaution—an experimental landmine.

Dimitry thought hard about setting rigged explosives, particularly because the black powder contents could have been stolen, but he guessed correctly—ignorant assailants would detonate the mine instead. The shoddy flint and steel mechanisms were unlikely to activate with a misstep from an accidental discoverer. Only an overly curious idiot who tried to move the device or peruse its contents could trigger the blast.

His wager paid off. Dimitry discovered that such curious idiots existed, and that was what worried him most. A group of thugs couldn’t have coordinated such a well-timed heist alone. Someone controlled them behind the scenes. Who would steal technology no one wanted to buy just days ago? Was it an antagonistic lord? A foreign power? The Church? Someone else entirely?

He vowed to find out. That was why when a royal messenger requested his presence at the castle, Dimitry agreed despite endless duties.

Upon his arrival, two knights guided him to the dungeon’s twisting halls.

Without windows to vent the stench, the odors of human neglect and rotting food compounded, converting the space into pathogen birthing grounds. Cries for freedom whimpered from iron-barred cells on both sides of the rough cavern walkway, the glow of sparse lanterns illuminating the shivering lips of inmates.

The dungeon housed many more prisoners than the last time Dimitry visited. Judging by a nearby man's ghastly skin, fresh bruises, and protruding ribs, refugees comprised most of the criminals. Were they the ones that attacked the hospital and chemistry lab?

Although desperation made beasts out of the kindest men, Dimitry couldn’t sympathize with anyone who assaulted his ‘followers’ and employees. His stance wavered upon sighting a boy huddling in the corner of a crowded cell.

“You’re pitying these humans too?” a whisper came from under his uniform. “What if they’re the ones that attacked the cathedral?”

Dimitry retreated into a deserted stretch of dungeon to converse with Precious in private. “I’m surprised. I imagined you were enjoying the riots while I was out there trying to stay alive.”

“Well, I was until people started breaking down the doors to kill everyone inside, including me! My nap was ruined.”

“I know how you feel.” Dimitry massaged his eyelids, which felt heavy after weeks of interrupted sleep. “But that’s why we’re here: to make sure this never happens again.”

“How? Half the people here are praising you already. I don’t think telling them you’re the apostle is going to make them behave.”

It seemed gossip about Dimitry’s ‘miraculous’ deeds spread swiftly—even amongst prisoners. “They may praise me, but desperate people do desperate things. Besides, I think someone was egging them on.”

“I bet those angry nobles from the summit paid them to attack you. Let’s just ask Saphiria to kill them or something.”

“While not a bad idea, we have no proof it was them. Also, if someone just started randomly killing nobles, what do you think would happen?”

“They’d die?”

“Not quickly enough. Every powerful person in the kingdom would start to panic. Being the new suspicious guy in town, there’s a good chance they’ll blame me. Saphiria said their armies have hundreds if not thousands of troops each. I can’t fight them off, the queen can’t fight them off, and some of them might be more useful to me as allies than dead. We have to be smarter than that.”

“So you’re just going to let the baddies get away with it?”

“No.” He grinned. “We’ll make peace with whoever we can, round up the rest, then get rid of them while rolling out an alternate government to manage their land and prevent the anarchy that comes with suddenly masterless serfs.”

“Oh.” Precious paused. “And how are we going to do all that?”

“We’ll find out soon… I hope.”

A woman’s agonizing scream echoed from the dungeon depths.

"That's enough for now,” a distinguished voice said. “Our guest awaits."

"It is as you say, Your Royal Majesty."

Footsteps, slow and deliberate, resounded throughout the dungeon as they approached.

Four people turned a corner. Two wore yellow court sorceress robes, and a woman in front sauntered closer, straightening the black-gray hair beneath her tiara. Trailing behind Queen Amelie was a man lacking a pinkie. It was Lukas—the spymaster that hustled Dimitry when purchasing his bombs.

Dimitry still hadn’t forgiven him for that.

Walking past him, Her Royal Majesty flashed a smirk which seemed to say, 'how’d ya do it, you crazy bastard?'

A court sorceress’ amethyst eyes met his gaze. With a hand bearing the patchy scars of an old and patchy chemical burn, Leandra pointed to a reinforced door ahead.

Dimitry followed.

Lukas opened the iron door and lowered his head. "Your Royal Majesty."

Queen Amelie lifted the skirt beneath her gold-threaded mantle and stepped over the threshold.

Inside the room, six marble chairs flanked a matching marble table, which carried an illumina lamp, brass cups, and a teapot with steam wisps wafting from its snout. The silverware seemed to have been waiting for this specific meeting.

Once everyone entered the cramped space, the door creaked around its hinges and slammed shut.

The younger court sorceress pulled out a chair for Dimitry, while Leandra did the same for Queen Amelie across the table.

She sat down and glanced at Dimitry. “Tea?”

“Perhaps some other time, Your Royal Majesty. I have patients waiting for me.”

“I admire the discipline, but it would be catastrophic for the apostle to faint from tending to his flock with too much zeal. Even Celeste rested between pilgrimages.” She filled a cup with crimson liquid and pushed it forward. “And skip the honorifics.”

The all-too-familiar imagery of inexperienced nurses applying wound dressings with contaminated hands invaded Dimitry’s mind, but he suppressed the urge to run back to the hospital. “Thank you.”

After Lukas and the sorceresses received their tea as well, sipping in the quiet ambiance, Queen Amelie's expression grew grim. "How fares Sir Riquin?"

“Unfortunately,” Dimitry said, “resuscitating a royal guard who had his head splattered inside his helmet is beyond even me.”

Her crimson eyes, although stalwart and piercing, carried immeasurable fatigue. Queen Amelie’s gaze lowered. "I see."

“Wish I could say otherwise.”

“You’ve already done more than enough. Mira informed me of the sorceress under your care. Before you, she would have passed by midday.”

Yet another reason for Dimitry to return to the hospital. He had ordered a skin graft knife from Elias the blacksmith, but without testing and adjustments, the tool couldn’t safely harvest autografts from Cedany. The sorceress would need skin grafts from cadavers to cover the patches of excised necrotic tissue until then.

Reflecting on all the work awaiting him, Dimitry exhaled a weary sigh. His gaze traveled up and met that of Lukas—the conniving spymaster who meditatively sipped tea like a Buddhist monk free from sin.

A question that often bothered Dimitry burned within him once more. "Your Majesty, there's something I’d like to know."

"Then ask."

"When I was demonstrating my weaponry to the nobles, Sir Lukas did a lot more than just help me establish my role as the apostle. He lowered people's trust in me and my bombs to purchase them at a discount. I'm sure you know why that's problematic for someone who's running a hospital with limited funds and endless responsibilities. Is that the support I should expect from my ‘ally’?"

Like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, the count's eyes widened. He glanced at the queen.

Amelie lifted her chin as if to tell him to confess his crimes.

"Dimitry." Lukas' poker face returned. "As I haven't lied to you directly and you have not conversed with nobility since the summit, shall I assume your truth magic detects not only lies but misdirection as well?"

Who the hell apologized by trying to weasel out more information from their victim? "I'd prefer if you didn't change the subject.”

Lukas lowered his teacup and rubbed his hands. "There are three reasons why I did what I did."

"And they are?"

"The first is obvious: your wonderful technology intrigued me. Eight years have passed since Volmer's dungeon closed, and I haven't indulged in a novel artifact since. Your bombs are equally intriguing. Surely a man as astute as yourself understands my need for curiosities."

"Explosives are difficult to produce. They aren't toys."

"Of course, of course," Lukas said without an ounce of remorse in his voice. "The second reason was for your benefit."

"How's that?"

"As I’m sure you have realized, your deeds have earned you supporters as well as enemies. If the party that launched incitia-induced riots against your cathedral deployed sticky bombs instead, how do you think your subjects would fare?"

Dimitry furrowed his brow. "Incitia-induced riots?"

"Leandra," Queen Amelie said.

The court sorceress stood up. "On the night of repentance, I discovered that two mercenary sorceresses manipulated the populace from a plagued home near the Jade Surgeon's hospital. One fell in battle against me, and the other is imprisoned in this dungeon."

Precious pinched Dimitry’s neck once. She had detected a liar.

He glared at Leandra.

With pleading amethyst eyes, the court sorceress glanced at Queen Amelie and back at Dimitry. “I am not misleading or attempting to harm the Jade Surgeon.”

Three more pinches—Leandra spoke sincerely this time.

Dimitry stroked his chin. What was Leandra hiding from Her Royal Majesty? Aiming to purchase favor with the alleged war hero, he wouldn’t call out her bluff. The matter didn’t seem to concern him.

"We believe it was a diversion," Lukas said. "Our questioning revealed that your bomb production plant was the real target. The men I assigned to watch over your facility left to deal with the riots, leaving only Lord Riquin behind to defend the church. Whoever hired the mercenary sorceresses and thugs took advantage of our limited numbers."

"While I tracked down the offending criminals,” Leandra said, “one escaped with your machinations despite my best efforts." She bowed. "You have my humblest apologies, Jade Surgeon."

Dimitry leaned back in his chair. Lukas and the queen were protecting him all this time. Without them, another noble might have purchased his bombs and used them against him. Why did he attempt to auction off deadly weapons? Then again, he had little choice. Without an army to use the explosives, they would have wasted away in storage while a carapaced devil’s posse paraded through Malten’s streets.

"I appreciate the help,” Dimitry said, “but couldn't you have explained the situation and bought the bombs from me before the summit? It would have saved me a lot of grief."

Lukas shook his head. "Nobles panic sooner than wild mares. If we deployed your technology against heathens without showing it to them first, we would have an uprising on our hands.”

"You’re leaving out the part where you didn’t want to risk introducing Church-like weaponry yourself in case things went to shit. Easier to blame it on the new guy, right?”

"You must understand," Queen Amelie said. "Lukas and I carry the burden of half a million lives. If we perish, so does this kingdom. Malten cannot survive an insurrection."

“And I doubt you’ll fare much better without me.”

"Then think of it as a lesson. If you intend to get entangled with courtly affairs, you must learn the games we play."

"That’s what you say, but none of this explains why Lukas undercut me for the bombs."

The spymaster shrugged. "Another lesson?"

Dimitry massaged his forehead. How could he cooperate with nobles and royals who schemed to swindle him at every opportunity? He returned to an earlier subject. "Is the mercenary sorceress still in this dungeon?"

"We have learned everything she knew about her employer, but turned up little.” Lukas rubbed his hands as if preparing for torture. “Unless you intend to question her with your truth magic?"

Was she the source of the feminine screams from earlier? Although an investigation into the mercenary’s motives was part of Dimitry’s plan, his ambitions reached further. Why harm a perfectly good sorceress when magicians were rare and valuable resources? Especially since Dimitry intended to build an army. "If she's truly a mercenary, I want to hire her. Or did you hurt her beyond repair?"

"Do you believe us to be beasts?” Queen Amelie waved her hand. “Take her whenever you wish. I have no use for someone whose loyalty lies within a coin pouch."

If Precious determined that the sorceress held no animosity towards Dimitry or ties to her previous master, he would take her in. Last night proved that daily life would only become more treacherous. The burden was too much for Angelika to bear alone.

"Keep the mercenary healthy," Dimitry said. “I’ll deal with her later. For now, I want to speak about something else: land. I need lots of it.”

Queen Amelie glanced at Lukas, and he nodded back.

"Then this last matter will be of particular interest to you," she said. "Tomorrow, my vassals will assemble to handle affairs related to the night of repentance. Often, I take the opportunity to promote my subjects for their valiant deeds, and this month will be no different. I wish to assign you complete religious authority over my kingdom. Every church, cathedral, and monastery in this country will belong to you. Is that enough land for your needs?"

Dimitry paused. Although her support would solidify his status as the apostle, a power grab would brighten the red dot on his forehead. “Prove you won’t use me as a sacrificial pawn again.”

Lukas tossed a small pouch of vol onto the table.

Dimitry grabbed a pellet and pretended to cast his truth magic.

“Neither I nor Lukas intend to betray or mislead you,” the queen said. “You will have my complete support, and the political games between us will end. Permanently.”

Three terse pokes from Precious—she spoke the truth.

“Giving me that much power will earn you enemies."

"My every decision earns me enemies,” she said. “I have learned that it is more productive to focus on reliable allies instead. In the past month, you have brought us plague cures, enchanted rifles, explosives, and last night, you conquered a heathen raid with only three sorceresses at your side. I do not know what the future holds, but if I seize your services, my job of pulling this kingdom from its festering shithole will grow easier."

Precious squirmed beneath his uniform, but she didn't warn Dimitry of misdirection. Queen Amelie spoke earnestly. While her full support offered countless perks, his authority as the apostle was limited by her capacity to enforce it. Not only were several Zeran structures not enough to house thousands of refugees, but she also couldn’t guarantee their security across the entire kingdom.

Unless…

His eyes shot open.

Unless Dimitry’s authority as a beloved and royally approved apostle provided the solution he searched for. A solution so all-encompassing that it would remedy everything from overcrowding, idle refugees, and scheming hostiles to escalating heathen numbers. All with him in full control. Dimitry would have no one to answer to.

But this plan was more ambitious than any other he had, whether in this life or the last. “Just making sure—I get every Zeran structure?”

“From their perimeters down to the very foundations on which they’re built.”

“Sounds great, but can I get something a little extra?”

“Such as?”

“Nothing too important.” He smiled. “No one has been putting it to use, anyway.”

“I know that look.” Queen Amelie leaned forward in her marble chair. "Go on.”

"This might take a while."

Root knew adults couldn't be trusted.

Even if the big man promised them pork pie, she warned her friends not to anger the apostle. Why did Caterpillar and Oat insist that Zera wouldn't care if they did bad stuff outside the cathedral? They could have just waited until morning to dig up grubs like they always did!

But Root didn’t even get any pie. All she remembered was the watchman’s mean face when he pushed her into this cold and bumpy and wet cell. She hadn't seen her friends since, and her belly still grumbled. The rumblies started to hurt.

At least her toes didn't ache anymore. Before they always got prickly from walking barefoot on the snowy streets, but now that she huddled in the dungeon beneath the castle (the castle!) all day, Root couldn't feel them at all. She learned something her friends didn't know: if one waited long enough, the cold went away on its own!

Root hoped the shivers would as well. She wrapped the itchy blanket tighter around her body.

Slow footsteps came from further down the hall.

Root’s eyes widened. Did the adults come back? Whenever they did, screams echoed throughout the dungeon.

What if the adults wanted to make Root scream next? To punish her for being a misbehaving ragamuffin?!

She shook her head.

Calm down, Root. Calm down! Everything would turn out fine!

With slow and confident steps, a lady whose long black hair fell over her tunic emerged from the darkness.

Root prayed the adult would walk past her cell. Just keep walking!

The lady stopped.

Oh no.

She turned around. Big and angry dark purple eyes glared past iron bars and into the cell, almost as if the lady wanted to pierce Root’s face and strike her very soul!

Root huddled as far back into the cell’s corner as she could, rough walls poking into her shoulders and spine. The shivering got worser, and her teeth clickety-clacked against each other.

No!

She couldn't show fear!

Root puffed out her chest and put on a really brave face.

The Scary Lady didn’t seem to notice. "You will tell me why you assaulted the cathedral.”

In an instant, Root's chest deflated. Assaulted? Root didn’t steal any salt. Not recently. Hoping it would make The Scary Lady go away, she yearned to apologize, but Root knew the truth: adults didn't care about her or her friends. If The Scary Lady found out she was a street urchin who did bad things, she would kick her to the curb like the pasty vendors!

No one could break Root's spirit! "It-it wasn't me!"

Grabbing an iron bar and leaning closer, The Scary Lady frowned. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not a scaredy-cat!"

"Speak now, or you will regret it."

Root instinctively glanced left and right, but her friends weren't there to help. "T-they showed us a tray of meat pies and told us we'd get some if we did the bad thing!"

"What bad thing?"

"Hurting people at the cathedral. Our tummies were hurting, and... and..."

"Who is 'us'?"

Root froze. "I'm not saying anything else!" She looked away. "My friends won't get in trouble because of me!"

"Your friends?" The Scary Lady paused. "How old are you and your friends?"

"I'm nine, and Caterpillar is eleventeen, and, and Vine is seven, and—" Root's eyes widened. She was an idiot. An idiot! "I'm-I’m done talking to you. Just hurry up and hit me and leave me alone!"

"Someone told you and your friends to hurt the Jade Surgeon?"

Root shook her head as hard as she could. "N-no! I'd never hurt the apostle. He gives us f-food every day and-and..."

The Scary Lady looked down at her boots, not saying anything for a while. "Do you and your friends hurt people often?"

"S-sometimes... I tell Oat I don't want to, but we g-get hungry and—"

"I once had a friend like you. She was twelve when she started hurting people. Although she often refused, she couldn’t choose to stop."

The Scary Lady’s story reminded Root of herself. The groaning of the other people in the dungeon drifted away, and Root could not help but listen.

"Even when she stopped hurting people, she spent all her time regretting it." The Scary Lady pulled a shiny steel pin from her pocket, shoved it into the cell's lock, and poked around until a loud clunk sounded. “Not a day went by where she didn’t wish she could undo who she became.”

Every word gentle, as if mommy herself had come back to life to read at her bedside once more, wonder welled within Root. "And then what happened?"

“To my friend?”

Root nodded.

“She realized that the world crumbled around her as she wallowed in the past. So, just as a close friend once told her she could, she began trying to change.”

Just as Root melted away into years past, where she warmed her prickly toes and fingers by the hearth alongside mommy and daddy, the metallic squeals of an opening cell door evicted Root from her fantasies.

Why did the door open?

Was The Scary Lady’s plan to trick Root into feeling safe just to hurt her? Root's feet peddled against the floor as hard as they could, pushing her further into the corner.

"Come."

"W-what are you going to do with me?"

"I’ll make sure you don't end up living a life of regret like my friend."

Root shook her head so hard that her clumpy and oily hair tapped her cheeks. Only a stupidface trusted adults. Even mommy and daddy. They… they!

"I won't hurt you."

"Prove it!"

She stepped into the cell.

"Stay back! I'll bite you!" Despite Root baring her teeth, a maneuver that always made mean boys step back, The Scary Lady didn't flinch.

She stepped closer. And closer.

Root’s mouth opened to scream 'leave me alone!', but when two arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her in, the words clumped in her throat. Warmness flushed across Root, and the sweet scent of berries filled her nostrils.

"I know what I must do now," The Warm Berry Lady said. “I’m sorry that it took so long.”

The dam within Root tumbled down, and tears poured from her eyes. Though she rushed to wipe them away, they just kept coming! Wails resounded throughout the dungeon.

"Hush now. You’ll never have to do a bad thing again.”

Root’s bawling thwarted her attempts at fighting back.

The Warm Berry Lady's hand wrapped around Root's. Tightly. Securely. "I know where you can be safe."

Teetering behind The Warm Berry Lady and out of the cell, Root’s itchy blanket fell from her shoulders.

"Let's find your friends. They can come too."