Bartholomew gritted his teeth behind Titus’ back and looked at the map of the round city over his brother's golden shoulder. For weeks, Bartholomew had used the very, same map to put his men in harm’s way and send them into Asrael’s clutches. He had, of course, sent his most disliked men to join the necromancer’s army- leaving only the non-hesitant, trusted officers left within the Inquisition’s ranks. The slate chamber with its ornate, black columns was silent- silent enough to hear Titus’ whispers where he hung over the table and made his plans. Not-a-one of his gathered officers met Bartholomew’s uneasy stare- not-a-one seemed to hesitate, despite having born witness to the spiked heads decorating the tall walls of the Garrison.

Titus had been quick to order the table discarded and, in its place, he had symbolically asked for the Lieutenant’s desk to serve as the new table of their Council. None knew what this gesture meant and aside from Bartholomew, none had an inkling of what his “new rule” entailed. Finally, Titus broke from his lengthy silence to rise up and speak to his carefully selected officers through a bright grin:

“We should congratulate one-another on this momentous day. We have finally discarded the dead weight and taken the first step to establish Order in our fair City.” He raised his golden palms to either side and continued to explain- still grinning: “And you, my men- have been selected to lead our People into this new age of Order.” Bartholomew kept his attention on his brother, but still maintained a watchful eye on the map- hoping to understand some of the scribbles written therein.

The rounded city was covered on all sides by walls, save for the three points where the river Gauja entered and exited and where the river Burgen entered. Burgen’s entry-point lay to the west, where it continued through to separate the northern third of their city from the south- taking with it the sewage to the intersection located to the northeast. Gauja’s entry-and-exit were, as with Burgen’s entry, guarded with heavy, grated gates- all of which had been closed at Titus’ behest. Across Burgen’s girth, a wide bridge separated the Garrison’s walls from the rest of the city atop its solid hill.

Titus continued: “Our world has not seen war in some time- the concept only exists as an obscurity from the days of old, or so they say... so why, then, my men, have we built walls around our cities?” All understood that this question was rhetorical, as several historical theories had been proposed by the historians throughout the ages, but most obvious of them all was the factum that the walls allowed for checkpoints and control. Titus looked down on the map and grinned ever-wider as he informed: “Because we’ve never known anything but war. It is an eternal struggle, but our enemies are not foreign encroachers. Skum has never tried its hand on Pilta- why should they? We are of the Empire- all of us!” He slammed his fist down onto the map and laughed.

“No, our enemy is here- inside the walls with us... the magi- the Ungodly and the Criminals are here with us- living in unison with regular, honest people. But let me ask you, men of mine, why have they eluded our attention? Why have they stolen away our men in the span of a few, scant months and not one of our ‘honorable citizens’ have come forward to report their observations?” The men remained stalwart in their silence- staring at their golden Commander, as opposed to Bartholomew whose eyes were finding it increasingly difficult to lock onto his brother.

“Because they are all our enemies. The magi, the silent masses- they must all be fought. And we will do so with attrition- until every last one of the Sinners have been forced to step forth, either by our hands or by the hands of the enemy.” He tapped the gray mass on the map signifying the tall wall.

“That is why we have closed the walls. I have ordered the constructors’ guild to begin assembling an export-center here- to the North, outside the wall. Starting tomorrow, we will increase our exports to ninety-five per cent. Our men- along with the Capitans of the boats, will man this station.” Bartholomew grimaced at the sound of it. As the man whose face now decorated the front wall had pointed out numerous times, exporting eighty per cent of the villages’ yield would have raised the prices of bread far beyond what a Piltan family could afford. Bartholomew raised his voice to ask:

“But Titus... how will we feed our People if the export-center is on the other side of the wall? Surely, you mean to the east?” Titus tapped the scribbled bay as he laughed and informed through his unchanging grin: “We will not be feeding them. Until they learn to obey the Law, they will feed themselves. Supplies for the Garrison will come from Burgen- we will distribute their feed.” Bartholomew bit his lips to remain silent, but failed to keep his tongue from asking: “So, we are to starve them, then?”

Titus turned towards his brother to gauge his reaction. As much as Bartholomew had accepted that people would suffer as they changed their world, he also knew how it felt to go without food for weeks on-end... his Father had sought to that after Ingvard had brought him back to Capita. Seeing his trepidation, Titus lay a hand atop his brother’s shoulder and smiled. “I thank you for voicing the concern we all share, but this is a necessary evil. To establish order, we must first tear down the old... This will be painful. We will watch the People starve, while we and our families thrive- we must, to weaken them.” Titus looked across his men as he tapped Titus’ shoulders and spoke:

“As the Purged have suffered for their purity, so must the People of Pilta.” Bartholomew nodded his shallow understanding and watched his men cheer- moralized and motivated by this new, charismatic change in their Golden Master’s eyes.

“All hail Inquisitor Titus! Lord of Pilta!” Their cheers echoed through the Garrison and by long, he could hear them chant his name outside the granite walls- all throughout the streets.