Bartholomew stood in the darkness of Titus’ chamber. Clad in his silver armor, he felt more than a measure... foolish... The strangely recognizable mirror stood in the middle of the reeking room- reflecting the moon’s silvery form, where it hung just above the two brethren. Titus nervously fidgeted the hilt of his blade and repeatedly bit into his lower lip between some mumbled words- none of which Bartholomew could clearly discern. It took all his might not to stare at the scribbled runes and the shriveled corpse in the corner of the room.

“Ah, Bart... can you hear them?” Bartholomew startled and looked to Titus’ crazed grin as it shone back at him from the mirror. He swallowed and sharpened his ears to hear something out in the hallway- a dozen voices echoing in the hall beyond the open doors. More than a few of them sounded frightened, whereas the rest conveyed an inexplicable joy and a relief. As they finally appeared at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Titus’ chamber, Bartholomew realized why.

The arriving people were under heavy guard- there had to be at least fifty of them flanking the hungry, disheveled citizens in their tattered rags. Pale faces stared over at Bartholomew as the guards led men, women and children into Titus’ mostly cleared-out room. The golden Duke held his hand up above his head to greet them as the fifty-or-so people packed themselves in around the mirror. Not a one of them dared speak up against the man responsible for their suffering, not now- not when there was hope to be had.

Bartholomew backed up against the window to distance himself from the hungry people in their tattered rags and fought a moment’s nausea as he saw their naked feet disturb the thick coat of feces and blood on the floor.

“My People- welcome. Please- step in, come closer. You there! Close the door!” Titus spoke his orders about the room, whereas Bartholomew did his best to avoid the gazes of the miserable people and the guards, alike. He still hadn’t the faintest idea what this meant- this sudden meeting they were attending, only that it was putting them at a substantial risk. Every last one of the gaunt faces and hopeful eyes had ample reasons to wish both of them dead- they were clearly all citizens, so why, then, had Titus seen it wise to gather them all in his dark chamber- away from the guardsmen’s eyes?

Their chatter stilled as the doors closed behind the hopeful congregation and Titus raised his arms to speak: “My beloved People... I am glad to see that there are still those of you who have are loyal enough to stand with me and my Brother as we turn this page in the Empire’s history.” Bartholomew had to give it to his brother... despite his flaws- despite the murders... he could still inspire something positive in them.

Bartholomew locked eyes with a shoeless, young girl that stared up at him with a benign smile and an extended hand. In her palm, she held a folded paper- a boat, of all things. Though he would not dare to interrupt his brother’s speech, he bent down to take it from her hand and in so doing, observed her state. She was starved- her eyes wide and her cheeks gaunt, yet she found the strength to smile- a strength he, himself, had failed to muster over the last few days.

“For me?” He asked and took the boat into his hand to look it over. He, too, knew how to fold these cheap toys- he had taught several of his siblings to do it, but none had ever thanked him for it. Curiously, something had been scribbled on the white paper- or rather; the girl had folded the boat from paper meant for something else. He could read a few words in the black print; “Invitation”, “Celebration”, “New”, “Feast”. He was surprised to see that this was, indeed, an invitation to the Garrison to celebrate the dawning of some new age- some project Bartholomew had never been made aware of.

Had his brother finally taken to his senses? Was he not as mad as he had seemed over the past weeks? The fact he had gathered them all up in the filthy room would speak to the opposite- a sentiment that slowly began to spread through the congregation as they exchanged their discomforted glances upon seeing the runes and the filth. Whatever Titus had in mind, Bartholomew would be certain to repay the girl for her gift and ruffled her filthy, tangled hair with his heavy glove, before pressing her behind him- sheltering her from the crowd and from her brother with his tall, silver form.

“I must admit, I was very angered with every last one of you... because of you, the magi killed my beloved Petrus, yet you held your tongues and helped the killer avoid justice.” Titus proclaimed with a darkness tinging the voice beyond his grin.

“But today, you’ve taken the first step towards remuneration! With your help, I believe we may put all of this behind us and begin anew!” The few faces that remained hopeful out in the crowd smiled and an odd clap could be heard from somewhere in the ocean of people.

He extended his arms to either side and looked across the congregation to question: “Now, then, who will be the first to swear their loyalty? Which one of you will be the first to swear to me that, for as long as you walk my lands, your souls will belong to me?” Bartholomew reared his head at the odd request. His brother had, alike his father, had a propensity for showmanship and loft speeches, but this was stranger than that... more... grave. The strangely trusting child cowering behind Bartholomew’s legs squeezed past his silver armor to embrace Titus’ wrist and swore: “I’ll be the first! I’ll do it!”

Titus ruffled the girl’s head and raised her up high to hold her in his arms and look into her dark, hesitant eyes. “Will you? Will you swear that you trust me with your eternal soul?” The girl’s lips split apart to reveal that half her teeth were missing, but without a moment’s further hesitance, she nodded whole-heartedly. For whatever reason... that nod made Bartholomew’s stomach growl with protest.