“What do you have to say to me, Cesord?” Lord Figrehnd grumbled, his robust jowls jiggling. “You’d better make this quick!”

Modest though Gulnholn was, it was still among the largest villages in Lord Figrehnd’s holdings, a fact that Cesord used to gain regular audiences. Figrehnd fashioned himself a mightier lord than his lands would have suggested, with resplendent armor fitting of an Imperial marshal, though he was no such thing. He had never even served in the army. His portly figure also connoted greater wealth than he had. His estates, while prosperous enough, did not place him in anything close to the most esteemed of the noble families.

“I understand,” Cesord said softly. He took a moment to glance at the disrepair of Figrehnd’s very plain grey stone hall. In a few places, he even saw water on the ground from the prior night’s rain. “I hope to not take much of your time.”

“Well then, spit it out!” Figrehnd barked, his puffy eyes bulging.

“What is your stance on the Emperor’s question?” Cesord asked.

“I’m damn well against it!” the lord replied.

“Might I ask why?”

Figrehnd’s jaw dropped in plain outrage. Cesord braced for the counterattack.

“If we ever want these lands to be anything more than they are, we’ve got to get the angels to do it for us. The lazy slobs we’ve got around here are certainly never going to get it done,” the lord scoffed.

Cesord sighed and closed his eyes for a moment to collect his argument.

“It should be obvious to us by now that the angels do not and will not offer their favor equally,” he counseled. “They’re limited and they’re not immune to being drawn toward the powerful. Is it not any accident so many of the angels congregate around Kings Rohmhelt and Duronaht?”

“Of course they are. Those two rule almost half the world between them!”

“Yes, that’s it, though, isn’t it?” Cesord smoothly replied. “They aren’t here. They aren’t with Lady Cerhess and her meager lands, even though she ails terribly. Or my dear Iploth farmer Tingrelt, who is losing his daughter to a long and terrible malady. Those angels who live here are drawn to the powerful because the powerful can draw their attentions.”

Figrehnd pressed his swollen lips together and then up against his nose. Cesord took encouragement from that sign.

“Even so, by helping the kings, they help us,” he said, pointing his thumb toward his chest. “And you’re so enamored with Forynda anyway. And you’re lecturing me about this?”

By venturing into that territory, Figrehnd had veered into the argument Cesord hoped to make.

“This isn’t a lecture. I’m offering advice. It would be wise to reject the false promises that the angels can solve all of our problems for us. In the best case, you will wait and wait for aid than never comes. If the worst case, they will answer the pleas of your enemies and worsen your own plight,” Cesord implored. “Forynda alone offers us the path forward. She alone offers us the world where we will be responsible for our own fates. What Omonrel and Parlon offer is that they will support Duronaht. Where exactly will that lead us? A king, especially that king, backed by the power of the angels? Imagine living under that.”

“He won’t be emperor once Covifaht dies, and that itself won’t be for, oh, many years more,” Figrehnd sighed and tried to dismiss Cesord.

“With how much Parlon and Omonrel support him? It could well happen. Rightfully, no, he should not be able to become emperor, but with their help? Who could stop him?”

Figrehnd guffawed and waved off Cesord. The mayor of Gulnholn knew this pattern well enough to anticipate a staggeringly poorly considered reply. He had some affection for his lord, but not for his lord’s belligerent illogic.

“Forynda and her brood would intervene, no doubt. I’m sure they could keep them in line,” he said.

“And that would mean… what?” Cesord asked. Figrehnd’s amusement collapsed.

Now he seems to understand, Cesord assured himself.

“Alright, you’ve made your point. What do you want?” the lord conceded.

“It’s through Forynda, and Forynda alone, that we can be left to solve our own difficulties on their merits and not from the whims of the angels. She understands that to be pleading to the angels for their aid at all times is to be subservient to them and their designs. She wants more for us than that,” Cesord passionately said, clenching his hands close to his chest. “We were meant to be more than that. Please, my lord, stand with the Emperor on this question.”

His short speech caused Figrehnd to nod his head so forcefully that his jowls swayed back and forth in a hypnotic display. Cesord smiled at the sight.

“Alright, you’ve convinced me, as usual. Now go back to Gulnholn. You’ll hear what we’ve decided in the capital before long,” the lord said to him.

“I am sure of that.”

Upon his return the following day, however, it was the uncertainty of what that decision would be that drove him to unease. He paced back and forth in the small plot of peppers he maintained at his home, mumbling to himself on how he would address the citizens of Gulnholn in the event that either position prevailed. Should the High Angel’s word prevail, that would be a simple matter. The words could truly be his own. Should Omonrel and his ilk triumph, however, he couldn’t fathom the position that would place him in. Worse, he considered the path that would set all of Vorlanys down upon.

For the time being, he set his sights on purging his peppers of the variety of parasitic pests that would try to destroy his modest harvest. Iridescent purple beetles, termed the Doom Beetle by local farmers, would always nest near the stalks, slowly nibbling into the base of each plant. Which of the angels thought it was wise to create such things? Carefully exterminating them without damaging his harvest presented a special challenge each year. He wondered why he bothered with it in any case. His wife, Nelrie, purchased all of the food they needed from the surrounding farms, including far better peppers. Perhaps it was a point of pride.

His seven children, four daughters and three sons, had largely become those farmers, either starting their own families or marrying into established farm lineages that surrounded Gulholn. One exception to that was his second eldest daughter Lyfress, who had followed his devotion toward the High Angel. She maintained a shrine to Forynda and Vorlan located just outside the village on the main road used by the farmers. It was in her that he placed his greatest hopes, even as her other siblings routinely sniped at her choice. They never did it to her face, however. It was always to Cesord and her mother.

She visited him as he gardened and cleansed his lands of the Doom Beetles and their even more pernicious allies. She wore an all-white garment laced with green thread, the former representing Forynda’s primacy and the latter Vorlan’s role in providing the structure of the world itself. He knew that she was considered plain and even matronly for her age by the other villagers. Those words could not hurt him, though. He looked at everything that she was and what she represented and took the greatest pride.

“Those peppers are going to drive you mad, father,” she said in her pleasant low voice while standing over him.

“If I can ever save a harvest, I’ll be a happy man. I always lose most of it. Maybe this year will be different,” he laughed. “Only a month to go and this is the best I’ve done. I hope the discipline I’ve learned from the High Angel see me through.”

“Father, I…” Lyfress said, pausing immediately.

“What is it?”

“You’re tense. Is it this gathering in the capital?” she asked.

He sighed and leaned back, his hands digging into the soil and the insects in it running over his fingers. Oddly, that writhing sensation soothed his frayed nerves.

“In either case, I’m worried we face calamity. Should Omonrel win, this pattern of disturbances will continue unabated. Should the High Angel prevail, that’s a different worry…”

“You are referring to what Omonrel and his ilk would do in response?” she asked.

He grunted to agree with her. He noticed one of the Doom Beetles on his knee and he picked it up with his left hand, staring at the vile creature as it flailed trying to escape his grasp.

“If they are defeated, it’s impossible to see how they will accept it gladly. We need to prepare for the worst.”