Brother Aristid gazed out over the Holy City from his spot leaning on the ruins of the stone wall. His shelter was on a hill, and sunrise offered a majestic view of Agaran—the morning mist still hadn’t lifted, leaving the slender towers suspended in midair. The first beams of sunlight played on the golden domes of the many Shrines. Decorated with crystal, the silver disks on the temple spires glittered, while the marvelous beauty of hymns being sung wafted through the air. The city threw wide its gates to all worshippers of the Keeper in a promise of peace and rest for pilgrims preoccupied with their righteous endeavors.

But there was no haven there for Aristid.

The monk plucked a dew-covered blade of grass, ground it between his fingers, and breathed in the fresh scent before glancing down at his ragged shoes and plodding back into the cave he’d spent the entire previous year in.

A root soup bubbled in a pot hung over the fire. Aristid stirred the watery concoction, tried it, shrugged, and poured some into a chipped clay bowl. Pulling out a few biscuit crumbs, he tossed them right into the soup before heading outside to gaze at Agaran as he ate.

“Where are you, little guy?” he called, crumbling a biscuit on the rock beside him. “We always eat together.”

A sparrow fluttered over to the crumbs. The bird had stopped by to visit Aristid the previous year, and he hadn’t shooed it away—any company in his forced reclusion was welcome. The sparrow came by every day, even moving into the cave with the monk when snow blanketed the earth outside. They wintered together on dry bread, cured meat that was too salty, and roots. But Aristid kept his spirits up. Life there was peaceful, as nobody thought to look for the rebellious clergyman in one of the continent’s most holy places.

But all good things must come to an end.

Aristid saw the figure climbing the hill toward him and placed his bowl on the ground sadly. When his guest approached, the sparrow took off in a flurry of indignant chirping.

“Peace to you, Brother Norbert,” said Aristid. The young man, who was as dry as a wood chip, bowed respectfully, one hand on the bag slung over his shoulder.

“Blessings, holy brother,” came the whispered reply.

Aristid straightened up and drew a perfect circle in the air.

“May the Keeper send you on gracious deeds, Brother Norbert. Would you have breakfast with me?”

His guest nodded willingly. The silver disk dangling from a leather string around his neck bobbed and settled, catching a ray of sunlight.

“I brought food. Gifts recently arrived from Count Ekkehard, good corned beef.” Norbert placed his bag onto the worn earth and started pulling out its contents. “I grabbed some fresh bread, a bag of biscuits, cured beef, a few eggs, and a skin of wine to keep you warm. Oh, and candles, some leather for patching, and writing paper.”

Aristid shook his head.

“You spoil me, Brother Norbert. This is the second time in the last dozen days you’ve brought meat!”

“With your ascetic lifestyle, it’s okay to enjoy some worldly food on occasion.” The guest looked around. “Praise the Keeper for the cold lifting. They say we won’t be getting any more snow.”

“It’s true,” Aristid replied, gesturing Norbert toward the fire and breaking the bread. He pulled some cheese out of his bins and handed it to his guest, as well. “But now for what’s most important: tell me the latest news.”

Norbert wiped his hands on the cleanest part of his robe, poured some soup into a bowl, and mumbled a short prayer before digging in.

“Yes, you certainly have it tough.”

“It’s been worse. What news from Missolen?”

“Exactly what you foresaw: the emperor is dead.” Norbert flashed a holy sign over himself again, though Aristid didn’t even twitch. “May the Keeper accept his soul.”

“Of course, he’ll accept it,” Aristid replied as he set his portion of bread aside and stared at his guest. “Who’s the heir? The Burned Lord?”

“There is no heir. That’s why I’m here. You yourself prophesied that the emperor would soon retire to the Crystal Hall or be helped on his way there, and that Lord Demos would assume the throne. Everyone thought that, but… The emperor didn’t leave a will.”

Brows furrowed, Brother Aristid thoughtfully fingered his rosary beads. Norbert didn’t dare disturb him, eating the soup in silence and doing his best to keep the spoon from scraping against the sides of the bowl.

“So, I was right,” Aristid said finally. “Almost.”

Norbert shrugged.

“It’s even better this way. There’s panic in Missolen; the empire ground to a halt. And it’s going to stay that way until the Council convenes, picks someone, they’re crowned… Nobody’s going to be coming after you, that’s for sure.” He continued talking, though the condescending smile on Aristid’s face nonplussed him. “Even the Great Master will forget about you for a while.”

Brother Aristid just shook his head, the tranquil smile still on his lips.

“No, dear brother, this is the perfect time to grab his attention,” he said softly as he glanced over at his travel bag. “I’m leaving Agaran today. Alone. I need to get to Ellisdor as soon as possible.”