In the absence of the Lord's unifying presence, the congregation began to dissolve gradually, their shared fervour dissipating across the streets that emanated from the tower. The energy that had bound them together could not be sustained indefinitely and a crowd of such intensity was more likely to disperse quickly than not.

Breannus stood there, utterly dumbfounded. After his appointment, the Lord's right-hand woman, Andreya, had privately divulged certain aspects of the Lord's grand scheme—vague allusions more than concrete details. Nonetheless, Breannus had understood that something extraordinary was in the works. But even in his most fantastical imaginings, he could not have conceived the full magnitude of what the Lord had just proclaimed.

Resurrection. The Lord possessed the power to bring the dead back to life. Was the marvel of the clinic insufficient? Did the Lord feel compelled to further demonstrate her boundless generosity and omnipotence?

One facet of Breannus' being was immeasurably grateful to reside in a city under her patronage, a sanctuary where neither injury nor disease nor even death could plague its citizens. Yet, lurking in the shadows of his mind, a sinister thought persisted, ceaselessly scheming ways to exploit this newfound power and his position for his own gain. He stifled these ideas for the time being; after all, today belonged to the Lord, not him.

As he suppressed those selfish musings, he couldn't help but absorb the collective astonishment that permeated the crowd. An overwhelming sense of awe and wonder held them in its grasp. Some sceptics, however, disbelieved the spectacle before their eyes, accusing it of being a mere illusion.

Others, some familiar faces among them, capitalised on this monumental display of the Lord's benevolence and might by extolling her virtues even more fervently. And then there was the third faction, a group Breannus unfortunately recognized in part as he navigated the dispersing throng. These individuals uttered blasphemous words, denouncing the Lord as an acolyte of demons and a foe of the great Skaldur.

"Demon magic, I tell ya! That's all it was!" A voice hollered, coarse and unrefined, capturing the attention of all within earshot.

"Y'all heard 'bout what happened near Edderdorf? A massive demon bendin' to her will?" The same voice continued, eliciting a smattering of whispers as folks tried to make sense of the information they'd just been given.

"Rubbish!" Breannus bellowed, hastily scanning for a crate to elevate himself above the swelling sea of people below, his simmering frustration demanding release. Suddenly, heads swivelled in his direction, accompanied by murmurs of recognition.

"Demon magic? Preposterous," he scoffed, as if the very notion were inconceivable. "Demons are vile creatures bent on our ruin. They stand against everything the Lord wants for us. Tell me, what demon would cure you when you are sick? What demon would snatch you back from the jaws of death?" He gesticulated wildly, captivating the onlookers as his impassioned speech unfolded.

The coarse voice of the Skaldur zealot countered, "Yeah, well, she ain't right in the head, that Lord of yours. Makin' deals with them demons just to show off her powers, ain't natural. Skaldur's the true path, and yer Lord's a heretic!"

Breannus responded firmly, "My dear fellow, let us not dwell in baseless accusations. The Lord has gifted this city with a miraculous clinic, capable of healing the most grievous afflictions, and a bountiful food hall with an endless supply of delectable fare. These acts of generosity and kindness are irrefutable proof of her benevolence."

A chorus of agreement emerged from the crowd, his faction of followers nodding with conviction, swayed by Breannus' persuasive rhetoric.

The Skaldur zealot, flustered but persistent, retorted, "Well, all that fancy talk ain't gonna change nothin'. Skaldur's been watchin' over us for generations, and we ain't gonna let some stranger who's playin' with demonic powers change our ways. She's a menace, I tell ya! And you lot treat her like a god, like Skaldur, and that's downright heresy!"

As the debate intensified, the crowd's allegiance seemed to waver, torn between the long-standing faith in Skaldur and the undeniable evidence of the Lord's good deeds. It became apparent that the Skaldur faithful were gaining the majority's support, the grip of tradition strong in their hearts. Sensing the shift in sentiment, Breannus upped his rhetoric, trying to persuade the undecided onlookers.

However, his impassioned plea only served to strengthen the people’s belief that Breannus and his followers worshipped the Lord as a god, for why else were they so against an ordinary worshipper of Skaldur? The agitated expressions and reddened faces of the Skaldur zealot and his supporters revealed their mounting indignation.

A burly man in the crowd, veins bulging at his temples, finally snapped. With a guttural roar, he lunged at Breannus, swinging a meaty fist at him. The fist hit home, cracking Breannus’ cheek and sending him flying to the ground. The sudden act of aggression served as a catalyst, igniting a violent chain reaction throughout the congregation.

Screams and shouts erupted as Skaldur worshippers and the Lord's supporters clashed, throwing punches and grappling with one another in the chaos. The once-peaceful gathering had devolved into a tumultuous fray, and Breannus scrambled backwards as soon as he could, hoping to break free of the fighting to save himself.

This was not how he intended it to go, and as he slipped into an alleyway hopefully unnoticed, he could only hope that the Lord would act on his intelligence swiftly.

"Has he truly been recalled?" The woman's voice, though restrained, revealed a touch of disbelief. She stood clad in splendid armour, a flawless fusion of ornate gold and durable steel, expertly crafted to fit her form.

"By the Regent's command," the commanding man replied, the luxurious fabric of his robe undulating around him as he navigated the desk laden with maps and communiqués outlining the intensifying situation in Rensenfeld.

"How can this be? Riza gains power as we speak, and yet the Regent calls for the Dreaven's return?" Her words, carefully chosen, wrestled with the enigmatic motives of their leader.

The man's gaze grew intense, his brow creasing with a trace of reproof. "It would be wise to refrain from questioning the Regent's choices," he cautioned, and she quickly bowed her head in compliance.

"You are right, I apologise. I have faith that there is solid logic behind their decision. However..." The man raised a warning finger, gently interrupting her.

"Consider your thoughts prudently before expressing them. Emotions can obscure our judgement," he advised.

"True, but..." She hesitated, absorbing his guidance. "Wouldn't it be more sensible to confront our enemy now, rather than granting Riza the opportunity to consolidate her forces?"

The man did not respond at once. Instead, he surveyed the desk's documents, his finger subtly directing the woman's focus to the vital intelligence inscribed on the pages. Reports of a clinic, Riza's daring declaration against death itself, and a city teetering on the edge of chaos, unimpeded by their interference.

Quietly, the woman reclined in her elegant chair, striving to decode the concealed message in the man's calculated movements.

"Doesn't this only underscore the urgency of our intervention?" she pressed, her patience waning, the obscured implication just beyond her reach.

With a resigned sigh, the man abandoned his pacing and settled into the stately chair opposite her—a distinguished seat, both larger and more imposing, befitting a man of his standing. His powerful arms rose to meet one another, fingers entwined, as he locked his steady, deep brown eyes on hers.

"Explain to me—why do you believe the current situation in Rensenfeld is problematic? Why must we address this now?" The man spoke, his true intent veiled beneath a stoic, unwavering tone.

The woman scoffed, aware she could be candid in his presence.

"She commands both a worm and a Demon Lord, and she's proven she can resurrect the dead with their full might. With an entire Demon Lord's nest at her disposal, she could amass a horde of formidable allies, each equal to a Guardian."

Sensing that her argument was insufficient, she persisted.

"Moreover, the resurrections. The clinic and food hall were already blatant attempts to sway the populace from Skaldur and toward her. She's casting herself as a deity," she stressed, "and the resurrections are merely her latest strategy. Once the city loses faith in Skaldur, they'll forsake the Dominion, the Chosen, and the Empire as a whole. As we hesitate, even if we ultimately vanquish her, the lasting damage could be catastrophic, resulting in an inconceivable loss of life."

She concluded, her conviction growing stronger as she spoke. The man leaned back, his gaze fixed on her, his motives concealed.

"You are correct," he finally conceded, eliciting a small, astonished gasp from the woman.

"So doesn't—" she began, but the man abruptly rose from his seat and interjected.

"It is time for you to learn the truth.”

The subtle clink of a spoon against a fine ceramic bowl resonated throughout the grand chamber, the sound ricocheting off the walls draped with opulent tapestries. The delicate weavings told tales of the noble family's rich history and absorbed the echo, softening its reverberation.

A masterful creation, the silver spoon boasted an intricate floral motif running the length of its handle, reflecting the exquisite taste of the artisan who had crafted it. The bowl, similarly, possessed an air of elegance, its delicate appearance belying the sturdiness of its construction.

Sunlight poured through the lofty windows that lined the dining hall, casting a warm, golden glow on Anere's face as she savoured the hearty meat stew she had specifically requested from the kitchen. Clad in an invaluable, Ancient dress, Anere sought solace in the memory of a simpler life that seemed to grow more distant each day. She sighed with melancholy, the fragrance of the seasoned meat evoking recollections of past mistakes that now loomed over her.

In one misstep after another, she had encountered a rogue Lord, and now, a rogue tarny. Was it possible for her to do anything right? Her only solace was Ararth, secured in the stables with a lock that only her father's key could open. Of course, she was more than capable of freeing Ararth, but doing so would only cause further problems.

"Cease your slurping," her father admonished absently from the other end of the long dining table. In his desire to draw closer to his daughter, he had insisted they share a meal, yet ironically, they were separated by a vast distance of oaken table.

Clad in a peculiar ensemble of Ancient attire, her father's garb was a vibrant hodgepodge of colours, prioritising their origin over aesthetic appeal. Arrayed before him was a sumptuous variety of dishes, the product of a skilled chef's labour to satisfy a discerning palate. Scattered about the tabletop were numerous documents, their contents spanning from the economic state of the Regent's Seat in the West to the unfolding situation in Toila to their south.

In a defiant act of rebellion, Anere deliberately slurped louder, eliciting an exasperated sigh from her father but no further reprimand.

Her father set down his knife and fork and reached for a parchment, drawing it closer with renewed interest. "You were acquainted with the Lord of Rensenfeld, were you not? I seem to recall you mentioning her once," he inquired, prompting Anere to roll her eyes.

"Yes," she responded, elongating the word with a weary tone.

"She has reportedly declared war on death itself," her father chuckled, amusement touching his voice as he found the notion utterly preposterous.

"Yet perhaps it's not as absurd as it seems," he murmured, seemingly to himself, the room's acoustics amplifying his softest whispers.

"I wouldn't trust her words," Anere offered simply, without elaboration.

"Indeed? Well, it's wise to keep a watchful eye on her regardless. Perhaps there's a grain of truth in her claims? Tell me, dear, have you ever visited Rensenfeld?" he asked, his gaze remaining fixed on the parchment.

"You know full well I never went beyond Trottor," Anere retorted, irritation evident in her voice.

"Ah, yes, of course. You’re right," he replied with feigned innocence. "Well, let's observe how this Rensenfeld affair unfolds for her. Our own Lord may glean some valuable insights," he laughed softly, though Anere knew all too well that his laughter masked a more sinister intent.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she returned her attention to her stew, wishing desperately that she could be anywhere but there.

A perimeter had materialised around the zone of life. Here, the forest oscillated between life and death with each passing moment, captivating the senses and imaginations of all who witnessed the spectacle. The city's cacophony ground to a halt, as word spread like wildfire of the extraordinary phenomenon occurring just beyond its borders, within the very zone itself.

Intrigued masses converged at the outskirts, only to be held at bay by an army of distinctive critters, formidable enough to repel even the most determined of adult humans.

An endless parade of horses and carts shuttled back and forth between the city and the zone. The drivers, once informed of their unusual passengers, were more than willing to offer their services without any compensation.

In the heart of the zone of life, nestled within the crater marking the Demon Lord's demise, a lifeless body, cold as the winter frost, lay prone. Riza hunched over the corpse, her hands pressed against the chest and abdomen as she channelled a torrent of essence with each passing second.

At long last, the man drew a ragged breath, his lungs greedily devouring oxygen while blood surged through his once-dormant veins.

Riza's head swam with exhaustion, her mental energy sapped by the immense expenditure of essence. She helped the man to his feet, briefly recounting the events that had transpired. He was disoriented, as they all were, but it was not Riza's responsibility to guide him through the process of reintegration into society. That task fell to Breannus and his people, on whom Riza found herself increasingly reliant due to their abundant manpower.

Manpower that occasionally manifested as brawls in the streets. Riza lamented, massaging her temples while nursing an imaginary headache.

The demons discreetly delivered the next lifeless body through a hidden underground passage, a clever arrangement to prevent alarming onlookers with piles of corpses and the demons themselves. Riza furrowed her brow, mentally calculating how much longer this taxing ordeal would persist.

Six gruelling hours had elapsed, and she had managed to resurrect a mere eighteen souls. Eighteen grateful faces, but her last tally had the total death count at three hundred and twenty-two. Eighteen was a paltry sum, and she estimated it would take days to complete even a third of the resurrections.

Despite the daunting task ahead, she persevered.

Driven by her commitment to Lefie and her desire to prove her power over death to the city, she was grateful for Andreya's efforts on handling the public angle.

In the beginning, Riza was not alone in her endeavour. Lefie, Daven, Klannar, and Meren kept her company, offering support and companionship.

However, the monotony of hours spent within the oppressive atmosphere of the zone gradually wore them down. One by one, they retreated, leaving only Lefie, who finally relented after the fifth hour.

Thus, Riza found herself in solitude.

Her only companions were the cold, silent bodies of the dead. The irony was not lost on her as she returned her attention to the next corpse. Her back screamed in protest from hours hunched over, and her eyes ached from the unchanging landscape.

Yet, she toiled on.

This will all be worth it, she assured herself. It had to be.

A chilling wind gusted through the shattered wooden boards, whistling its eerie tune as it swept through the hollow remains of a once lively home. The desolate air carried with it a foreboding dread that nestled deep within the bones of a man, swathed in nothing more than tattered rags hastily gathered upon his unexpected return to the world of the living.

His shoes, worn and barely clinging to his feet, were a stark reminder of his arduous journey. His trousers hung a bit too long, scraping the dirt-strewn cobblestone streets as he walked. The tunic, which draped loosely across his chest, was ill-fitted, having been stretched to accommodate the ample figure of a woman.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he gazed upon the dilapidated shell of the home he had once cherished. The desolation extended beyond his doorstep, as the entire street lay in disarray; debris and detritus cluttered the once familiar pathways of dirt, wood, and stone.

As he approached the door, it became apparent that it had been left unlocked, unable to fully close due to its feeble connection to the hinges. With a gentle nudge, it creaked open, the spine-chilling sound sending shivers down his spine. He brushed his sweat-slicked, short-cut hair backwards, a futile attempt to tame the unruly mess.

The sun, dipping low in the sky, cast a warm, orange glow that crept into the house, only to be swallowed by the all-consuming darkness that lurked within. As he crossed the threshold, the wooden floorboards groaned under his weight. The familiar sound, though disquieting, brought a strange sense of comfort.

The inside of the house was a cacophony of chaos. Furniture lay strewn about, toppled and askew, while broken plates and wooden toys littered the floor. It seemed as though a ravenous storm had torn through the home, leaving naught but destruction in its wake. The sight triggered a vivid memory of armed brutes forcing their way in as his wife and children cowered behind him. Desperation had driven him to wield a wooden chair as a weapon, determined to protect his family at any cost.

His recollection halted there, but he knew what had transpired next. Weeks had allegedly passed, though for him it felt as though mere hours had slipped by. That he now drew breath was nothing short of a miracle, a second chance at life bestowed upon him.

Venturing further into the disarray, he noticed signs of life that had persisted even amidst the chaos. Crumbs and scraps clung to plates and bowls, dirt marred the floor, and atop a chest in their bedroom lay an open book. His heart clenched at the sight of the fractured bed, but he steeled himself and focused on the tome.

Picking up the book, a bittersweet chuckle escaped him as he recalled its acquisition. His brother had gifted it to him, well aware that he couldn't read. Despite this, his wife had been captivated by the book's intricate illustrations and had eagerly shared its pages with their two children, who found solace in the imaginative world it offered.

A sudden warmth enveloped his chest as the significance of the book dawned upon him. Perhaps it held a deeper meaning, a beacon of hope in the midst of despair. Neither his wife nor his children had been found among the dead, so it was possible that they still lived, hidden somewhere within the city's labyrinthine streets.

With no other leads to follow, Tharin's thoughts turned to his brother's home, a sanctuary where the siblings would gather every other week to share drinks and regale each other with tales of their lives. The death of their sister, taken too soon by a relentless illness that had plagued her throughout her adult years, had only served to strengthen the bond between the two remaining brothers. If Tharin's family sought refuge anywhere, it would be with his brother.

Fortuitously, the city's labyrinthine streets remained unchanged during Tharin's absence, allowing him to swiftly navigate the winding maze that was Rensenfeld. Nestled deeper within the city, his brother's residence was a testament to his stable, well-paying job – a source of support Tharin knew his family could lean on while his wife sought employment, no longer able to rely on her husband's presence.

Before long, Tharin arrived at their doorstep and, without hesitation, knocked on the door. The ensuing seconds stretched into an eternity as he anxiously awaited a response, the muffled shuffling and echoing footsteps from within only serving to heighten his anticipation.

A key turned in the lock, and the wooden barrier creaked open, revealing a pair of warm, brown eyes that met his gaze. "Tharin…" the woman whispered, her voice quivering with disbelief and relief.

Overcome with emotion, Tharin found himself at a loss for words. Instead, he stepped forward and enfolded his wife in a fervent embrace, his heart swelling with indescribable joy. She was alive!

Time seemed to stand still as the couple held each other, only reluctantly parting after what felt like an eternity. Still, their hands remained interlocked, unwilling to let go. "The-the kids? How are they? Where are they?" Tharin inquired, his voice strained from disuse.

"They're-they're fine! They're-come inside. Come inside," his wife beckoned eagerly, her face alight with a radiant smile as she pulled him into the safety of the home.

And there they were, as promised. Tharin's composure crumbled as he fell to his knees, pulling his children into a tender, tearful embrace. The weight of the realisation that his family was safe, unharmed, and together once more washed over him like a tidal wave, and in that moment, he knew that they would endure whatever trials life had in store for them, and it was all thanks to the Lord’s grace.

A weary man, with long, unkempt hair and unshaven stubble on his chin, cradled a cracked cup between his calloused hands, taking a deep sip of the warm tea it contained. He gazed out across his broken and battered kitchen, a haunting reminder of the innumerable looters who had rifled through his once-cherished home. Dust and debris littered the floor, and the remnants of his life lay scattered about like abandoned dreams.

The air was frigid and lifeless, a stark contrast to the vibrant, welcoming atmosphere that had once filled the building. His silverware had vanished, his furniture lay broken and stolen, and even his clothes, jewels, and personal possessions had been taken. All he had left was his good name, but that too had dwindled to almost nothing after weeks of absence.

Gulping down the last of the cheap, bitter tea, he set the cup down on the counter with a force that betrayed his emotions. Memories of what had happened to him surged forward, wrenching his heart open once more. Breathing hard, he closed his eyes and willed himself to calm down. He was better than this; he could rebuild. Deep, slow breaths. It helped, if only a little.

In the few days that had passed since his resurrection, he had accomplished remarkably little. The first day was the hardest, as he discovered the legacy of his name in ruin and the wealth he had accumulated through such hard work, all gone. The night was even more difficult, as he slept in a bed far too large for just one person, the emptiness beside him as cold as a winter blizzard.

The knowledge that she was safe beyond the border provided only meagre comfort, and the realisation that she had taken their wealth with her stung worse than any betrayal he could imagine. The next day, he fared little better. Though emotionally more stable, he struggled to remain calm as he explored the town and inquired about his former empire. He learned that his once-loyal customers had found other suppliers, and the grip he had held on the market had been usurped by his competition. One of them even had the support of the Lord herself, a fact that unsettled him greatly, for without her intervention, he would not be alive to bear witness to his own downfall.

By the third day, determination had replaced despair. He resolved to rebuild his life and regain his influence. He still had friends, people who owed him favours, and he discovered that his connection to the Lord, having been granted life through her immense power, held significant weight in this world. People revered her, and he quickly learned why. He discovered a clinic and food hall she had established, resources he could leverage in his quest for redemption.

The road ahead was difficult, and a part of him had died the day he was resurrected, but he refused to give in to despair. He stood in the home he had laboured so long to build, and with grim determination, he vowed that life would continue, whether it wanted to or not.