"Christopheles, you will become knighted with this action. A test of loyalty," the arbiter states. "You must understand the burden of being the wall that defends our system of beliefs from those who would impose their will on the crown."

The arbiter continues, "Explain why these peasants who rebelled against their lord shouldn't be killed." The crowd stares at Christopheles with looks of anticipation and confusion. Christopheles looks at the crowd, then to the lord, and finally to the peasants. "I can't decide," Christopheles says.

The arbiter nods at Christopheles and callously states, "Well then," before snapping his fingers. A column of flame erupts, engulfing the peasants, the lord, and his family. Christopheles' eyes go wide, and he falls to his knees.

"If you cannot take responsibility to both save life by taking another and take a life by saving another, if you lack the will to act, then you lack the will to bear the burden that being commissar entails," the arbiter says in a monotonous tone. The common folk and the nobles begin casting stones at Christopheles.

Christopheles looks at the arbiters and the people in the crowd; scorn radiates from his eyes. Fire in his sternum fills him with frenzy, but his composure tempers his fury. He stands up tall before what these people revere as deities. "It is not the peasants or the lord that should have died; it is you," Christopheles utters, the weight of his words as heavy as the will of the people behind him.

The arbiter tilts his head. In his usual tone, he asks, "How so?"

Christopheles responds, "Is the heart of the people not a derivative of the ruler's deficits! You people hermitize yourselves, deprive yourselves of life, view it as the greatest evil to indulge in, and yet you dictate the lives of those who love and live. These people are deprived of life, so when you tax them and yet bring neither the nobles nor the peasants any solace in their security, they rebel and condemn each other, but not the people who set the foundation for them. You had everything so you thought it fit to not want.

They had nothing so they thought it fit to want. The people will always represent the deficits of the rulers, as a heart desires what it lacks. As for the nobles, they are a rope strung between polarities and priorities, preventing the flow of causality from falling apart. I believe you played a role in this too, since this fief is under your protection. The responsibility falls on you as well."

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A moment passes. The arbiter's hand reaches for his dagger against his will, thrusting it into his jugular. Blood rains down, splattering on the ground, a requiem for the lives that were taken. One arbiter steps forward, the sun gleaming off her gold beads into Christopheles' eyes. Her animosity and loss manifest as a single tear on the ground. She looks up at Christopheles and says, "In time, you will understand how and why... Seize him."

The humid cellar groans and creaks as the foundation shifts with the earth. Christopheles, kneeling, prays to his angel for guidance, yet he hears no response—only footsteps. Shortly after those footsteps, the woman who had told the guards to seize him appears.

"Christopheles Araliues, I presume? Son of the Western Duke and friend of the prince?" she asks.

Christopheles glares at the arbiter. The arbiter throws her hands up and then clutches her heart. "I am not your enemy; I'm actually quite fond of you," she says, smiling and leaning in. "As a mutual friend, I do hope we get along."

Christopheles lets out a smile he was struggling to suppress. The arbiter straightens her posture. "My name is Saoirse, and you're quite the looker, dear Chris."

Christopheles responds sternly, "We do not, and we will never, have that type of relationship, Saoirse. Don't regard me in such a way again."

Saoirse looks down to the side and begins fidgeting with her hands. "Just making this easier for you, Chrissy."

Chris looks at her, confused. "Making what easier? My execution?"

A serious look appears on Saoirse's face. "No, your royal coronation. You're the man who slayed an eldritch sovereign without lifting a finger."

Christopheles looks at her in confusion. "I thought the clergy liked the current king."

Saoirse pauses. The foundation of the dungeon shifts and groans once more. Saoirse leans with her back against the wall. "No, the clergy favors him, but necessity does not."

Christopheles realizes she is not here to harm him. "Enlighten me, Sister Saoirse."

She turns her head to the side. "The countries around us are divided into warring states so we can undergo great societal change without having to worry about being invaded. However, our diviners—or seers, as you call them—foresee that their societies will emerge drastically different from ours. Meaning, in the end, they will be allies and we will be the other—the enemy, the alien. We have told the king, but he must not respect the opinion of those who set the foundation for the society."

Saoirse says sarcastically, in a mocking, dramatic tone. "I don't sound like that."

Christopheles says broodingly, "Saoirse remembers how she used to tease Christopheles when they were children at the castle, and her playful demeanor breaks. 'Levi—No, Prince Levi and his whole family are in great danger. We are in great danger,' she whispers." " Listen not too long from now. A group of arbiters are going to come and get you, do not mention me being here. I'm telling you so you know what's at stake the country's future hinges on you."

"Farewell chrissy"