“Four ministries, four Tetrarchic cities. Remember: Balance and stability are key in everything we do. The Ministry of Faith in Kel, matching believers with Elevated, orchestrating our pantheon. The Ministry of Innovation in Imra, directing trade, finance, and labor. The Ministry of Orthodoxy in Lhasa, coordinating the doctrine auditors and supplying the armies of prayer guards. The Ministry of Wisdom in Maht, researching the past, present, and future as well as directing the trackers responsible for feeding new Elevated to our training camps.”

– Primer for entering ministerial public service, Kel University

Sunlight flooded the arena, blanketing Kel in a golden glow. The amphitheater buzzed with chatter and an air of expectancy, a sea of eager spectators filling each of the cascading rows to the brim, eyes trained on the center stage. The crowd’s collective breath seemed to hang in the air. Whispers darting like shadows, eyes meeting only to quickly look back to the arena floor. There was true reverence in those eyes. Omvar, from his lofty position on the dais, watched the spectacle with a dismissive smirk.

“They’re restless today,” Omvar commented, idly fiddling with the hem of his robe. “Eager to catch a glimpse of these new Elevated.”

Beside him, Norgus chuckled, the corners of his sunken eyes crinkling with amusement. “Well, they’re hoping to spot their own, no doubt.”

“Fools,” Omvar snorted at his colleague’s remark, “as if we’d waste Kelian citizens on foreign Elevated. Hats off to the Catechism Division. They really still can make them believe that this is somehow fated. That any one of them could be next.”

Years of attending these ceremonies had dulled their luster for him; his eyes no longer held the glint of youthful excitement, that gleam of awe he now spotted in the audience. Omvar remembered his first induction, many years ago. Equally sunny, equally crowded. He had still been full of enthusiasm then, just a young graduate from Kel University. So young. But now, after too many cycles—so many years near the ugly truth of the system—the spectacle had lost its sheen under the harsh light of reality. With increasing frequency, he now found himself wondering what the point of it all was.

His gaze wandered to Norgus at his side. Now, Omvar thought, what’s this old man actually doing for a living? He only ever saw him at these events. Strange.

“I wonder. When did this all just become a show?” Norgus sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “A parade of peacocks.”

“Maybe it always has been,” Omvar murmured, his gaze now locking onto the figures standing rigid in the arena center. “They dress them up in colors and masks, expecting them to play the part.”

A chuckle from his side. “You’d think they were crowning kings, not just Elevated,” scoffed Norgus.

Quite the opposite, in fact, Omvar mused. Ministry regulations explicitly forbid assigning Elevated to any ruling position. Can’t have another god-king, can we now?

Around them, the arena was lined with balconies on three sides, overlooking the stands of the common people. And there, in the center of the dusty ground, five Elevated stood, hands clasped behind their backs. Long, colorful robes swaying gently. Each assigned city a different color. So much protocol, and for whom? The men and women also wore silver masks of differing designs. Some unadorned, some encrusted with precious metals and stones, as an indication of their respective power.

“You know,” Omvar grumbled, his gaze hardening, “take these masks for example. They’re nothing more than a pretense nowadays. An illusion of authority.”

“An illusion, you say.” Norgus shot him a quizzical look. “How so?”

“Well, you see,” Omvar crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze not leaving the Elevated, “once they leave Kel, they’ll discard their masks like they’re yesterday’s fashion. This whole performance ends as soon as they cross the city gates. Not even our own people keep up the charade.”

Norgus chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “So, you’re saying not even the Tetrarchy Delegates have the decency to don their masks outside the city-states?”

“Precisely,” Omvar nodded emphatically, resisting the urge to slap his thigh. “They know it’s a sham. Everyone does. And yet, we continue this circus, year after year. It’s all just a power play. Keeping up appearances.” His whispers hung heavily in the air, causing several of the heads around them to turn in their direction, a frown on their faces. Well, someone had to speak about the bitter truth behind this ‘grand’ spectacle.

In front of the line of Elevated, flanked by two attendants, stood a gaunt, dark-skinned, and white-haired man in a strikingly blue velvet robe. Feldar, Kel’s Tetrarch, held a gleaming mahogany staff in his hands as he began the ceremony. “We are gathered here today,” he spoke in a loud, clear voice, momentarily silencing the crowd, “to welcome new members into the ranks of the Elevated. It is our solemn duty to join these individuals into our sacred order and bestow upon them the powers that have been freely given by the faith of the people.” Cheers started to erupt. Feldar clanged his staff on the podium until order resumed. “But we must also remember that with power comes responsibility. To abuse it is to invite destruction and chaos into our midst.”

“Responsibility indeed,” Omvar snorted. “By the Belt, Feldar does love his theatrics.”

“Tell me, Omvar,” Norgus grinned, leaning back in his seat, “how many years have these ‘newly’ Elevated been training under us? Just to be paraded around like the newest toy of the Tetrarchy.”

“Oh, a good few years for sure,” Omvar agreed, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve actually worked on the purple one, the one with that rash on his neck. No surprise there. You can’t just bestow god-like powers on people and hope they don’t incinerate a city or two. No, these ones have been molded, pruned to the Tetrarchy’s whims, long before this farce. Of course, we charge the assigned cities for all that. Brilliant scheme, really. But the crowd doesn’t see that. They just see the spectacle. As it should be.”

Feldar paused in his speech and looked around the arena, doing a full circle, his piercing gaze meeting Omvar’s briefly before continuing. “The powers of the Elevated are not to be taken lightly. We must be sure of those whom we grant this honor. Absolutely sure. We must be sure that they will use their powers for the benefit of all. That is the responsibility and privilege of the Gordean Tetrarchy. We preserve and we protect.” Omvar’s eyes followed the Tetrarch, who, with a final flourish of words, ceded the stage, as if surrendering to the inevitable. He had to admit, that man had a great voice, if nothing else.

“We sure seem to train a lot of these people recently,” Norgus mused aloud. “You’d think there’s a leak somewhere.”

Omvar ignored the old man when the line of Elevated began to chant in a low, solemn tone. He knew the words by heart, having heard them countless times. They apparently belonged to the original ritual of induction and had been used since the days of the first Elevated, more than 300 years ago now.

The chants quickly grew louder and more powerful, and the line of Elevated began to emanate an ethereal glow. Omvar watched unimpressed as the circle of dirt on which the five men and women stood glowed brighter and brighter, until it seemed as if the entire arena floor was filled with roiling light. Then, suddenly, the light faded away, and the chanting stopped.

The Tetrarch stepped forward and rammed his staff on the pedestal, creating a ringing sound that washed over the arena. All eyes turned to him. He looked out over the crowd with his solemn expression. He’s also good at those, Omvar thought, must be part of the job description. “It is done,” Feldar said, voice resounding through the square.

“And so it is,” Omvar echoed, not a hint of enthusiasm in his voice. “Another year, another batch of puppets for the Tetrarchy. Rinse and repeat.”

As the ceremony drew to its predictable close, the applause fizzled out, like a passing storm, and the human sea began its slow ebb out of the arena. The people seemed suitably impressed by the ceremony. Omvar likely would have been too. If he did not know about Leftos.

Somewhere, on one of the protruding balconies no doubt, an elegantly clothed man would be standing discretely, subtly directing the light show for the onlookers. A puppeteer unseen by his captive audience. The focus of that vain Tetrarchy Delegate was light, so it was one of his duties to illuminate the induction ceremony. Omvar idly wondered whether Leftos traveled from city to city on the Belt, or whether Lhasa or Maht had their own delegates for such special effects.

He looked around. Norgus had already disappeared, running off to Belt knew where. A weary sigh. Slowly getting to his feet, Omvar made his way through the crowd, heading to the Lower Mervian district. Duty called.

The shrine there, like most shrines in Kel (and really anywhere), was quite nondescript. He liked it. The walls were rough-hewn, the columns supporting the pediment left unadorned, and the effigies decorating the front were simple and made from unrefined materials. Really, the only notable feature was the sheer number of people that flocked to the shrine, either coming from the arena or the countless food stalls in the district.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Omvar had read the handbook on shrines. Had, in part, written it, in fact. Designed as blank slates, they were meant to be dedicated to an Elevated on an extremely impromptu basis. How else to accommodate a constantly changing pantheon? And, while maybe some of the Delegates could have had a large enough followership to justify a dedicated shrine, it was not good policy to advertise who worshipped whom.

As he entered the shrine, the bustling of the busy street behind Omvar died down. The inside was only faintly lit by oil lamps, draping a warm orange layer over the walls. Prayer guards stood by the entrance to ensure order. And ensure that prayer went as it should. Tetrarch Firenza in Lhasa took her duty seriously.

Omvar found a quiet corner and knelt on the soft cushion before it. The room smelled of incense and other scents he could not identify, a calming aroma that permeated the entire building. Other citizens sat on marble benches or gathered in front of large candles, offering their devotion. Whatever works for them, he thought.

Then he bowed his head and closed his eyes, focusing all his thoughts and energy on a single prayer. Omvar had a small drawing with him, depicting a beautiful woman with dark hair and emerald eyes. “May providence protect and may you succeed in all your endeavors. I convey my strength to you, Lavelle, and remain your faithful servant.”

All those years of research from Maht and there still was no official guidance for how prayer should be performed. Mainly because it did not seem necessary. The mere act of devotion seemed to be enough. People thought it was a simple equation—more believers meant more power. Head-bursting calculations and conflicting policy orders begged to differ, if anyone cared to ask him. They rarely did.

After some peaceful contemplation, Omvar opened his eyes and rose again. One of the prayer guards eyed him but, after spotting his Ministry insignia, the woman quickly looked away again. He had never met Lavelle and would likely never do so. He was just some bureaucrat after all. Omvar knew that the woman was a Kelian Delegate—perhaps the greatest of them all—and he had to remind himself that that was already more than most people knew about their Elevated in this world that they had built.

Maybe I should feel honored to be assigned to a Delegate, he mused. Well, me and half the city. Omvar took a prayer chip from the smooth bowl at the center of the shrine and left. That’s the part that religions had always missed. You don’t force people to believe, you strongly incentivize them. You don’t have to pay taxes, but if you don’t and get caught, you’re in big trouble. You don’t have to pray, but if you get caught without prayer chips, you’re in big trouble. Great system, no need for a priesthood. Or, rather, requiring a very different kind of priesthood.

The thought made him smile wryly as he made his way through the winding streets of Kel toward Ebonshade Borough. The main avenues in the Tetrarchy city were wide and lined with tall, well-manicured trees, offering some respite from the sun as Omvar sauntered along. Ahead, an imposing building rose into the air, its façade topped with crenellations and towers that resembled nothing more than a castle. It was a fitting appearance for the Ministry of Faith, an institution tasked with protecting the very heart of Kel, after all.

He walked through the main entrance, massive ornate doors that were guarded by two imposing figures with stern expressions, wearing black armor chased with fractal silver patterns. These ones being Suns of Kel, not prayer guard. The elite soldiers offered respectful nods of recognition when they saw Omvar. He briefly nodded back and entered the building. Beyond the oversized doors, the interior of the ministry unfolded—a grand foyer with high ceilings and intricate designs carved into the walls, protruding from each corner. On either side, long hallways stretched into darkness, lined with tall doors leading to various chambers within the building.

At the center stood a large fountain, water bubbling up and cascading into a pool surrounded by marble benches. Here and there, Omvar spotted small clusters of people, their conversations carried in whispered tones across the room, underlined by the soft murmuring of the fountain. In one corner stood a desk for supplicants, usually crowded by people wanting to find out more about ‘their’ god.

Face turned downwards, Omvar strode through the foyer, toward the corridor that led to his office. Just a few steps now…

“Omvar!” called a booming voice, followed by the appearance of its voluminous owner in Omvar’s field of view. Orhan Malenk was a picture of Kelian tradition, wearing a black and silver doublet accompanied by black calfskin gloves and framed by a long gray beard that reached all the way down to his chest. Before Omvar could think of an excuse, Orhan had already pulled him into a warm embrace, steering him down a different corridor.

“Hasn’t it been too long, my friend? Come, come.” A last yearning look from Omvar toward his corridor and the two of them strolled down the hallway, Omvar surrendering himself to his fate.

“Did you hear?” Orhan began, “Ilgast of Limrod was killed by a sandwyrm a few weeks ago. Can you imagine? A sandwyrm? He was one of my finest correspondents. We had the most fascinating discussions about the societal role of theater as a collective means of processing events.” Orhan had started his monologue in a near-whisper, turned to Omvar, yet ended in his usual booming manner.

“Yes, I did hear,” Omvar responded dourly. Ilgast had been one of his. When Ilgast was selected, he remembered someone from the Catechism Division complaining about the impossibility of making people believe in a shriveled little man whose gift was the control over aggression. Eventually, they went with a take on the ‘peace bringer’. People liked that. Now Ilgast—or rather his abrupt demise—just meant more work for Omvar. Temporarily rerouting hundreds of believers, only to reroute them again once his replacement had been prepared. Some people were just inconsiderate to pass away on his watch so suddenly.

Orhan led him to a small café, tucked away within the ministry, leading out to an inner courtyard with a domineering rosewood tree. The warm scent of coffee, mixed with exotic Dormani spices, filled the air, creating an aroma that was both calming and invigorating at once. Orhan ordered two coffees and they left again. They continued their conversation as they returned to the main hallway, drinks in hand.

As they proceeded farther down the corridor, Orhan excitedly talked about a Skarresh skull that was found in a recent excavation, until they reached a large open space. Omvar liked this spot. It was a mixture of pleasure garden and atrium, filled with tall columns stretching up to the ceiling high above. Around them, many other people walked around or sat on benches talking amongst themselves. Some wore robes embroidered with geometric silver symbols, similar to those on the soldier’s armor. Doctrine auditors. Lhasa’s reach—and that of the Ministry of Orthodoxy—was everywhere these days.

Orhan, strolling through colonnades made of white marble, suddenly turned fully to Omvar. “You’re always like this after new inductions, you know?”

Omvar thoughtfully sipped from his coffee, swirling the bitter liquid in his mouth, savoring the taste. “What can I say? I guess it’s hard to fathom why people are so easily swayed by it all. We literally tell them what to believe in and they just do.”

Orhan watched him with kind but sad gray eyes. An almost constant expression when he saw the man, Omvar noted. “And which world religion, my dear friend, didn’t tell their faithful what to believe in? Faith is a powerful force that has been guiding people for centuries. Millennia, even. Doesn’t it give people hope and the strength to face even the most difficult of times?”

Omvar was familiar with these arguments. He did not like them one bit. “But it’s not real! I’m sitting in these meetings, Orhan. We just make it all up. Based on policy.”

They proceeded in silence for another few steps, passing Ministry bureaucrats deep in conversation. “Ah but who, Omvar, decides what’s real? Isn’t it real if it helps them? If it helps their nation? If it, quite literally, makes their god powerful?”

Omvar considered this while he emptied his cup. With a soft clinking sound, he placed it back on its saucer. “Do you believe then, Orhan?”

“Oh yes,” Orhan replied enthusiastically, “fervently, if that is what’s required. I also believe in our state and in the Tetrarchy, among other things. In the end, we believe in what we want to be true, what we need to be true, wouldn’t you agree?”

Placing his cup on a nearby table, Omvar replied, “I believe, that I do have to get back to my desk. After all, how should the poor deprived populace cope with the lack of an object of worship, if I don’t provide them with one in time?”

Orhan’s expression softened into another one of those sad smiles. “Cynicism is the wellspring of sadness; passion the twilight of emptiness.”

Amused, Omvar shook his head and chuckled. “Avila, Orhan, really?”

Orhan only smiled back in response. “May you have an interesting day, Omvar.” And with a slight bow, still bearing his melancholic smile, he turned and strode back toward the foyer.

Feeling a touch of guilt and uncertainty, Omvar finally forced himself to turn around and find his way to his office. He passed more bureaucrats and clerks on the way, too busy with their own tasks to take much notice of him. He was just another cog in the machine, after all. Albeit a not so insignificant one, he liked to think. As he hurried along the corridor, Omvar tried to focus on the tasks ahead of him. But his thoughts kept returning to that damn earlier conversation with Orhan.

Managing the faithful was a challenge, especially with all the stringent measures in place to ensure the system’s stability. Much harder to get people on the continent to pray for Tetrarchy delegates, for example. Also, he thought, much riskier, if we cannot directly control our power base. What Orhan did not understand was that Omvar was convinced that he was well-suited for the job precisely because of his disillusionment. The only things that mattered in his view were efficiency and stability, not personal faith or choice. So why then return to thoughts of hope and belief? Damn Orhan.

Arriving at his office, Omvar pushed open his heavy wooden door, closed it after him, and locked it tight. He then sat down at his desk, ready to continue his work. Almost by accident, he noticed the frayed envelope he had received this morning, before the ceremony. He briefly glanced at the closed door. Then he carefully unfolded the parchment and read it again.

“O.,

let us thank you for your invaluable service so far. We trust that our faith in you will never be misplaced. As always, be discreet.

F.”

Cursing under his breath for his carelessness to leave this lying around, Omvar lit a candle and quickly burned the letter. He had understood the encoded message instantly, of course: It worked; re-route more believers and do it dispersedly.

He could not deny the genius in the idea. His idea. While a hundred Elevated might not miss a single follower, a single Elevated would certainly appreciate a surplus of one hundred. Even better if you cannot find them because they are scattered all over the world. And conveniently absent from any record. Who was really hurt by this after all? Whatever Orhan said, the people did not care whom they worshipped.

So Omvar went back to work. This was what he did, what he lived for. Subtly altering records, preparing faith assignments, tipping the scales of distribution. Efficiency, robustness… and maybe a little profit.