“We often say in Sariz, ‘A bitter truth uncovered is like a wasp nest unearthed’.”

– Ethaf ak’Ladir, Proverbs & Poems

Omvar hurried through the darkened archives, lantern swaying erratically, casting wild shadows that seemed to leap at him from all sides. Undeterred (mostly), he wove through the labyrinth of bulging shelves and cabinets—row after row after row—scanning every dust-covered label for the records he sought. The inner ministerial archives were eerily still at this late hour, the only sound being Omvar’s muffled footsteps on the tiled stone floor.

He knew that he was taking a tremendous risk being in this place. If someone found him here, now, the consequences would be… unpleasant. This section was off limits for everyone except the Minister and her immediate associates. Especially off limits when it was supposed to be closed.

But he had no choice. Omvar had to find proof, concrete evidence of this plot against Ravena. And he was sure that this would also lead to answers about the war that further materialized with every passing day. Because somewhere, buried in the maze of records before him, lay the truth. Hidden in plain sight, like in any good bureaucracy. Omvar moved carefully, one ear always listening for any sounds of patrolling guards. So far, so good.

It had taken him some time to find a way inside the place. Weeks of, mostly fruitless, investigation before he had even thought of simply checking the believer reallocation records. Not that ‘simply’ had any place in a sentence that involved the ministerial archives. Practically the heart of his entire organization.

Omvar had thought of elaborate distractions or even learning to lockpick. In the end, it was good old bribery that did the trick. A hefty sum of gold coins had silenced the archive’s guardian. A frail, half-blind old man who would rather have the extra coin than keep a more vigilant eye on the sacred documents that were entrusted to him. Lax security, if anyone asked him. Though not that too many discontents would be eager to wade through centuries of administrative minutiae.

In his mind, Omvar again retraced the sequence of events that brought him here at such a late hour. The cryptic records pointing to a systematic draining of Ravena’s believers. That military build-up, aggressively expanding forces loyal to the Tetrarchy. And now, hushed whispers of war on the continent, troop movements west to east and north to south shrouded in secrecy, and of course these strange deaths of Elevated in the Concordate and the continent. Individually, any one incident could be dismissed as happenstance. But, together, the pattern was undeniable.

These last weeks had been a blur of paranoia and obsession for Omvar. He had barely slept, had spent every waking moment searching for clues to expose the conspiracy that threatened to consume everything he thought he knew. Everything he loved. His work suffered, naturally. Performance reviews noted his ‘declining focus.’ He noticed the hushed conversations of his colleagues, which mysteriously halted whenever he approached. The pitying side glances. He was beyond caring. Something was unfolding, something bad, and he would uncover the truth. No matter the cost.

At last, Omvar located the section he needed—financial records of the Ministry of Faith. The originals. Most of it was innocuous, even downright boring—budgets, expenditures, payroll. Stuff that was so potent at making your eyes glaze over that it absolutely should be sealed away from unsuspecting administrators.

But then something caught his eye—a box of ledgers, labeled ‘Asset Allocation and Distribution.’ There it was. He riffled through them and finally found the ledger that documented the allocation of believers across the greater Kel region. Hands shaking with anticipation, Omvar grabbed the heavy tome and began to flip through its pages.

There! It did not take long to spot it again—that same pattern of subtle shifts, each budgetary cycle, redirecting some of Ravena’s believers to other Elevated. It was easy to miss—redistributions happened all the time, after all, even for Delegates—cleverly disguised as it was amidst all the mundane figures and statistics. Whoever had done this had been patient, paying attention to not make it too obvious. But the deliberate nature of the whole thing was unmistakable, and could only mean one cause—sabotage. Omvar was just about to heave the ledger onto the ground, to copy it, when he paused.

Wait.

There was more here. Omvar’s eyes flitted across a deluge of numbers, mentally plotting a trend while he read. Yes, that was it. The allocation manipulation had sharply increased just a few weeks ago. He quickly back-calculated some dates. Omvar gasped in surprise as the pieces clicked into place and he forgot the need for silence for a moment.

The date at which re-allocations began to spike was just about when the preparations for war had been announced. That could not be a coincidence. There had to be a connection. It sounded crazy—even in his head—but it seemed like the people responsible wanted to get rid of Ravena before the war. They wanted Ravena weakened, vulnerable. What did that man say again? It has to happen before the fleet is ready.

This was the how and the why. Now to find out the who.

He narrowed his eyes at the last entries in the ledger. The signature on the order for re-allocation seemed unfamiliar. Omvar knew most of his colleagues at the Ministry, yet none of them had authorized this order. Intrigued, he looked closer. The slanted rectangle next to the signature indicated an outside contractor, a service the Ministry occasionally tapped into when demand for restructuring spiked. Amateurs. Like most of his colleagues, Omvar looked down on these non-Ministry faith workers.

Still, if he wanted to find out who orchestrated this whole thing, he had to first figure out which contractor had been chosen for the job.

Omvar frantically flipped through the other ledgers, fingers trembling, following the lead. So close now. In a folder on Ministry contractors, he finally found something—payment records for ‘religious reorganization services.’ That same unfamiliar signature endorsed these transactions, to mark the ‘funds received’ field. The Pallas Brotherhood. Omvar frowned. Why did that sound familiar?

Following a gut feeling, Omvar reached for his notebook, hidden among the folds of his robes. He flipped through the worn pages as his eyes scanned the meticulously recorded details of his investigation, until he reached the section about Kel’s Delegates. Thavos, Iskam, Lavelle, … There he was. Leftos.

Omvar had painstakingly traced a part of the complex web of relationships, proxies, and shell companies that Leftos had woven over the years. It looked like someone dropped a ball of wool on the ground, stomped on it a few times, and then placed a shining hub at its center. Omvar’s heart pounded as he found a thin line connecting the Delegate—that radiating sun at the center of the page—with a little blob at the periphery. ‘Pallas Brotherhood, shell company.’

He stared at the notebook for a moment longer, before he turned back to the unfamiliar signature in the ledger. Could it be? It really was Leftos. Here was concrete evidence that a Kelian Delegate was involved in the redistribution of Ravena’s believers. Concrete evidence that he was not just paranoid, not just out of his mind.

Omvar could scarcely believe what he was seeing. The implications were explosive. If he exposed this, the consequences could shake the Tetrarchy to its very core. He wondered how the other Delegates—how the Tetrarch and Tarene—would react to this information. Standard procedure in such a case would be to slowly withdraw the believer support from the secretly convicted Delegate before he or she could face justice, to avoid a civil war or worse. The irony did not escape Omvar.

Working quickly, he gathered the incriminating documents and copied them by candlelight, using a portable inking kit he had brought. The hot candlewax dripped onto his shaking fingers while he worked. He ignored the pain. In his haste, his hands left smudges on the copies, but the evidence was clear. This was dangerous knowledge, but also power—over Leftos and the entire rotten system. Finally.

Omvar allowed himself a grim smile. The worm was about to turn. Hastily, he returned the originals exactly as he had found them. He did not want to lose the element of surprise, after all, until he was ready to release this information. After the last heavy crate of documents was heaved back onto its shelf, Omvar wiped his sweat-beaded forehead. He had what he needed. After he blew out his lantern, he slipped away into the night unseen.

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As he reached the door to the corridor, Omvar noticed the guardian of the archives, slumped on his chair. Loud snoring made clear how vigilant the man was in his duties. Omvar stifled a laugh, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention. After he left the archives, he halted at an intersection for a moment.

Left to his office, straight for Orhan’s office, right for the exit to the city, toward Ravena’s residence. His gaze flicked between the options, fingers restless at this side.

Omvar turned right.

He quickly strode through the dark streets of Kel, straight toward Ravena’s mansion in the Upper Mervian District. By now, she must have surely noticed that her powers waned. Or did she? Staying within the capital, Ravena rarely had cause to use her abilities. Only the rare urgent communication required her talents, and a lower maximum range might not really be apparent, at first. Regardless, he had to show her what he uncovered. Warn Ravena about the plot against her.

Omvar was no fool. He knew their relationship was complicated—to put it mildly—that she manipulated him as much as she desired him. But what he had just witnessed in the archives crossed a line. She needed to know. She had a right to know.

He finally arrived in front of the familiar metal gates and started to pound on the door set into the gates, heedless of the late hour. A servant opened the door a crack. In his mind, Omvar rolled his eyes. Teve. The old crone decidedly did not approve of his ‘involvement’ with her mistress and used every opportunity to communicate said disapproval to him. Her generally irritable expression, reserved for such a late-night visitor, intensified as she recognized him.

Just as Teve was about to launch into one of her famous tirades, Omvar pushed her aside, snuck through the entrance, and sprinted toward Ravena’s private wing. Alarmed cries from the guards posted around the mansion followed in his wake. But they were too slow. He reached the adorned wooden door in a few heartbeats and again knocked frantically.

A somewhat disheveled looking Ravena opened it, wearing an emerald silken night gown. Annoyance transformed into surprise when she saw Omvar. “What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded, a slight smile curving her lips.

Wordlessly, Omvar showed her his notebook and watched her expression morph yet again, first to shock and then to rage, as she read the evidence he had copied. “That treacherous snake!” she hissed. “That slimy little man. Meddling with forces beyond his grasp.” She looked up from the notes, eyes flashing. “How long have you known about this?”

Omvar held up his hands placatingly. “I only discovered his involvement tonight, in the ministerial archives. I swear. I came straight here to warn you.”

Ravena’s gaze bored into him, as if trying to detect any deception. Omvar felt a trickle of sweat wind its way down his back. Was he that out of shape or was that woman scary?

Finally, she nodded and seemed to accept his words. Ravena waved off her guards, who had formed a safety perimeter around Omvar while they spoke. She turned back toward her chamber, Omvar in tow. Inside, she sighed heavily and began to pace, shaking her head. “This changes things. Openly moving against a fellow Delegate? Leftos has overplayed his hand this time.”

Omvar chose not to quibble over how ‘openly’ Leftos’ covert scheming seemed to him. Let’s stay alive for a few more days at least, he decided. All that mattered was the proof in any case. He could practically see her racing thoughts from the outside. Ravena paused, deep in thought. Then she suddenly turned to Omvar with a sly grin. “But this awful man has now given me the perfect opportunity to remove a thorn in my side that has vexed me for far too long.”

A wary look crossed Omvar’s face as his eyes narrowed slightly. He had witnessed firsthand the lengths Ravena would go to against those who had crossed her. Usually, the concerned party did not last too long. Come to think of it, ‘party’ really was an extremely unfitting word to raise in the context of the… unpleasantness that Ravena unleashed on those who had wronged her. “What will you do?” he asked, unable to keep the suspicious concern out of his voice.

“Oh, I have plans for our dear Leftos,” Ravena smiled, white teeth showing, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Believe me, he’ll regret the day he targeted me. But first...” She stepped closer to Omvar and ran a finger along his jawline. “I believe some gratitude is in order, for uncovering his naughty behavior.”

Omvar swallowed hard, desire and apprehension warring within him. “Ravena, I—”

She cut him off by pressing her body against his. “Come now, Omvar. Let’s not play games anymore.” Her lips found his, urgent and demanding. Rational thought fled Omvar’s mind as he returned her kiss hungrily. His heart pounded in his chest—the adrenaline from the discovery still coursing through his veins, mixing intoxicatingly with passion—as Ravena pushed him on her bed.

Laying tangled in Ravena’s sheets, Omvar woke.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed, but it still seemed to be dark outside. He stretched contentedly, drifting somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Forgetting all his worries for a brief, precious moment.

A distant corner of mind noticed rustling sounds coming from the foot of the bed. Wait. He was alone in the bed. Where was Ravena? More rustling. Finally, Omvar propped himself up and spotted Ravena as she was getting dressed. And really dressed this time, not just her night gown from earlier. Despite the late hour, the woman was preparing to leave.

“Where are you going?” he asked, sleep still slurring his words.

Ravena looked up and smiled secretively as she fastened her cloak. “Was I not thorough enough in my gratitude? Back to bed with you. I have some business to attend to.”

Unease flickered through Omvar and melted away his sleepiness in an instant. “Ravena, promise me that you won’t do anything rash. Leftos is dangerous.”

“So am I,” she walked over and stroked his face, her expression unreadable. “Trust me, Omvar. Everything I do is for the good of Kel. For us.” With a final searing kiss, she swept from the room and gently closed the door behind her.

Left alone, the room suddenly felt too large—too cold—as Omvar lay amongst the opulent silk sheets. Where did the contentment go that he had felt just moments ago? A deep sense of unease lingered at the edges of his consciousness now, as he tried to convince himself that everything was under control. He had found proof, he had warned Ravena. Everything would be fine… right?

Now he sat at the edge of the bed, feet dangling. Alone in the expansive room, Omvar’s eyes lazily took in its details in the low, flickering candlelight. It was a comforting feeling of familiarity. The lush velvet drapes, the intricately carved furniture—even the plush fur rug that reached up to his bare feet—everything practically screamed Ravena, in both taste and affluence. He looked up at the ceiling, where the elaborate carvings cast a twisted maze of shadows against the dim backdrop. He must have seen it a hundred times over the years. Omvar smiled contentedly. Everything would be alright.

Then his wandering gaze fell on Ravena’s massive mahogany desk—a world in itself—strewn with letters, ledgers, and maps. For a moment, it felt almost like the light of the moon shone on its mountainous surface. Among the usual chaos of her work, a neatly placed letter caught his attention, its wax seal broken. That looked like… the Tetrarch’s seal, if he was not mistaken. Information from the very top? Maybe there was something useful about the war machinations in there. If he could additionally tie Leftos to engineering a whole war… Intrigue gnawed at him; a forbidden allure that was too potent to resist. Surely Ravena would understand, would she not? Curiosity piqued, Omvar decided to take a closer look.

He rose from the bed, casting off the silk sheets. The cool air kissed his bare skin, sending a slight shiver down his spine. Omvar padded across the room to her desk and casually picked up the parchment. It had sat just atop the pile, as if it had been recently reviewed. Maybe even just when he barged in here with his findings? Careless of Ravena to leave something like this lying around, but then again, he did barge in here unannounced.

His heart doubled over as he read the first words on the page. It was indeed a letter from Feldar. And it did outline a detailed plan for a campaign on the continent. Everything he had hoped for. This was almost too good to be true. A sketch of the continent was attached to the letter, with certain regions marked for what looked like possible choices for attack, and numbers detailing a breakdown of expected resource gains versus likely investment costs.

Omvar continued to read, and a sinking feeling slowly burgeoned in his stomach. Feldar was referring to a plan here that they evidently had made previously, concerning Ravena’s believers. Collecting them and bringing them along with the army as a special unit. Giving Ravena control over them. An army of her faithful. Making her a living god in all but name. Anathema in the Tetrarchy, everything their rules and regulations to mitigate Elevated power were meant to stand against.

He felt dizzy, as if he had risen too fast, as the implications of the correspondence sank in. Given all this, it was hard to believe that Ravena was entirely innocent of this plan. Feldar’s tone was not that of a superior ordering a plan, but of a co-conspirator confirming details. Even inquiring for further suggestions. Who was the real leader here? And this had been happening right under his nose. Perhaps even while he was risking his job—possibly his life—to uncover Leftos’ treachery in archives that were strictly forbidden to him.

Omvar could scarcely believe what he was seeing. He found himself re-reading the lines, hoping against hope that he was misinterpreting the words. But who was he kidding? It was there, in stark black ink—the woman he had been protecting was playing a far deadlier game than he had realized.

Ravena—his beloved Ravena—was stirring a war. Using her followers as pawns. Angling for true godhood. The icy realization pierced his heart like a dagger.

He hastily returned the letter, the noise disproportionately loud in the otherwise silent room. His mind went numb as his heartbeat was fueled by a mix of anger, disbelief, and betrayal. Omvar moved away from the desk. Every step echoed in the silent chamber, resonating with his throbbing pulse. The room swirled around him. He felt a dull ache spread from his chest, starkly contrasting the euphoria he had experienced what felt like an eternity ago.

Omvar sank back onto the bed, his gaze drawn to the ceiling once more. But now, the intricate carvings seemed menacing, the twisted maze a mirror of his own life. His world had been turned upside down in the span of moments and he felt unmoored, adrift in a sea of treachery and shock. The room suddenly seemed too small, walls closing in on him, each breath more difficult to draw. He was alone.

Alone.