A wrinkled half-king on his throne of dust.

Tonberg was a city at the end of its rope. What little time had been bought by the Gildwyrm’s miraculous appearance had been spent wallowing in the dredges of a once-illuminated country. The blade of poverty struck deep as lush farmlands to the south were razed by the Order. From those smouldering fires crept the fiend of unrest, stoked by emigration and thievery.

A king was all of his land. The verdant forests his locks and the hustle-bustle of commoners his raging blood. Alistair’s dominion was that very same reflection of his soul. It was dark. His city was rotten and decrepit; his people sickly, poor and furious. All that remained of lost glory was the king’s astounding confidence in the face of annihilation. A sickly glue pulling together Tonberg’s walls.

The rain hadn’t stopped for days. Lieze hated the cold. An uncomfortable dampness soaked into her boots as she broke puddle after puddle underfoot. In the distance, over the crowned flourishes of abandoned homes, a coalition of voices could be heard clashing against the wind.

It was her doing. The silence. The cold. A great flare of the heart brought her incomparable warmth - opportunism and mindfulness stirring within her skull as she glanced from one end of the street to another.

She came to a stop and lingered in the rain. It wasn’t long after when two silhouettes emerged from the fog, cowls shifting in the breeze. Curls of sunset hair poked out from beneath the tallest visitor’s hood. He was an inexperienced and worrisome man. Observations made manifest by the nasally timbre of his voice.

“Guards everywhere at the gate. Many guards.” Marché shuddered, “This is madness. The risks are too great. Even if we do kill Alistair, there’s no guarantee we’ll escape the city alive.”

“How very much like you, to complain before even saying hello.” Lieze replied, “Madness, you say? Perhaps. But unlike the affected and desperate whims of zealots, madness has always been the business of necromancers. What may pass, will pass, and the world will carry on.”

“Is that all there is to it?” He paused, “...We live, and then we die? No matter how feverishly you covet death, surely you’ll regret not having accomplished more.”

“We accomplish what we must on the path to enlightenment.” Lieze answered, “This is the true ‘weakness’ of the Order. A brilliant willingness to die, and through death, serving the needs of the individual. But he who strives authentically to shatter the yoke of suffering will not be content with saving only himself.”

“Hm… so the Order is secretly a very charitable and humane group?” He replied.

“It’s not my duty to teach you our ways. The worthy will take our ideals to heart and act upon them, whereas the weak can only reach for excuses.” Lieze said, “Today will be the day to see your worthiness, Marché, and whether or not your loyalty to the Order is true.”

There was a flash of duty in his eyes. A willingness to cooperate. Drayya observed the unfolding conversation with intrigued silence. If there was one ally in no need of convincing, it was her. She was positively salivating at the opportunity to spread death.

“What about Alma?” She posed that question expectantly.

“She has her duties. Not as important as ours, but important enough.” Lieze answered, “I would rather not place her in harm’s way. She’s decidedly unlike a necromancer, which is more helpful of a tool than I think you understand.”

“So that leaves us to risk our lives for the sake of the Order?”

“Indeed it does.” She nodded, “I intend to strike quite a few things off our list today. Isn’t this precisely what you wanted? A chance to expose ourselves fully to the spears and spellcraft of the Church? A violent clashing of the living and the dead?”

“Taunt me all you like. I revel in each and every opportunity to strike down those who oppose us.” Drayya smirked, “But the question remains - have you prepared for this day accordingly? One small mistake, and we could be looking at the end of our ambitious journey.”

Drayya was never pleased by anything - a trait she inherited from Lieze’s father. It was in her nature to prod and question about the littlest things. Her nagging came from a place of reserved interest. She preferred a plan to be as airtight as possible.

“We won’t make any mistakes, then.” Lieze replied, “We’ve wasted enough time chatting. If we delay any further, Alistair’s speech will be over before we can reach the square.”

It was the day of something or other. A festival of the Sovereign Cities celebrating muddied beliefs of togetherness and prosperity. Alistair’s public appearance was his very first since forcing Ricta to abdicate the throne, and one the citizens of Tonberg had been awaiting with bated breath.

Incoherent ramblings conjoined into a storm of voices as Lieze and her comrades approached the square. Just about the entire city had turned up to witness the good king’s address - a convenient excuse for Alistair to surround himself with a ring of spears and plate mail. Gaps formed in the crowd to make way for the gargantuan steeds mounted by Green Dragon Knights patrolling the event’s perimeter.

“Honestly… could we be any more suspicious in our black hoods?” Marché sighed as they approached the square, “This is a poor idea… I don’t know if we’re ready to do this.”

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Drayya elbowed his shoulder, “Didn’t you hear what Lieze said? This is an important day for you. Either prove yourself useful to the Order or be cursed to death when our legions overrun the city. It’s your choice to make.”

Lieze wasn’t paying attention to the duo’s antics, instead focusing on the attitude of the crowd, which surged like a wave as the guards stationed in front of the fountain pushed back against any confident dissenters. From the chaos of opinion, she could glean more criticism than praise - demands to justify the swift and intolerant justice enacted by priests across the city, or an explanation for why a Saint was sitting upon the throne rather than the blessed Dragon Priest.

“This is the domain he was willing to betray his charge for?” Lieze muttered, “A city of loud-mouthed commoners demanding this and that… I could never be a politician.”

A scramble for control in a world gone mad. Those red-faced commoners understood little of the conspiracy developing under their feet. Lieze understood the likes of Alistair well - conniving fools prepared to sacrifice anything for a chance at glory. Stubbornness in the face of defeat which rivalled her own.

“...Are the thralls in place?” Drayya whispered in her ear.

“They are.” She answered, “The gates are barren. A few footsoldiers and nothing more. We’ll never have a better chance to launch an attack - as much as I’m sure Alistair is expecting it.”

“What about your sewer-dwellers?”

“In position.” Lieze replied, “Look to the left - do you see that alleyway? One group will emerge from there, and a second from another at the opposite end of the square. Do not aid them. It is not our duty to create this diversion. We are only here to observe and attract attention.”

Beneath the rainy streets, Marché’s followers dwelled. Lieze’s idea of utilising the city’s sewers to the cult’s advantage had turned out to be one of the best decisions she’d ever made. With time to spare before the day’s events, she had dropped by the mass grave in the eastern district to raise a small army of Gravewalkers - a feat made possible by the technique she’d learned from the flesh-bound tome.

“Marché.”

“...What is it?” His expression was flat.

“Take this.”

With some discretion, Lieze held a dagger out to him, “I’ve noticed you don’t carry a weapon. Today is the day you’ll be changing that habit. When the time comes, I expect you to take our first victim.”

“...I understand.”

Lieze’s dagger had served her well over the course of her life, but she had no connection to it. For a necromancer, it was imperative not to become sentimental over the trivialities of possession. She had another weapon tucked into her Bag of Holding - the sword she’d stolen from Ricta - as well as enough blood to see her through that day and more.

Minutes later, the guards surrounding Alistair slammed their spears into the ground simultaneously, causing silence to spread outwards from the crowd. Ravenous dissention quickly turned to disappointed whispering as the formation of soldiers shifted to allow Alistair purchase towards the crowd.

“My loyal subjects…” His voice was being amplified by sorcery. The woeful screeching of his vocal chords only exaggerated his advanced age, “The Day of Grace is upon us. A day of gratitude. A day of faith. A day of togetherness and prosperity. Were it that I could will these joys upon you, but I am no more a man than the humble carpenter, or blacksmith, or baker. Before he is loved, a king must first prove himself. I will not abandon you in these dark times, as the cowardly Ricta did, but strive to eliminate the executors of our cruel fate at the very source.”

Nothing he said was more believable than the sort of prattle Tonberg’s citizens were much too used to hearing. Like all leaders, he desired nothing but approval.

“I would rather stick a rod of white-hot iron into my ears than listen to another second of this…” Drayya muttered “How much longer must we wait?”

“Have patience. I instructed Marché’s followers to exercise caution, and that’s precisely what they’re doing.” Lieze replied, “The time will come. Until then, consider your first targets and strike quickly. Aim for the weakest first - women, children and the like.”

“Such cruelty…” She grinned, “Is your heart so immovable that not even the young are spared from your wrath? You may never have been destined for necromancy, but I can tell Master Sokalar has tutored you more thoroughly than any other member of the Order. His wickedness is a veil that suits you well.”

Drayya’s half-challenging tone faltered as her gaze shot elsewhere, “Wha- Lieze!”

It wasn’t like her to sound so troubled, which made it all the more important that Lieze capture the object of her worry immediately. She didn’t need to look far - there was only one place worth a customary glance.

There, on the chalk-white stepping stones leading up to the fountain’s edge, stepped forward two guards dragging someone by both arms. It was a sight she had become accustomed to during her last visit to the city. But every civilian she had seen being made an example of remained faceless and inconsequential. The shamed face being touted around like a trophy on the fountain, however, was one she recognised immediately.

“...Alma.”

The girl’s pale skin was stained with violet bruises. Her upper lip was swollen and split near the centre. Shortened tips denoted the areas where a candle or some other flame had been put to her hair. All that remained of her garments were ragged scraps. Her astounding innocence had been flayed by thorough and loving violence.

Lieze felt a hand on her shoulder.

“I recall you saying you didn’t place her in harm’s way?” Marché spoke with venom in his tone, “What is this, then? She looks like she’s spent a month in the castle dungeons!”

“I only sent her to keep an eye on Alistair’s movements as he proceeded down from the castle.” Lieze replied, unaffected, “She should have been able to blend in with the crowds. Either she tried something painfully foolish, or the Church already had its suspicions about her. Considering this is Alma we’re speaking about, I’d place my bet on the latter.”

“Fine, then. But more importantly - how are we going to help her?”

As Lieze spun around to face Marché, she could see a maelstrom of emotions fermenting beneath his sensitive nature. He was a fine diamond in the rough, especially for one who had spent a fruitful life beyond the Order’s isolation, but a tad emotional for Lieze’s liking. She knew of her father’s teachings well enough to recognise the situation as a critical juncture in the development of his craft.

With a plain expression, she tilted her head.

“...Help her?”