The messenger pigeons flew from Belnopyl’s towers day and night.

Sleep came sparingly to the Grand Princess of the White City, and so she filled the time with writing messages - to the boyars, to the magisters, to every freehold and citadel in her domain, and all with one direction.

Belnopyl commands its sons and daughters home.

Each message was closed in gold-flecked wax, pressed with the royal seal, and then sent to darken the skies of the battered city. And with every bird sent to the air, her mind swam through the myriad possibilities. With every day her Sight grew clearer, her mind sharper against the numbing flow of time, but still she wondered. Who will come? Who will defy Belnopyl still?

The replies came swiftly. By the third day, messages come back to Belnopyl on the wings that they left the city. Small scrolls, their contents inked by dozens of different hands, carried with them the declarations of fealty signed by names that bubbled up from the distant memories of Mariana’s tutelage.

But other messages...others returned not upon wings, but at the heads of hosts.

The first one to arrive to Belnopyl was the boyar of Gorkiy, who had sent his druzhina to ride with Ilya in the mad dash against the usurpers. As dawn broke into the seventh day, his procession emerged over the horizon, coming down the northern road in the morning mist. From the high balcony of the Great Hall she saw them arrive - fifty spears, and twice that number in bowmen, marching beneath a runic wolf. Their boyar, Gavril, rode at the front and hailed the city as he drew up to the gatehouse.

But his host was a lesser one, and only the beginning.

By the afternoon, another host had arrived, one larger, more stately. The standard-bearers carried a golden boar on red, the symbol of Ruryev, whose lands lay in the western hills. Hundreds of household guards in polished armor went before their boyar Gleb, whom her father called Clutchpurse. And behind the guards came nearly a thousand attendants - servants, squires, and grooms leading trains of packhorses burdened with provisions for a long stay.

The city the boyars came upon piecemeal was not the same as the one where she first struck her claim. Above every gate flapped new, bright banners of the House of Belnopyl, twin bears roaring their defiance to all who could see.

Those common men who had marched against Belnopyl in arms were put to work rebuilding the city they had sought to pillage. Stone and timber were plenty at hand in the ruins and the Latchwood, and idle hands made for useless, hungry mouths. The gates and curtain walls were first to be repaired. The collapsed roof and inner walls of the Great Hall were cleared, raised anew. Those prisoners who were carpenters and skilled artisans carved new statues of the gods, and painted new murals along the floors and freshly-raised walls.

In the outer city, the task of reclaiming waterlogged homes and shops went by slowly, unaided by the swelling numbers of the boyars’ hosts and their mushrooming field camps outside the city walls. The trickle of citizens returning from the safety of the countryside had slowly turned into a great flood, and with the flood of humanity came looting, fighting, and the returning specter of hunger which no number of guards could quell. Even after stripping the countryside bare and opening new lands for hunting and fishing, Vasilisa only ever heard talk of Belnopyl’s larders remaining ever short of what they needed come the winter.

Yet for all her courtiers’ talk of hunger, the reception for the lords and the growing duma would not lack for food: power and face demanded a feast for every great boyar that came to the city, and there she took in their names, their faces, their truths and their lies.

To the rest of the vast world beyond the Great Hall, she was still only Vasilisa of Belnopyl - and her powers, only those of a witch, or a sorceress. Though whether the belief came from genuine ignorance, or some thin, forced veil of normalcy, she did not know. Still, most of the boyars treated her as if she were still only a young girl, and her breaking of the siege but a stroke of good fortune. And so they tried to test her - the new lady of Belnopyl - each in their own way.

Gleb of Ruryev sought to claim the usurper Milomir’s gold mines for himself - with her blessing, of course. Another, Rostislav of Oposk, demanded tax exemptions on his copper mines in exchange for his sworn swords. The Widow of the West, Rogneda, pressed her for new roads to link her holdings to the city. Yet the boldest of them was Vissarion, a gray-bearded convert to the Solarian faith who, with a smirk beneath his heavy eyelids, asked for nothing save permission to commission a temple at the heart of her ruined city. “To bring true godliness to this place, my lady,” he had said, as though he were addressing one of his many grandsons, rather than his liege.

“And where would you have the cult of Xors go, my lord?” she had replied with a soft smile amidst the murmurs of the other boyars. “I hardly think either the Lord of Day or your western Sun would take kindly to sharing space in our city. If you are so possessed by the need for godliness, perhaps you might build your temple elsewhere - else you will fill this court with nothing but the complaints of sun-worshippers until the end of days.”

The crowd had murmured with muted laughs and jeers, but Vasilisa caught the narrowing of Vissarion’s eyes - a challenge deferred, not dismissed. Yet still, one by one, she bent all of the boyars to her will, but only just enough. Promises, carefully worded and sparingly given, were enough to keep them all placated until the Duma had assembled in full - their ambitions momentarily tethered by promises of public announcements before the united realm.

But before the Duma could be held, there was one other matter besides feasts and promises - one matter that was on the minds of all the boyars who had come to Belnopyl. Some whispered among themselves in the alcoves and wings of the Great Hall, and some were even daring enough to openly ask of it to her face.

The usurpers’ sons. What would become of them?

The day of that judgment dawned gray and bleak, the morning after the last procession of her father’s bannermen were received in the Great Hall. The low-hanging clouds weighed on the soul, and made even the strongest men feel the weight of their mortality. Good, all the better for what’s to come.

Sitting high stop her newly-built throne of dark lacquered wood, Vasilisa wore proudly the colors of the house of Belnopyl: a deep blue dress patterned with the white bear in silver embroidery, and over her shoulders a pale mantle studded with golden buttons, one for each god of the Klyazmite realm. False gods, twisted gods…but for now, they were those of her people, and so they were to be hers as well.

The high arches of the hall echoed with the murmurs of the assembling boyars, each dressed in their finery, though their expressions betrayed the unease that permeated the room. Yesugei stood quietly in one corner of the hall - clad in courtly dress of his own, yet far from the throne, standing among the lesser courtiers and attendants. The boyars recognized his heroism, but it was only under her protection that the Khormchak prince was not seized as a hostage and thrown into the same dungeons as the usurpers’ men. He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod, brushing one hand over his covered breast.

We are of one blood now, you and I, he seemed to say.

Then the brazen trumpets of the heralds sounded, and the pale light of the morning stabbed through the heavy doors as they rumbled open.

The city’s captives were brought before her in a slow procession, their chains clinking with every step. First came the druzhinniks who had surrendered - those who had thrown down their arms and sided with Belnopyl when defeat was certain, and others, who were taken into manacles at swordpoint. They were a motley group, some visibly terrified, others sullenly defiant. Vasilisa’s gaze swept over them, and then she took a careful breath.

“Re-swear your vows,” Vasilisa commanded, her voice carrying over the murmurs of the court. “Forsake your ties to the usurpers, swear yourselves to Belnopyl before the gods and your peers, and you shall be welcomed back into the realm’s peace as men, and warriors.”

The first of the druzhinniks clinked forward - a man broad-shouldered, scarred, and reeking of blood and despair. He stumbled as Demyan pushed him to his knees before her throne. The man's face was pale, but not with fear. Instead, she sensed something else behind his eyes - something terrible, and powerful.

For a moment, the druzhinnik remained silent, his head bowed. Then, as if some inner dam had broken, he fell further forward, his manacled hands scraping against the floor as he prostrated himself before her, hands laid out before him as if in prayer.

“My lady,” he gasped, hoarsely. “I have sinned. I have sinned against you and against the gods by raising my sword against Belnopyl. I was a traitor, a brute who lived only by the sword and lance, but no longer. I have seen…I have seen what you are.”

The hall fell deathly quiet, save for the sound of the man’s ragged breaths. Demyan's eyes flicked from the captive to her, his hand on the hilt of his sword, but with a lift of her finger she bade him to stand aside as the man continued to ramble.

“You are no mere lady,” the druzhinnik said, lifting his head, eyes wide and fevered. “I saw you at the siege. I saw your power - beautiful, and terrible. The others may not speak of it - they are afraid - but I will. You are more than blessed by the gods - you are their hand, sent to us to root out all that is ill in our land. And I…I wish only to serve.”

A ripple passed through the hall. The boyars shifted in their seats, exchanging uneasy glances. Vissarion turned away altogether, whispering into the ears of several boyars at his side. Others pointed at her, muttering poison among their peers. A god? But the druzhinnik spoke on, unheeding of the swirling cataclysm his every word was causing.

“I forsake my riches, my family name, everything I was before today,” the warrior declared, his voice rising to a fever pitch. “I beg of you - let me serve you, lady of Belnopyl. Let me guard the Hand of God herself. I will serve you as I never served my masters of old.”

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Vasilisa studied him for a long while, her face unreadable - she would not give the boyars any sign, not yet. Behind the calm exterior, she felt something - a stirring in the air, like the feeling just before a lightning storm. She reached out with her mind, brushing an invisible hand against the druzhinnik’s roiling thoughts. There, she sensed no fear, no the desperate plea for survival, nor the suicidal defiance that she had felt in so many of the other captives. No, this was different. This was awe. Reverence.

As her power touched his thoughts, she felt it radiating through him, a fervent, new religious belief - one that went beyond the obligations of the rituals that the priests and wise men demanded. He truly believed her to be divine. A goddess made flesh. The Hand of God. Vasilisa’s heart quickened, but outwardly, she gave no sign of the realization that had taken root within her.

Slowly, deliberately, she rose from her throne, the hem of her robe brushing against the polished stone floor. “You swear to serve me,” she said softly, her voice carrying through the hall, “forsaking all else?”

The druzhinnik lifted his gaze, eyes shining with fervor. “I do. By the gods, I swear it.”

Vasilisa extended her hand, and the druzhinnik grasped it with shaking fingers, as gently as if he were cradling a dancing flame. Then he pressed his forehead to her knuckles, and she felt his rapture consume the man utterly.

“Then rise,” she said, her tone smooth as glass. “You shall have your place among my personal guards. Protect your lady of Belnopyl, and cleanse yourself of your sin.”

The man rose, trembling, but in the wake of the rapture she felt his soul grow as hard and unyielding as iron. There would be no surrender from him, only death in her name. The druzhinnik stepped back to stand among the other warriors. A murmur of awe passed through them, but it was not fear that filled the air now. She felt it - saw it. A quiet, reverent silence had settled over the remaining prisoners.

She cast her presence out like tendrils of smoke, touching their minds one by one. And in many of them, she found the same growing fervor, the same budding belief. The lone druzhinnik’s words spread like a wildfire among them, transforming terror into even greater power. Awe, reverence, devotion.

Vasilisa recognized it immediately. Legends and rituals had power - much like how she sensed the sacrificial pyres giving strength to Gandroth. And now her own legend was spreading before her eyes. Amidst the flickering lantern light and the whispers of the court, she saw a new banner being raised, not one of earthly rule, but of something more—a banner for a new god, a god of flesh, born from the fires of war and mortal sin.

One by one, other druzhinniks began to kneel, their voices rising in a discordant chorus as they swore themselves to her name. Some cried out their own declarations of faith, joining the first druzhinnik’s cry for the Hand of God to take them into her service - others mumbled the usual oaths, terrified and ashamed of their comrades. She accepted them all with a nod - few of the men, fanatics or otherwise, would be of immediate use in battle. But what mattered more were the lands they all brought with them, and robbing the usurpers of their most powerful and mobile pieces in the field. Those druzhinniks that hesitated, and those who still proudly clung to their old oaths, were dragged back into the yard to await their fate at the end of a hangman’s noose.

Next came the magisters of Denev and Torch, who had joined the militias to the usurper lords’ cause. Stripped of the dignity of their robes and necklaces of office, they seemed little different from the druzhinniks - small, frightened men. For the druzhinniks, penance would be won with their oaths and bodies. For the magisters - that which they themselves prized the most.

“Your treachery and oathbreaking has left Belnopyl the Great a ruin of his former self,” she declared, and with every word the two magisters seemed to become smaller and smaller. “I will allow you to return to your lands and office, under arms and honors as befits your station. In exchange, the crown demands a quarter-weight of silver from every household - that is the price of freedom for you two, who drove your folk into such treachery.”

At the mention of silver, the magister of Denev - a shrewd man with a ragged beard - slowly rose back to his feet. “My lady…the toll you ask is too great!” the magister managed. “It will take-”

“You found the coin to hire freeriders, did you not?” she interjected as Demyan forced the man back to his knees - painfully. “I am no fool - you have your own hoards, your own skimmings from the tithes. You have until the coming of the first snows to pay. Else I will find someone who can.”

Finally, there came the proudest of the captive lot seized by Belnopyl. The sons of the usurper lords.

Mstislav, son of Milomir, was the first - as corpulent as his father at half his age, the young man’s face was flushed with anger and pain. His arm, crushed by a rock during the fighting beneath the walls, hung uselessly at his side - and yet it took three guards to force him to his knees before her throne. He spat curses through gritted teeth, but she paid him no mind.

Dragomir, son of Urvan, was next - a broad man with wild eyes and a snarl on his lips. As the guards forced him to knees, he lunged at one of them, trying to bite off the man’s ear. A collective gasp rang through the court, and then another when Demyan struck him across the back of the head, sending him sprawling in a heap to the floor.

Last were the sons of Zinoviy - Zvonimir, his eldest, and Bozhidar, the younger, whose wounds and fever were so severe he was borne in on a stretcher. The elder son walked under his own power, yet with the air of one who was used to walking in the shadow of his father, who had loomed so large.

When the last of them knelt, she raised a hand for silence, and the Great Hall fell into an uneasy hush. The boyars cut their prattle short as they leaned in, eager to witness the last judgement of the lady of Belnopyl.

“Above all others, treason lies heaviest on your shoulders, my lords,” she began. “You led two thousand swords against Belnopyl the Great, and you sought to crown your fathers and yourselves as kings. The gods would demand death for such treasons, and yet…”

“And yet, I am not without mercy.”

Mstislav narrowed his eyes as he studied her, Dragomir sneered. Only Zvonimir did not stir from his seeming stupor.

“There are duties, older than those of vassals to their liege,” she spoke. “The duties of daughters and sons to their fathers. I understand this - and so I offer you a choice. Denounce your fathers as traitors before the realm. Swear to never raise an army against Belnopyl in evil. Provide wards who will be tutored and raised into lords worthy of carrying on your family names. Do this, and I shall grant you pardon - your sins will never be forgotten, but you will live to see them forgiven.”

The shock rippled through the crowd. The boyars began to shout, some crying “Death! Death!”, whilst others begged for the men to accept the Princess’ mercy. Mercy of a kind it was - but one from which the men would never recover from, not the humiliation of a son denouncing his father for a traitor. Such was tantamount to treason of a different kind, one not written into any laws, but into the duties of sons to fathers.

There was a long while of shouting, the clamor of boyars and of the guards keeping the crowd at bay. The captive lords looked to and fro, in desperate search of anyone to speak for them, but if there were any among the duma, their pleas were drowned out in the noise of the crowd. Their fathers’ druzhinniks stood by impassively, now sworn to her service. Their fathers’ magisters were feeble, and already frightened after their own defiance was crushed.

Despair and terror wafted off the three men thick as smoke, and Vasilisa allowed a small smile to come to her lips as she raised her hand for silence.

Then, reluctantly, Mstislav bowed his head. “I... denounce my father,” he muttered, each word seemingly dragged out of him by force. “I denounce his treason against the crown.”

Zvonimir followed suit, though his voice was even quieter, his words laced with bitterness. “My father...a traitor. A traitor by the laws of men and lords. We were wrong to march against Belnopyl the Great - wrong to follow our fathers into their madness.”

Vasilisa nodded, satisfied. But when she turned her gaze to Dragomir, she saw defiance still alive in his eyes. He glanced first at the others, then around at the court, then back to her.

“Pft, you lot are dogs, where your fathers were wolves,” the lordling sneered. Then, his voice clear and firm, he matched her gaze and spoke. “I will not denounce my father. I will not follow this…this farce.”

The hall fell silent, the boyars watching in stunned disbelief as Dragomir took a step forward, his gaze never leaving Vasilisa’s. “And you are no liege lady of mine.”

Vasilisa narrowed her eyes. “You would choose death, then?”

Dragomir’s lips twisted into a dark smile. “Better death than the rule of a monster - these druzhinniks call you the Hand of God, but all I see is a sorceress who twists the minds of men, and cavorts with Khormchaks and bastards of all stripes. A whore.”

A gasp went up from the boyars, followed by bitter shouts and cries from the entire court. Dragomir turned slowly, screaming above the roar of the crowd, “You follow an abomination! The Whore of Belnopyl, who will bring you all to ruin! Rise against her before it is too late, before she poisons us all!”

Before he could say more, Vasilisa raised her hand and flicked it down. Guards set upon the lordling, lifting him to his feet as Demyan unsheathed his blade.

“Princess Worm!” cried Dragomir. “Queen Whore! I know who you are-”

A foot of keen steel turned words of the lord of Rylsk into an agonized gurgle. The man’s eyes widened - as if he were surprised that he was actually dying. Then he coughed again, and began to sag in the grip of the guards that held him. Dragomir of Rylsk’s reign and life ended at scarce two weeks upon the carpeted floor of the Great Hall, and then the guards dragged him into the yard.

Curses and jeering howls followed the guards as they went, but soon the excitement faded, and all that remained was a cold, awkward silence.

Then, slowly, she rose up from her throne. “This matter is over. Let it be known the price of treason is death, as it has always been in the House of Belnopyl. For those who seek penance…it begins today.”

With that, she dismissed the court. The boyars shuffled off quietly, but among them she sensed the lingering poison of Dragomir’s words - a poison that would long outlast the man himself.

No, never again. There would be no farces such as his again - and no end so clean for any who would think to level such poison against her again.

As she made her way to leave the Great Hall, something began to stir among the captives. First, it was a murmur, then a growing rumble as a handful of the druzhinniks who had sworn themselves anew to her began to chant.

"The Hand of God punishes!" one cried out, his voice reverent and trembling.

"Hand of God forgives!" another shouted.

“The Hand of God!” came the chant from the fanatics. “Mercy and blood! Vasilisa the Fair!”

With a slight smile playing at the corners of her lips, she turned and continued walking, the cries of the druzhinniks ringing behind her.

"Hand of God! Hand of God! Hand of God!"