A church sanctioned a caravan out of the Abbey to a travel hub town, to a merchant troop that happened to have an empty spot in their covered wagons between crates. That led to a chicken monger moving live cargo northward. Unfortunately for Sam, that was the longest arrangement he had made. It took him all the way to the gate of The Throne. All of these vehicles and the inn and hotel rooms that broke them up over several nights were all painfully traded for the wave of a gold slip of paper indicating that the Church would, one day, pay these people back.

And while most of the golden slips were accepted with smiles and praises, there were a few where the offering party squinted, studied the sheet of parchment, dwelled on the idea for a handful of miniature lifetimes, then nodded to Sam and snatched the golden slip.

The chicken keeper was part of the former party, which proved to be a mixed blessing. The farmer urged Sam to sit in the front of the cart, and he proceeded to tell and endless chain of intertwining stories. On the first day of their travels, these stories were fascinating anecdotes from a time and place Sam had had no contact with, but on day two, the stories revealed themselves to simply be pastiches of “went to this city, sold this product, until this event, when we moved to this city.” And on day three, the stories began to repeat.

“That’s about the time that the Wrath Liches showed up, though, and me and the missus had to pack up and move all the way to Duskfall. The Church of the Will wanted to offer help in moving, but the Verdant had shown up, too, and demanded their assistance since the Liches were closing in. So we got one paladin and a handful of gold and were sent on our way,”

“Not to blame the Church or anything!” the man said, genuinely. This was the third time he had mentioned the Wrath Liches during their trip, and he still watched his tongue when he got to this part of the story. “It was a rough time for all of us, you know?”

“Only barely,” Sam replied with courtesy. “I only heard about Dorvan during my schooling.”

“You’re a lucky boy, then. Rough days! Rough days. Luckily, everyone in the country needs eggs. Even those bookworms in Duskfall. So, there we were on the road West…”

And that was that! Sam had given the driver his unimportant two cents and the story picked back up and Sam let his mind wander again. The young paladin had been away from the Throne for nearly six years now. He had not seen his family at all, and barely shared a letter with anyone but his older sister.

He felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety about seeing them all again. Six years is a long time, and just in reading her writings, he could tell his sibling had matured and changed quite a bit. And his younger sister? Mother? Father? Would they even recognize each other? The stress caused the scar on his chest to tingle, as if a number of spiders scrambled across the knotted, discolored flesh over his heart. The sensation reminded Sam that he, too, had changed a lot. Reflexively, Sam rubbed his scar over his shirt. The pins and needles feeling did not abate.

The only place Sam had no anxiety was in his excitement to see how The Throne had changed. It seemed that no matter the season, no matter the day, something within the city’s vaulted tunnels and soaring parapets was clad in scaffolding, artisans scrambling about like worker bees tending to their hive, literally changing the face of the mountain metropolis with every strike of their mallets. The culture would have to have changed as well. The nomad parties of Kraag’s Host that drift in and out of the Upper March would have massive impacts on the way daily life was run in the city. Shopping stalls, food carts, clothing, and snacks would all be brought in the atriums and open spaces of The Throne and no matter if the nomads stayed for a week or a year, something of theirs would be left behind. The women would wear their scarves in a new way, or the men would start wearing a new style of hat, or a new spice would become a grocery staple. The Throne was a boiling and churning stew of the March’s cultures and Sam missed that so much in the uniformity and uptight cultural sanitation of the Abbey.

“But it was just too loud for the baby in Crossroads, there,” the farmer said. “But- Ah, wait a second! There she is!” He nodded up ahead of the cart, far down the winding road.

On the horizon, the purple shades of distant mountains that had been growing more and more opaque against the sky were getting detailed as they approached, and in the center, immediately down the road, was a closer mountain than the rest, oddly shaped when compared to the stout crags all around them.

When Sam saw his hometown, the anxiety dried and crumbled away. It took all the self control he had to keep from yelping with glee as the Throne slowly took shape with every turn of the cart’s wheels.

“Such a beautiful city, The Throne is!” the farmer said, grinning when he saw Sam’s smile. “Impressive, eh? You ever seen it before?”

“I’m from there,” Sam replied with a nod.

“Oh! Lucky man, getting duty at home!”

“Yessir,” Sam said, the excitement bubbling up more and more.

“You know I’m from a little town in the south west parts of the grasslands,” the farmer began, turning the clock back twelve whole hours on his story telling. Sam could not mind, though, as his attention was completely focused on the growing shape of the Throne.

It could not have been long before the grander details of the Throne came into focus on the horizon. Formerly a singular, lone mountain peak thrusting out of the rippling foothills miles out from the mountain range proper, The Throne had been shaped over ages of magical and architectural efforts into a massive chair. Seated atop it were the remains of the avatar of Gessel, the deity of civilization and the Dreamer whose Will the Church stands to enforce.

During the days the avatar was filled with Gessel’s spark of life, the Dreamer traveled across the grasslands. He visited tribes of mortals and helped them create wonderful cities and societies and used his mighty strength to lay low the forces of chaos and lawlessness. The lands stomped flat by the colossal god’s footfalls came to be called the Holy March, and at the end of the avatar’s time on this plane, he strode to the lone mountain. The stones, weathered and worn by the elements, became the avatar’s resting place.

So the Church of the Will got to work, shaping the mountain beneath the avatar, which, without Gessel’s spark, turned to stone just barely different from the stones of the mountain itself, into a throne fitting the Lord of Society.

Grand, gold-roofed towers, cavernous common areas filled with shops and restaurants, massive corridors with living quarters and apartments, and in the center of it all is the one corridor that goes to the avatar’s body, which was built into the Cathedral of the Will, the seat of the church’s highest powers. A jewel of mortal ingenuity that even the people from the empires across the sea marvel at.

Sam was finally getting the chance to go home and see it all first hand once again.

Despite the city coming into view for the first time early in the morning, it was early evening when they finally arrived at the gates. They may have been able to arrive earlier if the traffic on the path had been lighter. Just on the road itself, it was the biggest crowd Sam had seen since he began training at the Abbey. The cart of clucking livestock trundled up toward the shear eastern face of the Throne which was fashioned into the city’s main entrance, the primary path leading first toward the city’s south face then gently curve around to the side allowing visitors the chance to marvel at the still vaguely humanoid shape of the avatar’s former body.

The gate was named so only in its function as an entrance to the city, for there were no doors in the world large enough to close the massive entrance into the Throne’s prime atrium. Paladins in pristine armor stood at regular intervals across the gate, controlling the flow of people in and out of the city. Despite the sun quickly setting, the gate was still rather crowded.

“Uh, could we pass one of those guards kind of slowly?” Sam asked as they approached.

“Of course, friend!”

The cart wheeled toward the gate, the farmed pulling lightly on the reins to slow the horse’s trot.

“Welcome to the Throne, gentlemen,” the nearest guard said, smiling under his bucket-helm.

“Thank you very much,” Sam responded. “I am Corporal Bleedingheart and I’m to check in for duty in the Back City.”

“Ah, welcome, Corporal. Yes, for you, you’ll want to go to the Back City Mission. They are open all hours, so even if you get there late tonight someone should be able to welcome you.”

“Great, thank you,” Sam said, sitting back against the cart’s seat. He was disappointed. The Back City was so far away from his home that there was no chance he would be able to continue living in his own bedroom. It would take him the entire day to commute to and from the mission if that were the case. But at least he was in the same part of the continent as his family now.

His optimism was validated as the farmer continued their forward roll into the prime atrium. The floor was polished and painted with a massive mural of a bursting star, mirrored from the ceiling by a huge chandelier of cut precious stones that sparkled and glinted, refracting the light of a massive burning shining glyph kept alight magically in its center. The glares and flashes of light danced across the atrium’s three massive levels, each crowded with night market activity, with massive corridors splintering off to all of the different areas of the semi-subterranean city.

People of all walks of life as described by their lavish clothing, or lack thereof, scurried to and fro, clambering aboard mechanical lifts to the upper levels or onto transit carts, wooden boards detailing the circuit that the cart would carry its passengers on throughout the city.

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The sheer amount of activity was refreshing to Sam. He forgot how much he missed the vibrancy of the city’s life. “So, where will you be headed, sir?” Sam asked his driver.

“Oh, I have an inn set up on the far side of the atrium here,” the man said, gesturing as a cart approached ahead of them, its wooden board reading “Back City.” “Where do you need to go, Sam?”

“This will be fine, sir. Thank you! And remember, just present that slip to a bank of the church!” Sam hopped from the cart and hurried to the back as the transit cart began to load its new passengers.

“Do you need a hand there?” the farmer asked as Sam worked to pull his equipment trunk from amidst the poultry in the back, grimacing as the paladin noticed the volume of chicken droppings that had fallen onto the chest.

“No thank you,” Sam grunted as he tried to maneuver the box without putting his hand in any still-wet droppings. “I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me, sir. Good luck to you!”

“And to you, boy!”

Sam hurried to the transit cart, smiling as the farmer waved and continued down the atrium.

“Back City,” the cart’s driver said with an unenthusiastic nod as Sam tried to push his trunk on.

“Yes, thank you!” Sam replied before climbing on himself. With a deep breath, he took a look at his fellow passengers, then with a guilty twinge of pity, remembered what life in the Back City meant.

Clothing worn thin by age, moth eaten in places, dreadfully in need of replacement, rested on the shoulders of even the most well-off of the passengers, though all of them looked like they could use a more frequent meal. While none of them looked exceptionally morose, there was no questioning the transit cart had a slightly more dreary atmosphere than the rest of the atrium.

The Back City was formerly a sort of tent village that the vagabonds had set up in the shade of the Throne. These men and women did all they could to eak out a survival in the shadows of the God of Society, selling trinkets or snacks to the architects and guards, offering to clean the atriums in the late night, or working as cooks or butlers in the homes of the nobility.

Eventually the tent village took root. The tents were replaced by wooden shacks. The shacks to houses. But the quality of life never improved. The chilly clime of life in the Throne’s shadow kept it as a more unsavory place to live compared to inside the city, so prices for homes in Back City stayed low. The Throne’s homes prices stayed high. And lower income individuals were thus relegated to the Back City. It was no small wonder why people would be protesting the Church of the Will, whose members live amongst the wealthy inside the Throne’s stone walls. But Sam would definitely have to learn to get used to it.

A long and thin tunnel served as the only method to reach the Back City from inside the Throne without exiting and going all the way around. The tunnel was barely wide enough for two carts, and several times, the transit cart would come to a complete stop so it could finagle its way past oncoming traffic.

Dimly lit by the flicker of glyph lamps, the long tunnel was drab, grim, and stunk lightly of mildew and the smell of pooling mana. Weary from so long on the road and the emotional excitement of the morning paired harshly with the atmosphere and the silence of the passengers in the cart to soundly destroy Sam’s good mood.

With no end in sight of the tunnel, Sam was feeling his deepest regrets. He looked down with a guilty envy for the men and women dragging their feet through the tunnel as they walked back toward the cheerful and brightly lit atriums. Here he was going further from the warmth and happiness, and into the cold and the unrest. Into a workplace he had no point of reference for, and into his first days of true self-dependence.

What a nightmare.

Just as the dismal thoughts began to grow unbearable, the tunnel came to an end. There was a blast of fresh air as the cart broke free and Sam gulped it down as hard as he could. The other passengers’ reactions were unnoticeable if they even existed. Some of them looked as though they could have died on the ride and there would have been no change in appearance.

Despite the tunnel’s ceiling no longer looming overhead, the close stucco walls of Back City’s buildings were only a slight relief to the narrow passage, and with rough, rusted iron glyph lamps lining the way, and the Throne blocking the moonlight, the Back City was no brighter than the tunnel was.

Sam had never spent much time in the Back City at his mother’s urging. It was a notoriously dangerous area if the rumors could be believed, and at the very least, was a chore to travel to and from. Sam was trying his best to remain objective about the area, but the despaired looks of the men and women in the streets and in the cart with him made it hard for him to stay positive.

“We’re coming up on Mission Square, ladies and gents,” the driver muttered, just barely loud enough to be heard. The other passengers began to gather their things as the street began to widen on either side. The driver grabbed a small line of twine by his side and tugged it, causing the wooden sign to flip to read “Prime Atrium.” The flicker of jealousy returned.

But it was squelched when Sam saw the Back City Mission. It was larger and cleaner than the other buildings, well lit, to boot. It looked just as warm and welcoming as any of the buildings on the Abbey’s campus. As the cart came to a stop, Sam grabbed his trunk and pulled it, with effort, down to the cobblestones, frowning with frustration when the trunk plopped into a puddle of unknown contents. Doing his best to avoid the chicken droppings and puddle’s liquid, Sam pulled his trunk up the stairs that led to the mission’s front door. He pushed it open, triggering the jingle of a small bell hanging from the frame.

The lobby of the mission was extremely welcoming. A small foyer led to a welcome desk, and off to the left was a lounge with huge overstuffed chairs and a presumably magicked fireplace.To the right was a heavy door that, Sam guessed, led to the Church’s offices. A bored looking, lanky paladin with heavy bags under his eyes was sitting behind the counter immediately ahead looking up from a book with a forced smile. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I am,” Sam said, digging into his trousers pocket for his orders from the church. “I am Samson Bleedingheart. I’ve been ordered to the mission here.”

“Thought so,” the young paladin said, his smiling growing genuine. “I could tell from your ugly mug that you don’t live here.”

Sam was taken off guard by the strange comment and was at a loss for words.

“Settle down there, contender,” he said, standing up and grabbing a pen from the inkwell on the counter. “I’m just fooling around. Can I see your duty assignment documents please?”

Sam passed the paladin the orders and continued looking around. Everything seemed so comfortable. “How long have you been here for?”

“Oh, a few years. From Wesfield so it’s a bit of a change. Where are you from?”

“I’m from inside the Throne, actually,” Sam said, unsure of how the news would be received.

“Oh great! Welcome home! You’ll have to tell me where the good food is inside. Every time I go in there I end up getting the same things to eat. Touristy stuff, too. Nothing exceptional. Whelp, all done!” The paladin passed the documents back to Sam. “I’m sure you’re tired. I’ll take you to an empty bunk room and we’ll figure out where the Captain wants you to stay when he comes back in,” the paladin looked over his shoulder at a calendar stamped onto a large sheet hanging on the wall. “In four days.”

“That would be wonderful,” Sam said, yawning as though cued. “But what will I do until then?”

“I mean, I’ll ask the sergeant in the morning, but we usually don’t get too busy when the Captain’s not here.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s a responsibility thing, I think. Things can be kind of high-pressure back here. Don’t worry though. I’m sure you’re used to the stress of city life.” The paladin grabbed a ring of brass keys from a hook under the desk on his side and moved toward the exit of the welcome area. “Just go through that door and I’ll walk you to your bunk, Corporal Bleedingheart.”

Sam, his confidence brought back from the kindness of this young man, followed him to the empty bunk room, at least two times bigger than his Abbey room, and with no sign of a second occupant. There was just a twin bed and a writing desk made out of unstained wood. The room had a small half window that was strangely looking out to a solid stone wall. Still, Sam was so tired he would have just as soon accepted the sofa in the lobby.

“I’ll be at the front desk until dawn, so just shout if you need anything,” the paladin said, holding out his hand. “Corporal Shiner, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Corporal,” Sam said, shaking his hand, and pushing his trunk into the room with his foot. “Have a good night.”

“You, too! And again, welcome.”

The corporal went back down the hall to the mission’s entrance, and Sam laid himself down on top of the bed’s tightly made sheets and while he tried to think about what he was going to need to do in the morning, he fell asleep in a matter of minutes.

“Uh, Corporal Bleedingheart?” Corporal Shiner’s voice was muffled by the door, but Sam’s sleep in the unfamiliar bed was light and uncomfortable enough to be stirred. He pulled himself up to greet his new coworker with a groggy “good morning.”

“I just got relieved at the desk and I was thinking I should help you get some breakfast before you wake up late and totally confused.”

“Oh, I really appreciate that.” Sam had not even thought about eating, but now that food had been brought up, the hunger pangs made themselves felt.

“Yeah, I showed up before the Mission’s day of rest and they completely forgot me. I had a can of raisins to eat for two days. Anyway, I’ll be out in the lobby when you’re ready to go, friend.”

After a few short minutes of getting himself organized, Corporal Shiner and Sam were sitting together in plainclothes in a small cafe on the other side of the Mission Square. “Madge makes the best scones,” Shiner said, slinging a ceramic plate to Sam, a dense, triangular pastry sitting in its center. “I hope you like apples?”

“It’s great, thanks,” Sam said, taking in the sights. The cafe’s decoration could only be described as cluttered, countless frames on the walls up to the ceilings bumped into, and at times, overlapped one another, each one containing sketches of famous patrons who may or may not have visited the eatery, or dazzling landscapes from around Kraagheim, while shelves filled with dusty books available for borrowing lined the walls below. Dimly lit and scented overwhelmingly by coffee grounds, the cafe felt like the home of a mother’s dearest friend.

Shiner loudly slurped coffee from his mug after turning it golden with cream and sugar. “So, what do you think?”

Sam, suddenly brought back from reverie, lifted the scone up and took a bite. The crisp crust and dense, toasty inside tasted brightly of fresh apples and almonds. It was a delightful first meal in the Back City. “It’s great,” Sam said, impressed.

“Great! The coffee’s not, so sorry about that!”

Sam laughed and looked down at his mug. Shiner pushed the carafe of cream toward his friend. “Oh, no thank you,” Sam responded.

“Oh, you are going to need it.”

Sam acquiesced and splashed cream into his mug. Shiner’s friendship was an immense relief to the young Corporal. After a day of exhausted travel through parts of his city that had always been taboo, Sam had been in a grim mood, but the sweet scone and good company were brightening his demeanor.