“My Good friends. Enclosed in this letter is the location of the Emperor’s next parade. I trust you know what to do with this information.”

— Reverend Cirque of the Church of Praesi Penitents, later revealed to have been Dread Emperor Traitorous

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“I wanted to hear about your complaints against the House of Light,” the raven haired woman kneeling across from him inquired.

Both of them rose to their feet. Taylor sank into one of the seats. Pascal sat down opposite her.

Dawn had arrived, and Taylor had invited Pascal to pray with her. The gesture came as a surprise. She had been so earnest when making the offer. He had accepted the request in the spirit that she had extended it to him, but was not certain if he should read any further meaning into it.

“You offered me shelter without knowing the purpose I strive for?” he replied, basking in her gentle aura.

“Why not?” she mumbled into her shoulder. Her attention was focused on straightening out creases in her robe.

Did she truly not consider that their purposes might be opposed instead of shared? It was commonplace for heroes in the Principate to accuse others of villainy for slights as small as misreading a map. No, to believe that the thought had not occurred to her would be to cast doubt upon her intelligence. Pascal had glimpsed enough of Taylor to know that while she was not the brightest star in the night sky, she was far from the dimmest one.

It was far more plausible that she had considered the matter and deemed the possibility to be irrelevant.

“Darkness has taken root within the halls of our cathedrals. It has been long since the Proceran House of Light has been an institution for the Gods.”

“What do you want to do about it?” she sounded exasperated.

The light pitter-patter of feet indicated that one of the children approached the amaranth door.

“The House of Light in Callow has no internal hierarchy. We are all equal before our Gods, and our churches should reflect this.”

It was only the first of many reforms that Pascal wished to undertake.

“I disagree,” Taylor raised a hand. “It’s a lack of proper hierarchies that caused these problems.”

“Ma, can you help me make sense of this rune?” The blonde haired form of Yvette called out.

It’s the wizard’s fault.

Pascal suppressed the instinctive desire to sneer. He was Alamans, and his parents had taught him better. He would face the enemy with a smile on his face and the sharpest of manners. To do anything else would be improper.

“I’ll come in a bit, Yvie. I’m just talking to Pascal, okay?” Taylor replied to her daughter.

Besides, Yvette would give up magic and embrace the Light some day in the near future. Her mother was the champion of Compassion and if anyone could guide those who were damned by the taint of Below back into the Light it would be her. It was admirable of her to have taken two of them under her wing.

“The Holies are a Proceran institu-” Pascal pressed his lips into a thin line as Taylor cut him off.

Despite her accent, it was clear to him that she was not Alamans. She often failed to observe proper courtesies.

“The Holies are not a recognized organizational structure. Not even the Princes in the Principate really understand who they are or what they can do. It took me a lot of effort to learn their identities, and I’ve been actively looking for the information. They don’t have a proper mandate. They don’t have a list of responsibilities and privileges. While they do wield power and set church policy, the ability to do so is all unofficially handed to them. This lack of formal structure is what has allowed corruption to take root within the Proceran House of Light. When the rules aren’t well-defined, then there is plenty of space for people to carve up their own little fiefdoms.”

“Faith in the Gods is what earns one entry into heaven, not the whims of the church,” he countered.

And those born with the curse of magic are destined to serve the Gods Below.

He left the other half of his own personal creed unsaid. It was rare for one to forsake sorcery and embrace the Light instead. They were the blessed few who saw magic for the blight that it was. Half a dozen houses in his neighbourhood had disappeared to the desolation when a newly awakened mage had reached beyond their ambitions over a decade past. It was a common tragedy in the Principate. Pascal had sworn himself to the Gods Above less than a day later.

“Do you know why I invited you to pray with me?” Taylor changed the topic.

Pascal hummed as he pondered the question. It was evident that she believed the digression pertinent to their argument, and so he would engage with it.

“You find solace in the company of others,” he rumbled in reply.

“That’s a big part of it,” she agreed. “It’s mostly because I believe that community is one of the keystones of our faith.”

“The Book of All Things makes no claims as to how the faithful should be organized,” he disagreed. “When we invite the House of Light into the halls of power, we also invite temptation into the hearts of the clergy.”

She looked like she was about to say something, then she held her tongue. There was an awkward lull. It was some time before she spoke again. Her tone was strained. Every word was chosen with care.

“I wasn’t always devoted to the Gods Above. I converted. It was the community that made me feel like I belonged and started me on my journey of religious discovery. The church as an organization played a big part of that, and it’s the largest difference between those who worship the Gods Above and those who worship the Gods Below. We do things together as a community. We care about each other. Our faith might be personal, but we express it as a group.”

“A community does not need to be structured according to a hierarchy,” he chastised.

“It does once it’s large enough,” Taylor retorted.

“Each church is capable of functioning within its own community. It does not require the support of a larger structure to exist. We purge temptation from the clergy by divesting the Proceran House of Light of material wealth.”

“You don’t. The problem just becomes localized. Some churches will be fine with bending rules. Others won’t.”

“The laws of the land would curb such abuses,” he intoned in reply.

“Only so long as it’s in the interest of the Princes. You’re giving away the church’s power to enforce its own rules. Say a noble wants an inconvenient heir declared illegitimate. He offers the priests a generous donation to do so. What happens?” Her voice was strained.

It sounded as if she could not even believe the ideas that he was imparting.

“This exact series of events occurs day by day under the shelter of the current system,” Pascal criticized.

“S’pose I’m interrupting a religious argument?” Songbird hummed as she strolled into the room.

“Yeah,” Taylor replied.

“Y’know, it would help if y’told Pascal that you plan to give the church more power.”

“Considering his current stance…” Taylor trailed off.

“M’just saying. Y’should let him know what you want, not just try to change what he wants. You’ll prob’ly find he’s more amenable to your ideas when he actually knows what it is that you want.”

Taylor digested the piece of diplomatic wisdom, before turning her large brown eyes back towards him.

“I want to empower the church. Give us legal authority over heroes. I also want to restore our right to conscripting soldiers, as well as make a few more organizational changes.”

“The Highest Assembly would never ratify the changes that you wish to bring,” Pascal intoned. “The right to conscription alone would threaten another Liturgical War.”

“Y’know, I thought so as well, but then I listened to everything else Taylor had to say.”

Songbird walked over to one of the chair beside him and took a seat. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a deck of cards, and then began to shuffle absently.

“There would be a lot of restrictions. The… paladins would be required to take a whole host of oaths and have expected duties. Their primary purpose would be conflict with villains. An elite unit with a much more specialized focus.”

Taylor’s interest in establishing an armed force came as a surprise to Pascal. He would not have expected ambitions in that direction from one of Compassion’s heroes. While they were undoubtedly the most virtuous of heroes, they were also the most divorced from reality. He received her political ambitions like a light out in the wilderness during a cold winter night. Perhaps she was more clear-sighted than most of her lot.

“This does not preclude them participating in traditional warfare.”

“I know,” Taylor grimaced. “It’s going to be a mess, but it’s not what I wanted to talk about. The organizational changes are what would interest you. I want to define the hierarchy within the House of Light properly. Who the leaders are, what their duties entail, what they can and cannot do and what the punishments are for overstepping. I also want to make the House of Light’s accounts public. We are here to serve the people, and that involves some level of transparency.”

Their discussion continued. Pascal listened and asked questions. Taylor clarified what it was that she intended to achieve. They were not the kinds of reforms that Pascal had set out to accomplish, but… they were an acceptable set of alternatives.

He was willing to entertain the idea of an empowered House of Light solely because of its potential effectiveness in rooting out sorcery. Mud obscured the pool of his thoughts when he considered whether such an authority could purge the corruption from the Church.

It was half a bell later when Songbird reminded Taylor of her promise to her daughter as well as her scheduled meeting with Sister Adelie. The younger priestess apologized profusely, then was quick to take her leave from their talks.

Pascal put the matter out of his mind and instead considered the differences in their perspectives. The two of them could work together. Both of them championed the same house. They just argued over what colours they should paint the walls.

Perhaps Taylor was correct. Perhaps the House of Light did require a guiding hand selected from among the Chosen.

It only remained to be seen whether that hand should be hers, or his own.

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Roland examined the white roofed caravan in the distance from where he lay with his legs stretched away from the sloped lip of a tiled mansion rooftop. His perch towered over twenty feet tall. A phantom pain twinged in his left leg behind him. He dismissed it from his thoughts. Taylor’s skill at mending wounds went far beyond the talents of other priests, and yet that did nothing to quiet the voice in his head. A small devil whispered poisonous thoughts at the back of his mind and insisted that he was still injured.

Roland had been taking the measure of the priesthood for the past few days in preparation for this heist. It had made for an exhausting task to examine the path and identify vulnerabilities in their route. Roland would have preferred for more turns of the hourglass, but fate was ever a fickle mistress. He would play the game with the hand that he was dealt, even if the cards were hyenas and the enemies were snakes.

The caravan crawled off the sinuous path trailing away from the Starlit Cloister and onto one of Salia’s main thoroughfares at a snail’s pace. Four surly mules plodded along in front of it, hauling their heavy cargo.

Nothing about the caravan appeared to be out of the ordinary at first glance.

Two white robed priests escorted it on either side. Neither carried any weapons. They strode along the snow swept path with an air of nonchalance that suggested this was merely another delivery of scented candles and parchments on their way to be sold at one of the open markets.

The priests had even maintained their existing schedule according to Songbird. Roland did not have the means to verify that claim, and so he would take her at her word. It was only once he began to consider the surrounding waters that the dangers that lurked in the depths showed their teeth.

Roland’s brown eyes examined the crowd.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

They were the first irregularity.

Breath fogged the air before him. Snow was piled into shallow banks beside the road. Windows were frozen and despite the best efforts of the peasantry the cobbled road was slick with ice.

The sky above might be clear, but the ground below was cold.

There shouldn’t be a crowd present at all.

The caravan approached an intersection and waited while a group of agitated horsemen passed perpendicular to them. It was only a few heartbeats before they followed behind. The convoy ambled out of the shadow of the balcony of an elegant three-storey mansion and into the shadow of the building Roland roosted on.

It was time for him to set the balls rolling down the mountain.

Roland only prayed that the avalanche did not claim him as it began.

He reached into his now scorched coat and touched his fingers to a rune, then pulled out one of his last remaining vials from Refuge. It contained an acrid yellow dust that the Concocter had warned him not to inhale.

Roland held his breath, removed the stopper and tossed the powder. It traced a path that was almost imperceptible as it arched through the air down onto the snow before the caravan.

Blinding vermilion flames erupted less than ten heartbeats later.

The mules reared back and drew to a halt.

Roland began to worm his way across the rooftop. He slithered in the direction of the caravan, chipping away at the distance between himself and the prize that he sought.

The conflagration was the signal for the distraction that he had hired.

Eight rogues walked out of the crowd and onto either side of the street. Half stood on one side of the convoy, the other half on the other. Roland’s purse was far lighter than it had been a few days before. Not many were willing to earn the ire of the clergy.

“My friends,” one of the rogues spread her arms and declared mournfully, “Business is lean this year. This road costs much for us to keep safe, and… we’re here to collect our fee.”

“I will only warn you once, rapscallion. Stand aside. You risk more than the prince’s justice for interfering with our mission,” the leading priest retorted.

The rogue puffed out her chest, raised a hand and flicked the feather of her hat, then shook her head.

“I’m afraid that I can’t do that,” she said in a cheerful tone. “Move in boys and girls. It’s time to see what tribute the priests prepared for us.”

A score of warrior monks stepped out of the surrounding crowd to support the priests. Conflict erupted between both parties.

Light flashed and barriers materialized. Roland knew that he had not bought himself much time, and thus he needed to act with haste. While the priests would not harm any of the rogues, the same could not be said for the monks.

Roland looked over the edge of the rooftop towards the caravan in the distance. He fished a silver ring with an amber gemstone socketed into it out of his coat. It was of Pelagian make and bestowed lightness upon any who offered it a gift of blood.

Roland withdrew a needle next, pricked his finger, and allowed a drop of blood to fall onto the gem.

The magic within it thrummed as he put the ring on. A comfortable blue orb seeded itself within him, then blossomed only heartbeats later. He called upon it with Use, then climbed to his feet and took a running leap off the roof.

It often surprised Roland how rare it was for people to turn their eyes to the sky and watch for trouble above.

He sailed through the heavens — avoiding the mêlée below entirely — and landed with a light thud on the caravan’s roof, then summoned forth his dragon oak rod. It was not intended for the purpose he was intending to use it for, but it would achieve his ends nonetheless. A wide cone of flames extended from the tip and punched a wagon wheel sized hole into the caravan roof.

The interior of the wagon shook as Roland dropped in from the entrance he had just carved.

There was a single guard situated within the caravan. The man did not even have time to bellow a warning before a knock to the head left him out cold.

There were many containers stacked neatly one on top of the other within. Roland was quick to open them and examine their contents. The accounts that Taylor searched for were safely contained inside. Satisfied, he reached within and began to pull them out and spirit them away into his storage space.

It was not long before the conflict outside the caravan came to an abrupt end. Roland sent up a quiet prayer of thanks when the combatants outside chose not to investigate the interior of the convoy, and instead ordered the mules to begin plodding along once more. It seemed that providence was with him today.

Roland’s nerves frayed. There were more books than he had expected, and the hourglass had already been turned. It was a tense few moments as he gathered the evidence that Taylor sought.

A few hundred heartbeats later and the convoy came to a halt once again. The steady thud of footsteps approached the caravan door. The final book entered his densely packed storage space. Roland hoisted himself up through the hole in the roof, then jumped off the side and sprinted down a narrow street.

The raised voices of angry priests echoed out as they discovered his theft.

All of them broke into pursuit.

A barrier of Light manifested before him and was blasted aside by his rod. Another wall of Light appeared. This one was thicker and absorbed his blow. Roland touched his hand to a rune on his coat, and the rod disappeared. A sapphire ring manifested on a finger in its place.

Roland grimaced and cradled the orb in his mind gingerly. The ring cracked as heat scalded through his body. It was a flawed enchantment, and this was its final use. His feet left the ground. Roland soared above the barrier. His hand was already reaching towards the snake rune on his bracers before he landed on the other side. Healing energy pulsed through him as he dropped and rolled.

Groaning, he stood and took a path to his left past a bakery, then dashed down the street to the right of it between a smithy and a stable. Another turn, this time into a busier road. He brushed past several civilians who looked at him in puzzlement. The clergy let out cries of frustration in response.

Roland reached into his coat and pulled out a phial of dark powder and hurled it against the ground. The phial shattered and the street was enveloped in a midnight blackness. It was not long until rays of Light shattered the distraction he made.

The priests trailed behind like bloodhounds with a scent.

It was a gruelling quarter of an hour and numerous lost priceless artefacts later when Roland at last lost his tail. He should have felt victorious, but instead found that he could only lament the damage that Taylor’s mission did to his collection.

Roland at last returned to the Snake’s Nest. He stopped his way past the regulars, up the stairs, and collapsed into one of the chairs.

It was time to learn what the next stage of the scheme entailed and how much more wealth he could expect to lose.

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“The poison runs deeper than even I had considered it would,” Pascal mused.

He licked his index finger, then turned the page of the account set on the desk before him. It was a ledger detailing transactions which had been labelled “Proof of Piety” according to the Holies.

“It’s bad,” Taylor agreed from his right.

Both of them read side by side.

Taylor was examining an older, faded manuscript. It was no less damning, despite coming from an earlier age and being written in an archaic dialect.

“Right. We’ll need to have this all copied and dropped off at the royal magistrates,” Songbird added from the opposite side of the table.

Her fingers tapped an off beat tune on the oaken surface as she pondered their situation.

“Have you concocted a scheme that allows us to do so in a way that avoids bringing trouble to our doors?” Roland asked from Songbird’s right.

Roland is not a wizard.

It was an effort for Pascal to remember that. The man wielded sorcery despite not having the curse for it. It was a noble calling to seize the tools of the enemy and turn their weapons against them, but it still stained Roland’s hands in the process.

“S’not hard. Pascal will do it. He’ll get in some trouble for it, but that’s fine. We need some attention. He’ll need to move somewhere else when he starts denouncing the Holies since we can’t be connected to him, but that’s about it.”

“Will that work?” Taylor frowned. “The nobility have just as much of an incentive to kill him as the Holies do.”

“Taylor has the right of it,” Pascal agreed, flipping to another page. “The evidence is almost as damning for them as it is for the Holies.”

“We’ll have copies made, then distribute them,” Songbird waved a hand at him dismissively. “Prob’ly need to drop some of them off with the Silver Letters, then the rest with independent parties. The Princes only have power so long as they have a reputation. We’ll drag theirs through the mud.”

“Is that wise?” Taylor asked.

Her eyes were half lidded and ringed from exhaustion. She put down the manuscript she was reading, sat down in a chair behind her, and ran her fingers through her raven hair in consternation.

“You concern yourself so much with the rocks beyond the horizon that you do not consider the storm our ship sails between in the present,” Esme criticized Taylor from the leather chair on Roland’s right.

All five of them had been hard at work sifting through the evidence since Roland had returned with it in his possession. The sun had long since set, and they read by the light that Taylor emitted.

“Procer is already in a state of civil war,” Pascal told Taylor gently. “We are not capable of making the situation worse than it already is.”

“So the plan remains the same then?” Taylor sighed.

“S’not like we need to change anything,” Songbird smiled at Taylor. “Y’knew there was something wrong with the Holies, now you just know what.”

“I wasn’t expecting so much of the House of Light’s income to come from bribery and corruption,” Taylor muttered, then shook her head.

“‘Proof of Piety,’ remember, not bribes. Gotta call it by the official name,” Songbird chortled to herself.

“And yet now that you have ample proof of the muck below the waterline, you are still unwilling to clean the bilge water from the church?” Esme criticized.

“S’not much about it that surprises me. Actually, I lie. They’re not quite able to choose who is in charge, but s’alot closer than I’d have thought. Their income is the smallest part of their power.”

“I agree that the extent of our troubles comes as a surprise. It would not occur to me how much coin there is to be made through legitimizing illegitimate contracts,” Roland interjected as he put down one tome and picked up another. “However, I hold that a more measured response would be more appropriate.”

“Does the idea of performing similar investigations into the nobility interest you at all, Roland? You have finished fishing the waters of the church, why not cast your net into other waters?” Esme leaned in close to Roland and laid a dainty hand on his charred coat.

“We have enough troubles on our wagon to occupy us for some time. We do not need to burden ourselves with anything else,” Roland pulled away from Esme.

Esme flushed and turned away, hiding her head behind her hair.

“Y’know, there’s a better way to punish them than killing them, Esme. Send them up north. They’ll hate every moment of it and actually do good helping against the Dead King.”

“I’m fine with that,” Taylor stated, then paused. “Sorcerers should also be allowed to heal. I want to revise the archaic restrictions on wizard healing. They’re superstitious and do more harm than good.”

It took effort for Pascal to hold his tongue. It had come as a disappointment to Pascal to learn that none of his compatriots shared his disdain for those tainted with magic. Sorcery was surely a curse from Below. Pascal held that those who wielded profane powers should be extended no more trust than they already possessed.

“The diabolists to the east have wrought great evils with sorcery. Perhaps it is best to adhere to the wisdom of the past and allow those restrictions to remain in place,” Pascal suggested.

Everyone around the table stiffened.

“Y’know Yvette and Roland both use magic?” Songbird asked, putting her hands on her hips and looking at him.

“While I do make use of the magic of others, it is not truly my own,” Roland protested.

“Magic tempts all who possess it to serve the Gods Below. The chosen who wield it are the few who can be trusted to be responsible with it, and even they are not beyond reproach,” Pascal asserted.

Taylor muttered something incomprehensible about “Martin Luther” and “Jews” under her breath. Pascal did not follow the lay of her thoughts.

It was Pascal’s belief that even the chosen who wielded magic were truly numbered among the damned. The Light was anathema to magic. If magic was not the domain of the Gods Below, then the Light would not counter it. There were many easily observed phenomena which demonstrated that magic was Evil. Those who thought otherwise decided to close their eyes to the truth.

“Those with the power to reshape reality as they will cannot be trusted to rule over those who cannot. Sorcerers swim in the same waters as priests,” Esme agreed.

It disappointed Pascal that the only other member of their group who understood the dangers posed by sorcery was one of the damned.

“Y’know, I wasn’t counting on there being two of them.” Songbird picked up another book and started to page through it.

“Magic is a tool. It isn’t aligned with Above or Below, it just is,” Taylor snapped.

“How can you believe as much when it is the blade most often drawn by Evil,” he replied.

“I used to have the gift. Does that make me Evil?” she challenged.

“Do you still possess the gift now, or did you sacrifice it to a higher calling?” Pascal inquired.

Taylor was not bereft of wits. It would take a monumental effort to change her mind, but it was imperative to educate the younger generation about the perils of sorcery.

“I didn’t give it up because it was Evil. Even the Angels on my shoulders don’t call magic Evil. You surrender magic to Evil by declaring it as such.” Taylor hugged herself.

It was something that she did frequently without being aware that she did it. Pascal suspected she was trying to hug the Angels that watched over her. He was disappointed in her current beliefs regarding the nature of magic, but it only confirmed the suspicions that had already taken root within him.

Taylor was not the correct person to lead the House of Light unless her convictions concerning magic changed. Pascal would make the effort to do so, but acknowledged the implicit unlikelihood of succeeding.

The Choir of Compassion would not turn away from anyone, and so it stood to reason that she would not either. Restrictions against magic would lessen under her guidance, when the only correct decision would be to attempt to enact a total ban on sorcery.

“It should come as no surprise that our new acquaintance also has prejudices of his own,” Roland muttered.

“It is best for us to turn our attention back towards our task,” Pascal deflected.

Pascal lamented that his allies were blind to the Evils of sorcery. They were not able to recognize it for what it was. A dark temptation that had been seeded by the Gods Below to coerce people away from the light. Only those that acknowledged it for the vice that it was and renounced it in favour of the Light could truly be trusted in the fight against Evil.

Pascal would assist his allies for now, but unless Taylor’s opinions were corrected, then his decision had already been made. It came as no surprise to him that the hero of Compassion was not fit to lead them. Taylor made for a good mentor or guide, but did not have the right temperament to push back the darkness. She would make for an effective subordinate.

Pascal would follow the plan at first. He would take to the streets and give voice to the corruption they had uncovered.

And when he spoke, his words would Propagate.

Pascal would need to usurp Taylor’s authority after they succeeded.

It was an unfortunate necessity, but one that he would not shy away from.

His faith demanded it of him.