B'aileth was a fairly colorful city, in contrast to the dull grays and browns of the cities of Harsten's Keep and Old Marken. Those cities, situated in the quaint, quiet Midlands, were reminiscent of New Connaught in peaceful times. Timber merchants and livestock traders jostled with one another and hawked their goods, and simple men led simple lives amidst a warren of thatch houses and stone apartments. It was nothing compared to this; even Malluthea, with its colorful sailing ships and curious architecture, couldn't quite compare to the myriad of colors that decorated the tropical port.

Roof tiles of dyed clay - red and yellow and purple and green - spanned the horizon, and great spiral buildings rose into the sky and contrasted with intimidating marble villas and imposing mud pyramids. Tall brick insulae dominated the residential areas, while the religious centers of the city featured their odd assortment of spiral minaret-like structures, expansive gardens and lavish ritual plazas. The city was surrounded by lush jungle, awash with a myriad of greenish hues and bursting with avian life. The city itself was constructed in a ring around a great navy blue lagoon, with a single island in the middle upon which had been erected a concentrical temple, built out of stark, lifeless marble and cool, cold granite.

It was perhaps the largest city Leon had ever seen, short of the great metropolii of the NMR, and he was in awe as the fleet approached the city's massive docks, themselves perhaps the size of a small town back in Connaughtsshire.

Ships of all assortments and pursuits were moored at the lengthy brazilwood jetties, unloading a plethora of cargo unto the dockwork slaves. Deep-hulled cogs from Ryiklund, plying their way through the glimmering seas by way of paid oarsmen, brought expensive, richly-trimmed furs and shining jewels from their homeland as swift, wide Archymyiaean dhows pulled into the docks specifically built for their specialized ships. Slender galleys hailing from the shoreside city of Nalus deposited their barrels full of fish and briny salt; the iron-keeled cargo ships of the Copper Bight, hulls packed with expensive metals like copper, tin, bismuth and platinum, were attended by pulley-powered cranes as they offloaded their pallets of ingots. Here could be seen one of the Malluthean galleys with its brightly-tinted sail, delivering rank and file of bound, naked slaves from its dank, smelly hold; there could be seen a massive steel cargo ship from the NMR, with rusting lettering embedded onto the side and deck piled high with imposing steel crates loaded with advanced goods.

"She's a city rotten to the core, but you wouldn't guess it at first glance," Herobrine introduced Leon as he stood, slack-jawed at the fore, gazing in wonder at the expansive city. "Welcome to B'aileth."

"Pictures don't do it justice," muttered Leon. The ship turned sharply to the left and pulled towards one of the jetties, motioned in by dockworkers.

"They do not," said Herobrine. "It always manages to impress me, no matter how many times I've been. Which is...not often."

"It's so colorful. Why is that?"

"People can afford it," Herobrine explained. "Clay is cheap and so is dye. Put one and one together, and you've got a menagerie of hues." The ship came to a soft halt and the gangplank swung down with a dull thwack, bestowing them entry into the mesmerizing metropolis.

"All ashore?"

"Gladly," Leon murmured, stepping down onto the main deck. "I need to tour a little."

"Our time is limited, however. I've already paid for my people, and they won't like to be kept waiting," Hero warned him.

"I know, I know. It'll only be an hour or so. I need my fill," said Leon, stepping off the ship and down onto the jetty. It appeared most of the wood in this city was dark, solid brazilwood, harvested from the great jungles around the city.

"Meet me at the Whispering Hearts by noon. I don't want to keep our good lieutenant waiting!" Hero called after him, his shouting partially drowned out by the sounds of industry and the waves crashing upon the rocky coastline.

"A whorehouse? Are you serious?" Leon called back, half joking.

"Mercenary men need their vices fulfilled. I, for one, disapprove, but what can you do?"

"Find better mercenaries?" Leon suggested teasingly.

"I thought you less naive than that, Leon Walker," retorted Herobrine, smiling gaily. "Two hours at most, okay?"

Leon cheerfully acknowledged him and, on his own, departed down the jetty, ignored by the busy dockworkers. He simply had to present his insignia at the customs house and he would be a free man, able to stroll the city streets without issue.

Once through customs, he found himself on a dirty cobblestone street, its cracks filled with mud, sand, gravel and rotting detritus. Iron grates on both sides of the road served as makeshift sidewalks and covered torrents of rushing sewage water, which splashed and rippled in their course as they ran beneath the surface.

People of all convictions poured around him, going about their business. Here, a woman wrapped in a rich jade-green silk wrap, carrying a basket of fresh fish in her arm and heading home for lunch. Somewhere else, a scraggly, scrawny vendor dressed in brown, shitstained rags hawked his wares loudly in a native tongue, exhibiting fish, oysters, local vegetables and mushrooms for sale. Beside him, linen vendors and fur sellers scrambled to find customers for their own merchandise, competing with each other for the best profit.

Tall insulae towered above him as he walked. Made out of tan bricks, the insulae bore colorful roofs and brazilwood balconies, and were thronged with people cooking food, weaving clothing, conversing with each other or taking care of domestic business. Men bearing long sanded planks of brazilwood or baskets of clay, sand or baked tiles wove to and fro within the crowd, making for the workshops and warehouses clustered together like tightly-packed sardines in a can. Dirty children played on the streets, dodging people and horses as they ran and chased each other, and here and there stood guards dressed in short-sleeved and short-legged brown tunics with scale mail and thick copper pot helms, armed with intimidating harpoon spears and round dinnerplate-esque shields.

Leon passed more residential and jostled with the locals, looking rather out of place in his chainmail armor and "dujeong-gap" style pauldrons. Most of the women here were either dressed in their silken wraps, full-body wraps that included leggings, or they wore thin leather tabard and long pants. Most men went bare-chested, and wore leather pants, and some wore loose, stringy aprons or thin shirts. The heat was oppressive and Leon found himself sweating buckets, imprisoned within his thick armor. It could save his life in a melee, but it would also be the death of him in an environment as hellish as this.

Perhaps the most intriguing piece of the giant urban jigsaw puzzle of B'aileth was the temple at the center of the city. Built upon a stony rock about the size of two football fields, the marble and granite architecture rested amidst serene cobalt waters, as smooth as glass and barely rippled by the caress of the tropical breeze. It could only be described as Graecian in nature; 48 columns encircled the main structure, which was circumferential in shape, and the tiled roof ended in a soft point at the top where the tiles converged. The interior was, insofar as he knew, a mystery; it was the reason they had been drawn to the southern city, but the archives at the Ditch had told them little about the enigmatic structure. For that, they would need to access the archives in B'aileth, and that might be difficult in itself.

Leon wondered what rested inside that temple and, well-rested after his walk, returned into the city, passing by the workshops that he had seen earlier. Most of them were dedicated to the baking of bricks and chiseling of stone; the brickworks, with their towering mud chimneys belching thick, wafty smoke and ovens birthing long tendrils of flame, were a foreign sight to Leon, who had never seen industry like this. Connaughtsshire was built on stone and timber, not brick and mud; not even Thellden, with its unparalleled access to sticky, muculent clay in the shoreline pits, was fond of baking that clay into bricks. Pottery was the main product there.

The warehouses were full of goods from all over the world, ranging from the median to the exotic. Leon could see giant piles of fresh fish, heaped on the floor, and amongst that he could see bushels of wheat, baskets of sand and gravel, pallets of precious metals and long planks of timber. Amongst these, however, could be found more exotic items; while meandering past the open warehouses, Leon saw gleaming ivory, imposing gold statues, blocks of cement, railroad ties, several elegant musical horns, and what appeared to be parts from a SOCOR-built VTOL gunship, thankfully missing the deadly gauss minigun often mounted on such fearsome machines.

It took him another fifteen minutes to force himself to snap out of his trance and hurriedly make his way to Whispering Hearts. The "pleasure palace", as it was called, was an ornately decorated building, its facade festooned with elegant carvings of sexual intimacy and exhibitions of the great men of the city. As with most important buildings B'aileth, this pleasure palace appeared to take a page out of the great book of Dorian architecture, and the columns rose forty feet above Leon as he entered, feeling his cheeks flush red as he realized what he was stepping into.

"I haven't been waiting long," teased Herobrine, sitting idly at the entry desk. A few guards, bedecked in their scale mail, stood inside the main door to keep stragglers and beggars out. The front deskman, a portly little man, looked up at Leon with alarm but relaxed once he saw the insignia and rich trim on Leon's tabard. A nobleman was always welcome in any establishment, so long as he bore his estate proudly.

"Did I take that much time?" Leon asked, brushing a bit of brick dust off of his pant leggings.

"Oh, you're a little late, but I'll manage. I found our guy," Herobrine said, walking back into the palace.

"Where?"

"He's...taking care of his vices," said Herobrine. "But once we remind him of the color of gold he'll snap to. He's a true mercenary."

"Oh, this should be fun." Leon rolled his eyes at the image he was conjuring. Whoever this mercenary was, he was clearly a man of decent means who had plenty of experience. Which was good; if he had the time and money to wallow in prostitution, it was likely he had made a name for himself on the battlefield, and could be relied upon.

"Do you remember the last time dealing with mercenaries, Leon?" Herobrine queried, parting long strings of beads that acted as a visual barricade.

"Can't say I do. How long ago was that?" Leon asked, wishing for a good memory jogging.

"Putting down a minor insurrection. You hired some spearmen to do a dirty job for you. Let me just warn you, these men and women are a more colorful bunch. They are different," Herobrine cautioned him, parting another set of beads. The air smelled of incense and olive oil, and it was almost sickeningly sweet, very overwhelming.

"Women too, eh? That's not unusual, not in the least bit," Leon quipped. Not everyday did women appear in a mercenary company; that was a rare sight to witness.

"Some. This company requires all skill sets. They take on odd jobs, but the most dangerous of odd jobs," Herobrine explained.

"Is that why they took us up on our offer, then?"

"Well, I should think so," Herobrine said. "We don't know what's inside that temple, and they don't either. But they took it...or, he took it." They had reached another set of beads obscuring their passage, but Leon could see people inside.

"Our lieutenant?"

"Aye, he's here. I will introduce you to Lieutenant Saif Bitawwi, and you can, ah, talk amongst yourselves," Herobrine chuckled, parting the last set of stringed beads.

Saif Bitawwi was a rather rugged-looking and intimidating man, an image that was assisted by the fact that he was completely naked. Reclining on a plush couch, flanked by two equally nude women with skin as black as charcoal, he looked like a king in his own little paradise, surrounded by lavish decorations and incense burners giving off a strong scent.

"Lord Walker?" he inquired cheerily, his Arabic accent strong. "I presume, yes?"

"That would be me," said Leon, grimacing at the scene before him. "Is this how you meet all of your employers?"

"I am in B'aileth. Why would I not enjoy the local flavor?" the lieutenant asked innocently, his fingers idly caressing one of his attendants.

"I don't deny you that, I suppose," Leon admitted begrudgingly. "May they be dismissed, though?"

"Yes, yes, that I can do," he conceded, rising from his couch. "We'll play later. Run along, loves!" He slapped one of them playfully on the butt and sent them off into a side room. There was an awkward silence following that, complicated by Herobrine standing uncomfortably at the door, the inability of Leon to come up with anything to say, and Saif Bitawwi's throbbing, erect penis. It took a moment for someone to speak.

"I have been told you have a reputation," said Leon, shattering the silence. Saif had been opening a vintner of some brownish alcoholic liquid, presumably a type of brandy or mixed wine.

"Down here, yes. It is unlikely that anyone has heard of my company up in your world," Saif said.

"Well, I had heard about it," Leon corrected him, lying. "Your reputation has started to precede you."

"I'm flattered, Lord Walker." Saif poured himself a vial of the brown liquid. "And your gold flatters me even more. Shall we discuss prices?"

"I thought we already did that."

"It was simply a token gesture. More will need to be paid, given the job that you are asking of me...which is hardly an ordinary one," Saif reminded him pleasantly.

"That's why I hired you," Leon said. "I've been told that your company exceeds at everything, and fails at nothing."

"I like the advertisement," Saif commented, smiling gleefully. "And I think you would be right. But the price is steep."

"Name it," called Herobrine from behind the beads. He remained there, letting Leon do most of the negotiation.

"I will need ten thousand gold pieces now, and another ten thousand when we are done. That will add onto the three thousand we have already agreed upon," Saif decided, after pondering the possibilities for a moment.

"Can I convince you to haggle?"

"It's that, or bust. I am an impatient man, Lord Walker. What is your-"

"It will be done," Leon decided.

"Can you even pay for that?"

"Do you doubt a nobleman?" asked Leon, noticing that Saif winced visibly when he realized what he had said. He hung his head a little.

"I do not, no. I take your word for truth," Saif admitted.

"You will have your money, that I promise."

"And you will have your company," Saif pledged. "I promise you will be pleased with the results."

"I would like details, if you could. Do you have...a roll for the company?"

"I will provide, when I am more clothed and more...ah, prepared for business," Saif promised.

"I expect you to seal the paperwork however. Right now," demanded Leon. Surprisingly, Saif did not argue; even in his state of nudity, he was willing to sign his name and seal the contract, and Leon handed over the money that Herobrine had brought. The small purse clinked and shifted as it passed from one owner to another, and Saif's eyes lit up when he opened it to see the treasure within.

"Are we all set, then?" Leon asked, pocketing his end of the contract.

"Find your way to my camp tomorrow, and I will provide you with information, rolls, and whatever else you might need," Saif informed him. "You need not ask where it is, for you will not have a hard time finding it." He reclined on his couch again after the business work was completed.

"Outside the city, presumably?"

"The largest you will find," said Said. "There are several camps, but only one is mine, and I have the feeling you'll know which is which."

Leon did not want to try to play a guessing game, but he did not say anything else. Saif Bitawwi, for being a regionally famous mercenary captain, had not made a good impression. He left with a knot in his stomach, and a lot of thoughts racing in his head.

"I don't trust him. Who the hell is he?" asked Leon when they left Whispering Hearts, descending the granite steps down onto the dirty boulevard.

"I was referred to him by a contact I have down here. Apparently, despite being a partier and womanizer, he's quite the competent commander and has fought an incredible amount of engagements in his time," Herobrine tried to assuage Leon's fears.

"He left a pretty poor impression on me, for sure," Leon admitted defeatedly.

"First impressions are always important, I agree," said Hero.

"Do you think I'm making the right decision here?"

"I believe so. I trust my referee, and I trust Lieutenant Bitawwi. Return to him tomorrow, and he may present a far different facade," Hero suggested.

"Why did he have us meet him here, though? Why not arrange for it to be in his camp? That was a stupid move, and is what made the poor impression," Leon judged.

"I cannot answer for that. Perhaps he was flaunting his wealth? That palace is...expensive, to say the least," Hero said.

"There are better ways to flaunt. But I will return to him tomorrow, and try again," Leon promised.

"I think you will come to appreciate him. His company has some specialists that you may find...useful." What Hero was insinuating, Leon supposed he would find out. He wasn't anticipating an impressive surprise, not after today's encounter.

"What do you think is inside it?"

"Inside? Oh-" Leon paused, realizing what Hero was looking at. Eyes fixated on some initially indeterminable object over Leon's shoulder, he was almost weirdly entranced by it. Leon knew what he was looking at, given their vantage point as they climbed up a flight of stairs to an elevated plaza.

"Do you think it's there?" Hero asked.

"Anything could be in there, honestly. The books in the Vault were insufficient, and the poor Archlibrarian was at a loss when I asked him," Leon mused, returning to his last time at the Ditch, nearly a month ago.

"It looks so serene," Hero observed, leaning on a balustrade as he looked out over the tranquil facade of the lagoon. "Even I do not know what lies within the temple. My brother created it, but he never told me."

"He never told you a lot of things. I see a pattern there."

"Yes, that was his personality," Hero replied, his tone a little icy. It was always like that when the topic turned to his brother.

"Unfortunately," Leon said.

"But I suppose we'll find out soon, eh?"

"Next weekend, you wanted to do it?" Leon inquired.

"It gives us time to prepare. Time to arm, time to learn, and think about what we might run into down there. Or who we might run into."

"You're giving me reasons not to go, you know that right?" said Leon.

"Now, now, what's the worst that could be down there? Not some horrifying revelation, right?" Hero smirked. "Eh?"

"Fuck off," Leon retorted.

Both were joking, but it was clear that neither of them really knew what was inside that island temple. They could only grasp at straws, and pray that they were right. The temple remained serene, and eerily quiet, as night fell.

VVVVV

Matt had his enemies, or at least felt like it. At the least, he was beset by troubles on both sides.

Avery Steadwin remained cold and disrespectful, to the point where Matt had thrown him out of the room when they were discussing quartermastery. It had been a simple conversation about resource requisition and rationing, but Avery had been stubborn and impolite and Matt was fed up. He regretted his decision now, after discussing the issue with the sergeant, and wondered if Avery had taken it personally. That was likely; Avery, at his age and stage of adolescence, seemed to take everything personally. Stalking around the keep campus, he looked more like a pouty teenager than any sort of nobleman even despite his fine clothing.

Delwin Saythe, on the other hand, presented a far different problem. The issue reached Matt's ears that evening as he was waiting for dinner, being prepared by the keep's cook. The dining hall was relatively peaceful until its aura was shattered by a rapping on the door, which announced the sergeant's entry. He looked rather bemused and disgruntled, and whispered into Matt's ear as he relayed the trouble.

"Are you serious? What does he want?"

"You, clearly," he said. "Apparently I wouldn't suffice. He demanded to speak to you, and he isn't eager to stand outside in the chill for long."

"Let him in, but I'll meet him in the foyer only," Matt decided, grumbling unhappily. His meal was only minutes away, and yet here came trouble marching up to his doorstep.

Sora looked positively confused, but remained seated as Matt left, deciding not to partake in more trouble than she had to. Matt figured she was having issues with Lana Valdez, despite her insistence that nothing in that arena was wrong. The two appeared to be at odds, and had some sort of strange magnetic repulsion Matt did not understand. He chalked it up to a minor domestic dispute that was hardly in his realm of affairs, and thus would not be of trouble to him unless it began to affect Sora's personal life.

He let Stellmeier lead him into the foyer, and waited there while the sergeant exited and headed out into the deserted keepyard. He didn't take long, for only two minutes later Stellmeier reappeared, with the contentious figure in tow. Jonathan James Coggins, his face decorated with a kindly smile, was hardly the guest he had desired, but definitely the one he had been expecting. If anybody were to have problems with Delwin Saythe and his little cult, it would be the Mormon preacher.

"I beg your pardon, my lord, for the intrusion at such an hour," Coggins apologized, bowing deeply and removing his quaint felt cap as an expression of politeness.

"No problem at all," Matt lied, admitting him. "The dining hall is, unfortunately, in use, so we will have to seek out other quarters."

"There are empty rooms. Follow me, if you will," Stellmeier requested, bringing the heavy door closed as Coggins stepped over the threshold.

"Of course, my lords. Thank you for mercifully letting me in - for, by the Lord's wrath, it is bitter outside!"

Matt was hardly anti-theist, but both Coggins and Saythe would become thorns in his side, he knew. He wondered how Lord Steadwin had dealt with such ilk, or if he had dealt with it at all. Saythe by himself might have been manageable; a stern word, a few slaps on the wrist, and he would be in his place. But with Coggins in town, there was bound to be friction between their respective followers, and that was what bothered Matt almost as much as the Castiron problem, or the nameless newcomer.

Stellmeier led them to a small sitting room down the hall, one which was in disrepair but still usable. There were only two seats, so the sergeant respectfully showed himself out and shut the door behind him, leaving the two behind and leaving the Coggins problem for Matt to deal with.

"God bless you, my lord, for seeing me tonight. I understand you are quite a busy man-"

"Very much so. Might I ask what brings you to me?"

"Of course, of course, right to the meat of the matter," Coggins chimed. "This is about Delwin Saythe, as you may have suspected."

"I am aware. Continue."

"Well, with no offense to Mr. Saythe, bless his character and charisma...I feel threatened by him, my lord, and I suppose you can see why. Given his...congregation...and its notable size, which is quite surprising, I feel like my position is untenable!" Coggins declared, making himself comfortable in his seat. Despite his claims, he did not sound the least bit concerned; his demeanor remained pleasant, and he even smiled after finishing his sentence. Matt felt like that would change if he did not get his way.
"And what position would that be?" asked Matt, poking further into the issue just to please the pastor.

"I have my own congregation, my lord, but it is small and frail and can be easily usurped. I feel that that is what Mr. Saythe is trying to do," Coggins theorized.

"You think he's actively out to get you?" Matt asked.

"Perhaps so, perhaps not so, but I fear that may be the case."

"That does not seem to fit with his personality, Mr. Coggins," Matt argued.

"No, not his specifically. But his congregation's, yes," Coggins corrected, expanding his problem to wider and far more vague terms.

"You're saying you feel threatened not by him, but by his followers?"

"And the way they're influenced by his teachings," Coggins added. "You know he may be a decent man, and he has an air of charm about him."

"I will agree to that," Matt admitted. For all the dark and morbid nature of his cult, Delwin Saythe was a man of cheerful disposition.

"However, his teachings...and preachings...they are dark, and full of terrors, my lord! Have you read his scripts, or listened to his travesty of a sermon? Reviled in the face of anything good and alive, my lord!" Coggins complained, spitting to punctuate his accusations.

"That is your opinion," said Matt. "However, he has the freedom to preach what he desires."

"I do not want to contest that, but many of his subjects are taking the dark words to heart. They do not comprehend the truth of what he says, and it moves them to foul deeds," Coggins claimed.

Matt grew weary of this circus act. He wanted supper, not a sermon. "I have not heard anything of these deeds."

"It will move them to deeds, I promise you! I know that aggressive speech like that will cause nothing but trouble."

"What would you have me do, then?" Matt wondered, feeling more frustrated with every passing second.

"Censure him, at the very least. I understand freedom of religion and I do not wish to smother Mr. Saythe's beliefs, but his followers must be constrained," Coggins suggested.

"You fear for the safety of your followers?"

"My congregation, my faith, and myself, my lord," said Coggins. "God watches over me but he cannot stymie every enemy of the flock. Wolves will rarely make off with the sheep, and as the shepherd I must do what I can to prevent that."

"If there are threats made against you, I will see they are dealt with in a correct fashion. But until then, there is not much I can do," Matt acquiesced.

"What do you mean? You are the liege of this town, you can do whatever you please!"

"Yes, whatever I please. Not whatever you please. I do not see Saythe as a threat," Matt retorted. Coggins did not take pleasantly to this; his mouth twisted in a bit of a snarl, but he corrected that almost immediately, controlling himself.

"I promise you, my lord, he is."

"Once I see it, I will believe it. I will talk to him and ask him to ensure his followers remain peaceful, but even though his message may be inherently violent, I will not shut him down."

"I believe you are not taking enough action." Coggins shook his head. It was clear though that Matt would not be moved. The pastor had given up, at least for now.

"And I believe that I am. If you have nothing else to ask of me, our conversation is finished," Matt decided. He knew Coggins was stewing underneath his relatively calm facade. He could see fire in those eyes.

"I do not. I appreciate that you should hear me out, my lord. God bless you and your wife," Coggins said, rising and replacing his hat. It was clear he was unhappy with the termination of the conversation, but there was nothing he could really do. He departed with a cheery farewell, leaving Matt hungry and displeased as he left.

"A real fuckboy," Matt swore when he sat back down at the dinner table. It was entirely possible Coggins was just screwing with him and jousting for attention. How bad could Saythe really be? He seemed pretty harmless.

"Oh, come now. He can't be that much of a nuisance," said Sora.

"I wouldn't even call him a nuisance," Matt grumbled, spooning hot pork stew into his mouth. "He's like...that fly you can never kill, that just buzzes around and smacks itself into the window a dozen times a minute."

"At least he's gone for tonight!"

"I have the feeling he'll be back," said Matt.

"What happened with Avery today?" Sora asked, breaking her loaf of bread. Pork stew, cooked carrots and bread was all they had for a meal, but it was better than what the peasants generally ate. Cooked cabbage, potatoes and cold radishes could hardly be fulfilling or tasty.

"Not much," Matt replied. "He...he was being a little prick."

"So?"

"So I had him thrown out of our meeting. He took it personally, of course-"

"Matt, you have to be a little easier on him," Sora sighed, rolling her eyes visibly.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, very!" she said. "He's just a kid. He's fifteen, and wants to be an adult, but he's still a kid. You have to realize that, and cut him some slack. He'll grow out of it."

"You really do sound like a parent," he chuckled.

"Maybe it's just instinct. But perhaps you can be a little nicer to him? Maybe concede something to him, just to let him know you don't hate his guts?"

"Perhaps," Matt acquiesced. "If you really think so-"

"Yes, I do! And I want you to try it," she said.

There really was no reason not to; although Avery could be a little prick, like he said, there was something redeemable about him, perhaps. If Sora thought it was worth a shot, Matt was going to have to take it; he trusted her enough for that. And, well, what was the worst that could possibly happen?

He approached Avery after dinner, before bed. Coggins never came crying back, thankfully, so the business of the day was complete. He found Avery Steadwin in the planning room, looking over the maps again with interest. His gaze visibly narrowed when he saw Matt enter, and he greeted him with the coldest greeting possible.

"Yes, Lord?"

"I wanted to talk to you about today," Matt began.

"Well, I'm very sorry," Avery apologized sternly.

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have overreacted like that. It was...unnecessary."

That startled him. He looked taken aback, and struggled to find his words. When he found them, his surprise was evident.

"You...oh. Okay-"

"And I think I haven't vested enough interest in you. That should change," Matt said, wondering if this was going to work out.

"My Lord?" asked Avery, looking like an overeager puppy now that he realized what was happening.

"I want you to take command over Skagway and Roanshire. The village quartermasters will, on my orders, take command from you tomorrow. I will see to it that their people are in your hands. Can I trust you?"

Avery Steadwin's eyes widened and he sat there, stock still, for a few moments, as if he could hardly believe this. Here, here was a true gift, that had just been handed to him on a whim. Matt wasn't sure if this was the right thing to do, but Sora's words echoed in his head, and he knew he had to put something into Avery if he wanted to get something back out. This was what he was putting in, and he prayed that something good would come out.

"I...I accept, my lord-"

"Then their fate is yours. I trust you to be responsible and report anything of importance to me?"

"Of...of course-"

Avery's mouth was dry and he licked his lips as Matt left. No paperwork to sign, nothing to hand over. The villages would simply report to him now, and he would have command and liege-ship over them. But it was a substantial handover, and Matt left him knowing Sora would be proud about this.

Most of the evening was uneventful after that. Matt took care of undressing and setting out orders for breakfast, and sat down in bed to relax and get a good night's sleep. Within the week, hopefully, the Thellden stranger would be recovered and able to be interrogated. Matt had wanted to do it sooner, but Brudina had refused; the wounded man needed more time, and needed to be in full health. For now, there was an official guard on his door, and the outside window was locked and shuttered to prevent escape.

Something felt wrong, though, as he was lying down in bed. Sora, for some reason, was late, perhaps engaged with one of the servants or the domestic scoundrel, Lana Valdez (Matt had an inkling of the troubles besetting both of them, but he was not prone to focus upon either). Nevertheless, she was missing and, all but two torches extinguished, he felt a darkness falling upon him that almost forced him to sink under the covers, like a frightened child hiding from a formless boogeyman. Something was wrong, and he had to force himself to stay awake a bit longer just to wait for his significant other to arrive and dispel the darkness. She did not come, and Matt sank into sleep. And, as his world turned black, he was met by a brilliant flash, a fierce wave of heat, and a transmission to another form, perhaps another soul.

He was somewhere else, clearly not his bedroom or the comfortable, albeit alien surroundings of Stallhart. This place, comparatively, was the most alien thing he had ever seen. A great sea of lava, bubbling and roiling and exploding with energy, stretched to the horizon, splashing violently up onto a beach of gravel and ruddy, crimson dirt. A red, menacing mist obscured the sky, and primitive, savage-looking bipedal porcines wearing rudimental armor and bearing jagged, nasty-looking weaponry surrounded Matt, wherever he was. Their flesh rotted, sloughing off their bones in an agonizing manner, and they bared their teeth in the style of wolves circumambulating wounded prey. Matt stood in the center of them, helplessly looking on as the figure he resided within placed his hands on squishy, twisted-looking brown sand and spoke some sort of incantation, a language horrifyingly unfamiliar to him and beyond explanation.

Something rose out of the sand, as its surface began shifting and reforming and collapsing into itself. A human form, but without true life, stumbled out of the quagmire and rose, empty eyes looking to the sky and mouth agape in a silent howl. Whoever Matt was put his hands upon the creature and dragged it further out, setting it upright. To Matt's horror, more began to rise and, stepping away from his creations, the nameless necromancer set upon the sand again, reciting the same incantations and producing the same unholy results from each patch of devilish material.

Matt remained for about twenty minutes, forcing himself to watch the ritual complete itself again and again. By the time he was finished, the revenants had been herded into a group, dead eyes fixated on their creator, and they silently watched, jaws slack, as he raised his arms to them and boomed in a harsh, yet all-too-human voice. Speaking in a tongue Matt could not process, he turned them around and set them marching off on a flat plain marked by geysers of fire and smoky, wasted expanses of lifeless dirt.

Twenty minutes was all he could handle. He forced himself out, consumed by darkness again and then returned to the comfort of Stallhart and the image of Sora sitting over him, her eyes wide with fright.

"Matt, what the hell!?" she screamed, grabbing the lapels of his nightshirt and shaking him.

"What?"

"You wouldn't wake up, and I thought you were going to roll right out of bed! A bad dream again?" she asked, sitting back. She looked very upset.

"Y-yeah...I suppose."
He realized then that he was soaked in sweat and had thrown the once orderly covers into a complete state of disorder, the bedsheets now disheveled and ruined.

"What were you dreaming about!?" she asked.

"I don't remember, it was just...very vivid…"

"This is like the third time you've done something like this. It's never happened before, never! Can you think of any reason, any, that might be causing this?"

"I...no," he said after pausing for a bit.

Sora frowned but said nothing to this. It was clear that she was confused too and at a loss for a solution. She sat back and tried to fix the covers, doing a lackadaisical job.

"Well, let's try and get some sleep now, okay?" she suggested, laying down beside him after extinguishing the last torch on the wall.

"I need something to drink-"

"No, no you don't!" she insisted. Now in pitch blackness, he could see nothing, and it would be difficult to get to the door without running into something.

"Just a little bit? It will help," he promised.

"No, Matt. Just no. That won't do anything for you. Lie down and I'll be here beside you, please." She was not going to take any argument, and he did as bid. Covered in sweat and exposed to the chill atmosphere, he was becoming cold and needed to cover up, anyway. The darkness he had felt receded from him, though; peace and tranquility had returned in a new form of darkness, something more natural that filled the void left when the last lights had been extinguished.

He fell asleep without saying goodnight to Sora. He just didn't have the energy to, for suddenly he felt drained and just lifeless. He closed his eyes and mere minutes after fell into a deep sleep, remaining in his own head this time.

VVVVV

The assembly today was smaller than normal, consisting only of the richer men of the town and those possessing a firmer legacy. The news had not been broken to the public yet, but Shandra was trying her best to keep it confined to this tight circle of trusted noblemen. Nobody needed to know about the fractures within the royal family, lest it be used for treasonous purposes. Who knew how many blades Simeon had hidden within the public at large, and how many instigators he had paid to stir up trouble the moment the opportunity presented itself? She couldn't take any risk associated with that.

"I am the High Lord of the city!" claimed Keldon, for what seemed like the hundredth time. "I am not subject to anyone else's authority, except my own!"

"You say that to your own mother," Shandra reminded him sternly.

"You're just my mother, not my queen. Your hand in the city's politics is fading away," Keldon snarled, turning his back to her. Childish of him, but it made her more angry.

"How dare you!?" she shrilled, furious. "My hand may be fading, but at least it is clean! I was not the one who sent forty brave knights of this city to their death."

She was not about to come out and say it was really her doing. She had sent Ablyn Cullen on his mission, she had given him extra men in case he needed a melee force. To be fair, Keldon was the one who had originally established the rendezvous between a force of emissaries and the Xonos Mallistron. However, Shandra had a hand in the massacre as well, by pulling strings and replacing certain untrustworthy figures with ones who answered to Cullen and, thusly, answered to her. No matter who was at fault, it was clear that the Xonos Mallistron was uninterested in diplomatic relations with Thellden - if it really had been his action. Unlikely as it may be, it was possible that thieves or brigands had ambushed and slaughtered the party.

"I did not send them to their death! I sent them with good intentions, did I not?" Keldon defended himself hastily.

"I do not see the difference," she retorted. "The consequence of this has been bloodshed, no matter your intentions."

"You just want me to take the blame for this, don't you!?"

"I want you take responsibility," she suggested, betraying no hint of fear or anger now. She had to retain a tranquil facade for all to see and remember, now that Keldon was angry. "As you ought to. As your father would have."

Would he? Arstas Thell, take responsibility for his actions? That was actually a joke, and people would have laughed if they wouldn't have been imprisoned later for doing so.

"My father...do not speak ill of my father-"

"I hardly speak ill," she said. "I only refer to him." For a moment, Shandra felt a sharp fear, and realized Keldon could very well spill her secret to the entire assembly. Arstas' death was a secret, and he knew, only because he had been the one who committed the act. But he could easily pin it on Shandra, and the men below would be forced to believe him only because he possessed the title of High Lord. She wouldn't be able to argue her way out of that, not without more backup.

"I would not have his name on your tongue. You will use it to mock me," he sneered, foregoing any mention of their dirty deeds at the feast. "This was, as I have been trying to say, an accident! As High Lord, I made a decision that I thought was right, and would have been right. The treachery of the Xonos is at fault for this, and by extension the treachery of all of Ais Kleisardathos!"

Rally the people against a common foe - that was a wise choice. Shandra knew the tide would turn against her. He was the High Lord, and she was, really, just his mother. She could operate behind the scenes with the agility and guile of a hawk, but when it came to the assembly there was only so much she could do without outright denouncing him.

"I agree with our High Lord," Jonathan Sardisson, ever the loyal vizier, said. "The enemy is at fault for this, no Thell. They have betrayed their words and have soaked the earth with the blood of good, honest men."

"Aye, and we ought to repay them in kind," agreed Keldon. "I, for one, support more aggressive action!"

"And what will you do?" Shandra contested. "Our army marches north, on your orders, I might remind you. Who will you dispatch to fight them? The postal workers? An army of butchers?"

"You know nothing of war, mother," Keldon hissed, turning to face her. "You think you do, and you try to throw out advice, but it is worth little!"

She would not respond to that. She remained silent, visage hard as marble, looking Keldon straight in his fiery, furious eyes. He took that as a challenge and continued.

"You've never even wielded a sword, mother, not for training or combat! I have done both, especially when I protected this city against the traitors wishing to undermine us. What do you know of war? What do you know of fighting? You let our enemies slip right past us, and cannot even tell who is the enemy any longer!"

She knew enough to know he would condemn the city to death if he drew the ire of the Xonos. Even if it was just Mallistron, the outcast, his army was nearly twice the size of Thellden's and was a veritable war machine. It was the one thing she feared, besides being exposed to the world and being dumped from power.

"I was the one who dispatched Lord North, not you. I was the one who tackled our enemies on all fronts, while you sat back and watched!"

He was like a bull, turning his fury upon her. She wanted to retort but it would not end well, she knew. The assembly watched with awe, wondering how it would end.

"I know of war, and you are content to sit here on your ass all day and deal with womanly things. You should leave the manly things to the men, lest you bring ruin upon us all," continued Keldon. "There is naught you can say, mother. This council will debate-"

"There is something I can say. I will say that you would lead us to our ruin, you fool," Shandra seethed, unable to bear it any longer.

"I? You question me!? You, who said nothing when I made these 'mistakes', will question me now!?"

"You would tackle the Xonos Mallistron?" asked Shandra, the idea ludicrous to her.

"And you wouldn't!?" he returned, spittle flecking his inflamed lips. "Do you value this city, mother? Or have you forgotten that you're a Thell?"

"I would never," she said, aghast at the possibility. "But I would not bring death upon me if I could avoid it."

"I would agree with her sentiments, begging your pardon, m'lord-"

"Speaking out of turn!?" Keldon roared, turning to the newcomer.

"He is not," Shandra growled, so menacing even Keldon did not contest her. "Sir Stephan, speak."

The knight, finding himself in the middle of a mudslinging duel between two giants, looked positively terrified but rose and gave his testimony anyway.

"The Xonos Mallistron, as we know, is not to be trifled with. Clearly he is not interested in diplomacy with us, given the...ah, slaughter...but he has not made for Thellden, so he has no interest in fighting us. So why would he bring him to us?"

"A preemptive attack, Sir Stephan," Keldon explained, with some patience. "It would eliminate a foe before they can strike at us, and even the general playing field."

"If you think you can defeat the Xonos Mallistron, you are welcome to try," Shandra snorted, bringing Keldon back to her.

"You think I can't!?"

"Who has?" she asked.

No one, of course, not yet. That was what made him truly mad, and he turned his anger even on Sir Stephan, who had only raised a legitimate point and a fair question.

"Conspirators, you are! I know you, dark hearts! Why else would you turn against me!?" he shouted, pointing fingers at them. "And you, knight! You stand by her!?"

"I only do what I think is right," he defended himself, stepping back as Keldon stared him down.

"You both, conspirators!" he shouted, clenching his fists in rage. "This assembly is dismissed! I will have no more, and if there will be more there will be punishment meted out! I promise it!"

Shandra was quick to get out of the room and drag Sir Stephan back with her, as Sardisson tried to calm Keldon. The man was a little shit, that much was true, and Shandra detested him thoroughly. She had to react to this, and quickly.

"You must control him!" Stephan hissed, whispering to prevent any eavesdroppers from picking up on them. The fleur-de-lis pendant he wore clinked on his armor as he ran to keep up with her, her pace fast.

"It's gone beyond that. He's taken too much power, and he thirsts for even more. I have to prune him back, by force. I should've been proactive earlier, but I didn't think he would be this back," said Shandra, rushing him back to one of their conference chambers in the keep.

"Well, it's too late for that-"

"I don't have regrets, but I have plans. I will have him removed from power, if I must," Shandra confided in him.

"That's...my lady, that's…"

"I know what it sounds like, but look at him! He will be our destruction, not our salvation," Shandra claimed. "He needs to be pruned. His advisors and vizier, too, they're dangerous men."

"What are you thinking?" asked the knight.

"I'm going to cause a scene at the festival. You know that's a big event, right?"

"Of course, we've been working on it-"

"That's why I've been promoting Edgar Branch. Poor, poor, Edgar Branch...he won't have long for this world," she cooed.

"You're killing him?"

"Well, yes," she said, as if it were obvious. "What else would I do?"

"I don't follow," he admitted, looking shaken.

"Of course you don't. It's a grand plan, a masterpiece, Sir Stephan! The festival will go as planned initially...celebration, frivolity, everything the average citizen wants in a time of war. Mr. Branch, of course, will be promoted heavily, his name plastered all over the festival. People will know him," Shandra explained, with as much detail as he needed to know.

"Okay, now I follow," he said.

"And on the last day, well, he'll take the stage to receive congratulations from his fellows. And that...that is why I need an assassin. And a crossbow."

"I...you...you want me to procure a man or woman to do this?" asked Sir Stephan tentatively, growing paler by the second.

"Oh, very clever Sir Stephan!" she said, grinning. "I'm glad you thought that way. I would be delighted if you did."

"I will do what I can," he promised glumly.

"And after Branch is dead, I will be sure to prevent panic and prevent Keldon from taking advantage of the situation. I declare martial law, order is restored, and I have the power then. Keldon will not succeed."

Sir Stephan looked positively aghast at this plan, but he remained silent and bowed as he was dismissed from her service. She felt like everything would fall into place if she played her cards right; so far, prospects seemed dim, but a well-placed crossbow bolt in an unfortunate financier would be all she needed to turn the tables around. She just needed to seize her chance. Carpe momentum.