Calamity Awakens

The square of Lionheart opened before them like a stage, stone broad and clean, banners of the city's noble houses draped from the surrounding balconies. The sound of boots on cobbles echoed until it blended with the murmurs of the crowd—merchants, smiths, apprentices, the gutter children, all pressing close enough to glimpse what was unfolding.

Behind Harold and Marroween, the column of their strange army moved with steady rhythm: wounded carried but unbroken, the remainders of the platoon bearing patched armor, wolves padding in silent ranks, the frost of Hal's breath rising like smoke from a forge. More and more citizens spilled into the avenues, trailing them, until it seemed the whole city was caught up in their wake.

At the far end of the square, the city guard stood in rigid lines, spears lowered, armor bright but their eyes tight with unease. Behind them waited a company of noble troops—better trained, better fed, but still shifting nervously as they watched wolves weave through the ranks of men. Above them, on the stone steps of the council hall, stood a large portion of the city council: nobles in embroidered cloaks, rings flashing as they gripped their scepters and canes, faces set in grim disapproval.

Marroween leaned close to Harold, her voice a low murmur, smooth as sharpened glass. "Just like we rehearsed."

The crier for the nobility, a balding man draped in crimson and gold, stepped forward with scroll in hand, his voice cracking to life across the square. "Matriarch Marroween! What is the purpose of you bringing your troops—and other… beasts—into the city? You are breaking a long-standing agreement with this council!"

Marroween's lips curved into something caught between disdain and amusement. She didn't wait for the echo of his words to fade. Her voice cracked across the square like a whip.

"Shut up, worm. I did not come here to speak to servants."

The words slashed through the hush like a blade, drawing gasps from the citizens crowding the edges of the square. Even the guard shifted at the naked dismissal. Marroween's crimson eyes swept the nobles above, lingering, daring them to meet her gaze.

The square rippled with outrage at Marroween's words, whispers swelling into angry mutters among the nobles gathered on the council steps. One of the lesser lords, a narrow-shouldered man with a hawk's nose and too many rings flashing on his fingers, could hold his tongue no longer. He stepped forward, face red with fury, his voice carrying shrill across the stone.

"Matriarch, you will remember yourself! This city has endured your arrogance long enough. You will not march wolves and monsters into Lionheart as though it were your kennel. Agreements were signed, blood was sworn—"

His voice cut off as one of Marroween's few remaining elders moved with startling speed, breaking ranks to plant himself in the open between their forces and the nobles' dais. His presence alone quieted half the square. The elder's voice thundered like iron on an anvil.

"Our Matriarch did not come here to exchange words with servants dressed in silks! You are not her equals. You are not even her audience. If you believe your rings and scribbles of ink outweigh blood and battle, then step down and test it yourself!"

The insult cracked across the open air, louder even than Marroween's dismissal had been. Gasps rippled through the crowd. The lesser noble went pale beneath his fury, lips opening and closing, but he did not step forward.

Behind him, the rest of the council shifted uneasily, their fine cloaks suddenly feeling very thin in the weight of two armies' eyes.

Marroween let the silence stretch, the corners of her mouth curving into the faintest sneer.

Harold stepped forward with the same slow, steady gait he'd used a dozen times in worse places. The city's hush pressed in, but he walked like a man who had learned to carry silence like armor.

"I am Harold Greyson," he said, voice low and steady, carried enough to be heard but not to bait. "I am here to settle this trial in your city. Tomorrow, midday—public. You will have your seats. You will have witnesses. That is all."

Above the hubbub, on a sloped roof, an archer in a noble's livery drew her bow and nocked an arrow—an ugly, quick decision. Made on her own or provoked nobody knew. Her fingers tensed at the string the moment Harold finished speaking, the shaft aimed at his head.

It took two breaths for the world to bend.

Ferin's eyes snapped up, cool and precise. Auren, already feeling the wind at his back, tapped his Dao and sent a ribbon of breath that pushed his double-shot faster than any eye could predict. Both arrows left almost at once.

The rooftop archer twisted when Auren's wind-blurred arrows skimmed past, a gust catching at her balance. She managed to throw herself aside and the wind-guided missile flashed past her shoulder—too fast to track cleanly, a scream of displaced air.

Ferin's arrow found its mark. There was no theatrical pause—just the sudden, terrible finality of the thing: it struck throat and windpipe as if proofing a seam, and the woman folded, a crimson bloom crossing her front as the life went out. The string snapped slack; the bow clattered. No crowd-pleasing gasp—only the dull, sharp sound of a body hitting stone.

A coin slipped from Toren's palm to Torik's with practiced stealth. The brothers tried to hide it behind their mugs; Holt's eyes flicked over, voice half-joking, half-angry. "You two—seriously? Betting on an assassination?" She shoved at their shoulders, trying to make the motion look like reprimand rather than collusion.

Jerric laughed outright, that high, foolish sound, as if the city were a playground and not a funeral in miniature.

One of Hal's frost-wolf pack leaders — a broad-shouldered beast with a scarred flank — padded forward weaving between people and made the effort to jump up onto the roof easy. Then carried the fallen archer's body back within its frost lined mouth. When it turned the body over and its noble colors showed through the slashed fabric. The wolf lifted the corpse like a message and presented it to Marroween.

Marroween's face did not change, but when she named the sigil—cold, precise—her voice cut like a tally. "House Vellin," she said. The name tasted like accusation and calculation both.

The crowd's voices, already loud, turned toward panic. An insult, an assassination, a noble's banner sullied—already the square hummed with outrage and fear.

Harold didn't wait for the outrage to become organized. He called, clean as a bell, the Oath-perception that layered through every bonded heart around him. "Hal."

The Greater Frost Wolf answered with a single, rolling howl that turned the hair on the back of necks to frost. It called his pack forward. It was the sound of the pack answering an order and they replied with their own howls and chuffs. The layer of city guard blanched, some prepared, some panicked.

Hal surged forward—no blind rage, no slaughter rush, but a controlled, terrifying demonstration of force. His pack emptied the side streets and thundered toward the cordon. They hit the line of guards and retainers like a living tide: wolves weaving between pikes, slipping past shielded men, their great bodies dodging strikes that would have felled lesser beasts. Some bowled over the guard pushing members down while others prepared to pounce on others. The forest wolves were more lithe than their frost wolf cousins.They did not rend the whole formation; they did not slaughter the line wholesale. Instead Hal moved with purpose, a frost star in a ring of dull metal.

But one lesser noble at the front of the city council tried to run—wide-eyed, sweating, a man who acted where others froze and shouted—caught Hal's attention with the colors he wore. The pack narrowed like water finding a channel and Hal zeroed in.

It was over in seconds that felt endless. Hal struck, and the noble's bodyguards closed with him, blades flashing. Hal's Ashen pair tore through them with a speed that was not bestial chaos but trained certainty. When the last guard fell the pack flowed back to Harold as if the whole had been a single, practiced maneuver—precision and punishment in the same breath.

The square detonated. Some in the crowd cheered—approval for the decisive protection of intent. Others shouted in horror, waving fists at the nobles: "You brought this on yourselves!" The noble terraces erupted with outrage. "You cannot do this in my city!" men cried, voices high and panicked.

Before the voice of the council could coalesce into action, the Matriarch stepped forward.

She moved like a storm laid into armor. The air around her changed—a pressure, a clarity—then she let her Dao unfurl. It was not a show of cruelty so much as a proclamation of claim: Honor, enormous and unmistakable, poured from her like a tide. Her presence made good men straighten and the evil wither. The hair at Harold's neck prickled as something vast settled over the square.

"You mistake yourselves," Marroween's voice rolled out, clean and cold. "You are no longer in power here." Her crimson eyes swept the council, the guard, the nobles on the dais. "An attack on the Calamity is an attack upon me. Show us to the compound you promised and remove your trappings from our path. There will be reckoning—for every house that has suppressed my Family, for every insult bought with coin. The days of your pampered rule are over."

It was not a threat cast into the void; it was a command backed by teeth and pack and blood. For a beat the nobles hesitated—some too proud to yield, some already counting the cost in their heads.

The city guards, who had been given an order to enforce the cordon, found their faces hardened by the Matriarch's presence. The councilor who had offered the compound made an ugly, measured bow—one hand on his throat as if to see whether that bow might choke him—and turned away, voice quick and obedient. "The compound—at the center—will be prepared. The cordon will stand. No more blood spilled—by any from our side."

Harold watched the exchange without flourish. He had wanted a stage, and in its own brutal way the city had given him one. The cost had risen in blood and in oath and in risk. The Matriarch's Tier Five had stamped the bargain with a price both terrible and obvious: the city would not take them lightly anymore. They had engineered spectacle; they had provoked consequence. It was exactly what Harold needed.

"Well…..that was actually easier than I expected. Honestly…I'm surprised they let us get this far into the city." Harold said.

Marroween's lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite mockery—something between iron and amusement. Her crimson eyes flicked toward him, then back to the councilors retreating like whipped dogs.

"They didn't let us," she murmured, her voice low enough that only Harold caught it. "They didn't believe we'd dare. They forget there are those who would tear their gilded world apart if given the chance."

Daran, marching a step behind, grunted. "Or maybe they thought they'd scare us with theater. Guards, banners, archers on rooftops. Didn't expect us to answer with steel instead of bows. That was a good bit of work on Hal's part"

Holt adjusted her grip on her spear, scanning the nervous nobles as they dispersed. "Won't be so easy tomorrow."

"No," Harold said, exhaling through his nose. His eyes drifted to the cathedral's spires rising over the roofs ahead. The place where the duel would be staged. Where his mark would be set.

"Tomorrow is where it gets hard."

The nobles peeled away, the crier and his retinue stumbling to gather themselves as the city guard closed ranks. Their commander—nervous sweat glinting under his helm—lifted his hand, signaling Harold's people to move.

Daran's bark carried over the square like a whipcrack. "Form ranks! Column, right!"

The Bloodnight retinue moved first, vampiric discipline clicking them into place with a sharpness born of centuries. The remaining freedmen followed, used to following orders but rougher, their armor mismatched but their steps steadied by Holt's curt orders and Toren and Torik's booming laughter as they wrangled stragglers into line. Wolves padded on the flanks, Hal looming larger than the rest, frost curling at his paws.

Marroween slipped back into her role, her presence cold steel beside Harold, crimson gaze daring any who lingered to protest. The crowd pressed in along the streets, wide-eyed, whispers flitting like birds: Calamity, Matriarch, Tier Five, Dead Noble.

The column marched. Cobblestones rattled under boots and claws. The banners of the city guard fluttered ahead, leading them toward the compound offered in the council's desperate bid for control.

The gates yawned open on a walled manor near the city's heart. Its courtyard was broad but empty, save for weeds pushing between stones and a few half-rotted training dummies leaning in forgotten corners. It reeked of vacancy—cleared in haste, perhaps, for this very moment.

Inside, Daran's orders cut through the dusk: squads to the courtyard, what few crossbows remained along the walls, wolves circling until Hal's growl settled them. The square barely big enough for Hal's massive pack. The freedmen dropped packs, unstrapping shields with weary grunts, while the Bloodnight retainers moved with quieter efficiency, their crimson eyes glancing toward Marroween for unspoken confirmation.

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Holt strode through the mess like a blade, cuffing a man here, pointing two women there, her voice harsh but steady. Toren and Torik dragged a half-broken cart into a corner, bickering over whose fault it was while their laughter made the soldiers around them grin despite the weight of the day.

Harold set a hand on the large compound's doorframe as they entered, noting its bare hallways and dusty hearth. "It'll do." His voice was flat, but a spark of grim humor flickered in his eyes. "Better than a tent."

Marroween's chuckle was dry, almost hidden. "We've had worse. Some of us even find the forgotten places comforting."

The troops began to settle, weapons cleaned, wounds tended by Rysa and Lira, and fires sparked in braziers until the compound pulsed with the life of a makeshift garrison. Outside, the city hummed. More of the nobles' regular troops took up station around the compound, their presence heavier now—tier threes in greater number, and even a few tier fours whose quiet aura was only caught by the Matriarch's sharpened senses.

Inside, the mood shifted. Lira and Rysa quickly became everyone's favorites, moving from cot to cot, tending wounds without distinction. They didn't care if the one bleeding was a vampiric retainer or one of Harold's battered freedmen—every bandage came with a kind word, every poultice with a steady hand. Their touch carried more weight than steel.

More than one Bloodnight retainer, newly stitched or eased of pain, swore aloud they'd marry Lira if she'd have them. That talk didn't last long. Holt and the axe brothers overheard, and their laughter cut across the hall like hammer blows.

"You're gonna try to steal the Calamity's girl?" Torik barked.
"Better men have died for less," Toren added, shaking his head in mock warning.

The compound roared with subdued laughter, the retainers not used to such lax discipline. The laughter didn't fade quickly. It rolled through the compound, loosening shoulders and softening glares until, for the first time since they'd marched into the city, people relaxed. Torik and Toren leaned into it, clapping retainers on the back, ribbing them as though they'd been drinking partners for years instead of battlefield rivals.

One of the Bloodnight men, his armor still stained with soot from the siege, traded jabs with Torik over whose swing had dropped more during the assault. Another retainer held out a skin of wine, and Toren, never one to refuse, tipped it back before passing it around.

Soon the laughter wasn't just theirs—it was shared, a strange chorus of freedmen, retainer, marauder turned soldier and vampires.

Holt stood nearby, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm. She didn't join the rowdy banter, but she didn't shut it down either. Her eyes tracked the men—hers and Marroween's alike—her lips twitching faintly every time the brothers stoked another round of noise. When a retainer tried to one-up Torik's tale of "two knights with one swing," Holt stepped in, dry as ever.

"If I'd been watching, I'd say you missed both and Toren cleaned up for you."

The whole group roared, even the retainer, and Torik barked a mock-offended curse. Toren ducked his head, laughing but also stealing a quick glance at Holt. For once, there was no fear in it—just a flicker of something else. Holt caught the look and gave a single raised brow before turning back to her squad, but the faintest curl of a smile betrayed her.

The conference room was cramped compared to the lives of those gathered there. A long oak table, scarred by old cuts and spills, filled most of the space. The windows were flung wide, letting the midday air stir the parchments and banners tacked along the walls. Laughter still drifted faintly from below, punctuated by Torik's booming voice. One of the elders bristled at the noise and made to stand, but Marroween lifted a hand.

"Sit. Let them have their fun for now. We march off a bloody road and survived worse than most thought possible. No matter how this ends tomorrow—we are not enemies."

The elder sat stiffly, but his gaze slid across the table, fixing on Daran. His jaw tightened. "Tell that to him, The seven Barons you cut down as though they were green recruits."

Daran didn't flinch. He leaned back, arms folded over his broad chest, voice like gravel ground under boot. "They came at me like recruits. Perhaps if they'd trained as hard as they preened, more would still be breathing."

The room went cold. The Matriarch's son shifted in his chair at the far end, his lip curling. "Careful, human. You speak too freely in halls not your own. Each of those elders earned their place cleansing the wilds around here and I turned each of them myself."

"And yet," Daran said evenly, "I still draw breath. That says enough. I will not demean their service to the people here though."

The elder half-rose, fury painting his face, but Marroween's presence weighed him down before words could leave his mouth. "Peace Elder Cassian."

Across the table, Auren leaned forward, parchment in hand, talking quickly to one of the younger vampires who'd been drawn into their circle. "The key is balance—root extract with ash bark. Protects the arrow and give the mixture something to stick to." He tapped the page. "Without it, the venom eats through the shaft before you loose."

Rysa, perched on the table's edge with her legs swinging, chimed in cheerfully, "And if you stir too fast, it bubbles over. Ask him." She pointed a thumb at Auren. "Singed his eyebrows off the first time."

The vampire blinked, then—despite himself—snorted. "Poison-making as a family pastime. What kind of people are you?"

"We had to get creative." Rysa answered with a grin.

Jerric, seated near Kelan, was sketching circles on the table with a bit of chalk, murmuring to himself. Kelan finally nudged him. "Focus, boy. Tomorrow isn't a game."

"It's not," Jerric shot back, looking up, eyes alight. "It's exactly what I've been preparing for. You'll see."

The Matriarch's son scoffed, voice cutting. "A boy who plays with chalk and a cook who throws kitchen fire. This is what you put your faith in?" His red gaze drifted to Lira, sitting calmly beside Harold's empty seat. "And her—your precious healer. She'll bleed before I do."

Lira didn't even look at him, her hands folded, her expression mild. "You'd be surprised how many have said that to me," she murmured, "and how few kept their word."

The words hung, sharp as steel.

Then the door creaked open.

Harold stepped in, coat slung over his shoulder, the fatigue of battle and from cleansing The Matriarchs soul still etched into his face. His eyes swept the room, catching every tension, every sharp breath. The air shifted—like a bowstring drawn tight—until his voice cut through it. An unfamiliar man followed him in, powerful at tier 4.

"Enough."

The word landed harder than a blow. Conversations died, chairs stilled. Harold set his coat over the back of his chair, leaned his hands on the table, and let his gaze move from elder to son to ally.

"This is not the day for pettiness or posturing. Tomorrow decides everything. So we act like adults, not squabbling brats. Sit down. Speak sense. Or walk out now."

Harold's demand for order still hung in the air. Slowly, chairs scraped as people settled. Harold remained standing, letting silence work for him. Then, with a small nod toward Marroween, he began.

"We're not allies by choice for now, but by necessity. If we're to stand together tomorrow as one, we should at least know who shares this table. You have all met informally up till now."

He gestured first to his left.

"Lira. Healer and budding Necromancer. Her Dao of Life and Death has saved and taken more lives than I know how to count. If you doubt her, ask any man or woman here who still draws breath because of her hands."

Lira inclined her head, calm and measured. Her green robe caught the afternoon light and she smiled at Harold as he gave his spiel, the faint threads of life-qi and even more fainter death qi stirred faintly in the room like a quiet spring breeze.

"Next to her," Harold continued, "Daran. Blademaster. His sword has carved a path through more foes than I've had meals. If you think his age dulls him, look at the seven Barons who don't sit here today."

Daran's eyes narrowed at the vampire elder who glared at him earlier. The Elder Cassian looked away first.

"Kelan," Harold said, voice steadier, "is a builder in more ways than one. He can raise walls and hold them. He's the reason you didn't instantly breach our wall."

Kelan grunted acknowledgment, stiff but steady, one massive hand flexing unconsciously.

"Rysa," Harold went on, "is… chaos in a bottle. Give her a handful of powder and she'll hand you something that explodes, burns, or blinds, depending on her mood. She's half the reason your camp bled in the march. But she can also brew weak healing potions and has recently acquired the Dao of Alchemy."

Rysa waved brightly from where she lounged, earning a mutter of disapproval from one elder and a smirk from Auren.

"Auren and Ferin," Harold continued, nodding at the brothers seated together, "archers. One bends the wind to his shots. The other makes sure no matter where you run, you'll meet his arrows. They are the ones responsible for making your march so difficult."

The two gave curt nods, Ferin's wolfish grin pulling at his scar.

"And Jerric," Harold added, eyes flicking to the boy sketching with his chalk. "Summoner. Small, loud,impulsive and far more dangerous than he looks. You'll see."

Jerric beamed, oblivious to the weight in the room still sketching something on his pad.

Finally, Harold straightened and shifted his stance. His gaze landed on the last man seated at the far end of the table—calm, armored, his presence quiet but solid.

"And last—our guest."

The man stood smoothly, bowing slightly first to Marroween, then to the room. His voice was low, measured.

"Name's Cael Brennor. Leader of the Ashen Blades. I was contacted by a faction of nobles to bolster this… Calamity." His eyes lingered on Harold briefly. " I currently lead 4 other teams for a total of 30 adventures. He didn't call on me when you assaulted me as I expected. Said he had another purpose. I suppose this is it. Matriarch it is good to see you again and successfully advance, every job I have taken with your family has been a good experience, I was not looking forward to sallying into your forces."

A murmur rippled across the table at the open mention of a Tier 4 mercenary being held back. The Matriarch's son sneered but didn't speak.

Harold let the moment stretch. Then he said, evenly, "Now you know who sits at this table."

The murmur hadn't faded when Marroween leaned forward, crimson gaze settling on Cael. Her tone was measured, but there was iron beneath it.

"If your thirty had struck with the Frost Wolf's pack, my line would have broken. The levy would have fled, and even my Barons could not have steadied the tide. This farce would have ended days ago. I have much to thank you for, Harold."

The words weren't praise so much as acknowledgment, edged with calculation.

Elder Cassian, the white-streaked Baron who had kept silent through most of the meeting, allowed himself the faintest smile. "Cael Brennor. I know you. Two winters past you served as outrider when we purged the Broken Fang coven. Reliable. Efficient. Even your men held discipline."

Cael inclined his head. "Your memory's sharp as ever, Elder. That job was clean, and your people paid on time and generously. A rare combination."

That drew a ripple of dry amusement, though Marroween's son only scoffed from the corner.

Harold let the words sit a second, felt the room tilt with possibilities and threats in equal measure. He moved like a man who'd learned the economy of breath—save it, spend it on the things that mattered.

"All right." He squared his shoulders and looked around the table. "We're watched. The cordon is getting tighter. I need agents that are not associated with us. That makes tonight his job. I need agents in the city doing things that will look like noise—market talk, tavern wagers, street criers shouting about the fight tomorrow. Make the duel a festival so nobody notices what else is moving."

He pointed at Cael. "You and your thirty are the obvious muscle and the obvious show. I want you to work the nobles' backrooms and the taverns where the money moves. I'm sure they will be wanting a report from you. Spread the tale of the fight as if you'd been there front row. Talk up our forces. Build interest. Make wagers. Turn curiosity into a crowd. I also need you to look for recruits for me. I'll give you a list of what I need after this. I'm sure there are people looking for a fresh start in a new place and willing to work.

Cael inclined his head once, professional. "Understood. We make them hungry for spectacle. I've got just the people for it.."

Harold looked at Marroween. "If you vouch for Cael, we'll take him if he wants to join us."

Marroween's voice was flat with the weight of command. "I will vouch for him and he can vouch for those he wants. I once tried to recruit him for my retainers in an effort to one day turn him."

Harold's finger tapped the table, slow and sure. Then looked at Cael appraisingly "Tonight I need you to quietly kidnap the leader of the cathedral and bring him to this compound. Bring as much of his ordained? Clergy—as you can. Lira, is that the right word—ordained?"

Lira shook her head no "I think you are looking for the word anointed, something isnt translating right. Anointed clergy. Anointed are dedicated to a specific god or pantheon."

"Good." Harold turned to Kelan. "You said you could make passages. You can tunnel out of this compound without the cordon noticing? They are sure to be watching for it after you blew a tunnel through their wall."

Kelan's bulk made the door frame look fragile. He tapped his missing hand against his knee, thought like a mountain. "I can make a channel—small, hidden. The sewer system is robust here. I'll need time and a small crew.I'll hollow into the service tunnels and follow the old service galleries. If I go now it'll give me time to do it right.

Harold's jaw tightened then he nodded, "Ok leave now, careful of their shapers."

Rysa, never one for subtlety, already had grease on her hands. "I'll put out a dozen little problems for the city guard to chase," she said, bright as a match. "Fires that sputter but don't burn, random flares, noise makers, a few cart accidents—city-watch will be busy keeping order." She grinned. "I think this compound actually has a room for my work, nice to have that" She gave Harold a pointed look.

Jerric's face was pure potential. "I'll put my sums to work. A horde of tier 1 monsters that wont attack anyone just cause chaos and panic."

Harold nodded. "Good. While you do that I have a couple places for you to steal from, you can put your old street skills to the test and you have a recruiting mission. I want you to find the orphans and homeless kids of the city, If they want a new home and willing to work and fight for it, bring them to me."

Lira just groaned into her hands while looking at Harold with a small smile.

Ferin, Auren—your job is picket and deny. You make sure no one slips through with a knife for me. Keep your bows hungry and quiet. If any noble tries to repeat the rooftop stunt, you end them before the city can accuse us of murder."

Ferin's reply was a low grin. "We'll be ghosts in the night. If anyone starts a Hunt for you I'll be able to sense it."

Harold glanced at the Matriarch. "You put your house's name on a recruitment offer—open but controlled. You lost numbers and no matter how tomorrow goes you will need more people. I know you have a training base somewhere south past the farmlands and into the forest. Recall your people there."

Marroween's stare was a blade that had learned politeness. "I will do it," she said. "I will make the promise about recruitment in public. If any of my barons fail to hold the family's honor during this, there will be consequences. I have already recalled Elder Dirk from our training camp, they have already shut it down and are making all haste here with every resource they are able to."

Harold allowed a small, hard smile. "Then tonight we make them talk. Just so everyone is clear on what tomorrow means. This Calamity will end tomorrow. I will duel your Heir. If you win then your Family will join me, If I lose then you will have earned your Boons and I will do my best to make sure it's the best it can possibly be. What is not up for debate though is that I will make sure this city remembers our visit for years to come. That cathedral will be re sanctified to Vero, I must recruit heavily for the next cycle and I need every supply we can take. Matriarch I need a list of nobles you want Jerric to visit."

"Any questions?"