Chapter VII | Her Eye in Resolution

Year 694 a.S., Winter | City Pyraleia, the Capital

It was a cold, sunny day in Pyraleia when Autumn and I set off to deliver the copies I’d made of my dream journal. I’d felt good the entire week, so far. My body moved as I wanted it to and I hadn’t gotten sick in a while. I could just tell that this day was the perfect time to finally finish what I came here to do.

Four places to deliver to. Places of all sorts where I best thought they’d find it. Lilya Caecilius. Tristan the Train. Lana Rose. Lisica Longrove.

Year 694 a.S., Winter | City Vergalis, the Center of Culture & Entertainment

It was the same day in Vergalis, although misty and rainy there, when the capital sent a missionary and her young pupil to investigate the quality of its sister’s faith. They soon found themselves cleaning filth of a kind that would have been long since purged back home. It was almost incomprehensible to them how it could have gotten to be so bad. 

The missionary was 17-years-old and went by the name Lisica Longrove, a Hall of House Caecilius. Her pupil was only 8-years-old, but surprisingly lucid and almost endlessly talented. He almost reminded her of a young Claude; impressively, he had been compatible with the latest experimental branch of augments, although Lisica noted that they were still inferior to the augments of both herself and that of the young king’s. His name was Oliver of the tiny Hall Evans, and had been raised to join the JANITORs since birth. Despite this, the kid had never killed another person before. Lisica wanted to change that today. 

The rain beat hard on them, and you could scarcely see more than a few feet ahead in the thick fog, but the whimpering of the filth they had cornered was unmistakable.

“Shoot him,” she commanded, and Oliver lifted his gun right away and pulled the trigger. The shot cracked like thunder down the empty streets and through the downpour, but the bullet only winged him in the shoulder, and he cried out in pain. “He couldn’t refuse my order, but he instinctively spared the man’s life.” Lisica glanced at her pupil, who pushed his gun down with his free hand and bit his lip in frustration. For a moment, she considered making her order more specific, but for some reason, she found the boy’s purity to be something beautiful, and shot the man in the head herself.

His whimpering was instantly silenced and overtaken by the white noise of the city’s downpour. Without another word, she knocked Oliver’s grey cap to the pavement and tousled his hair before moving on to their next target.

❧☙

“Your Midtown is crawling with heathens and criminals alike; a survey has revealed that an entire 40% of your city’s population refuse to believe that the Old Goddess exists at all, and a horrifying 90% believe the stories of the Holy Text are nothing but fiction.”

The Duke of Vergalis, Christopher March, tapped his fingers on his desk impatiently. “And you’ve accomplished this all in one day.”

“I’m afraid it’s gotten to be so bad that the Head Church of Pyraleia must intervene,” Lisica continued. She flipped through several more pages on her clipboard. “A little more research has determined that the fault rests on your Minister of Church. He’s a sinful man concerned only with maintaining his wealth. By the authority of the High Priest, August Caecilius, I command that you replace him with a priest from the capital by week’s end. The rest should follow. A strong minister will result in a stronger janitorial force, which alone will root out your city’s filth.”

“I must apologize fiercely,” the duke said. “I promise to have my head priest replaced, but I believe the people will trust a resident of Vergalis over a stranger to lead the faith.”

“There’s no room for negotiation. I speak with the voice of the Holy Lady, whose command is absolute.”

“And the Holy Lady won’t budge? Not an inch?”

“Afraid not.”

Christopher exhaled deeply while massaging his temples. “Have you already reported this to the High Priest?”

“Not yet,” Lisica said. She turned back to the door to leave only to find the Duke’s lejindir blocking the way. Sir Jimothy Conrad. He wore a large armet with a thin visor, and his hand was already on the hilt of his sword. “I could kill him easily, though,” she thought, but Christopher rose to his feet.

“Were you ever taught how House Morsylis stole Old Luridia from us? How it used to be ours? It was our house that survived the Eternal Winter. It was our house that emerged victorious from the Solstice. And yet in mere decades, it was the church’s faith, controlled by that lesser house, who earned the love and fear of the people. They forced our noble line to flee from our throne in the floods to begin anew, and centuries later we’ve finally gained the edge over them. House Morsylis or House Caecilius. It doesn’t matter. We’re now richer than both combined.

“Hear the words of our house and remember: ‘We are the Reborn & We are the Standing.’ I may play nice at court, but Vergalis is ours. From now until the end of time, and no so-called goddess can take that from us.”

Lisica moved one arm to defend Oliver and took her pistol with the other, but it was too late; the command fell from the Duke’s lips.

“Submit,” he said, and the two missionaries collapsed into a deep bow. “Take them to the cells, and lock them up tight. I’ll see to them in the morning.”