Raphael Laurent lounges in his private solar, with one leg draped lazily over the arm of a velvet chair. Sunlight pours through tall arched windows and paints the stone floor in long golden bars. Frostmark Castle hums with the quiet activity of clerks running reports, guards drilling in the courtyard, & messengers riding in and out of the gates like arrows loosed from a bow. Inside the room, however, everything is quiet, calm, & controlled. A glowing faint blue holographic screen floats in the air in front of Raphael. “Hey, System, analyze for me the state of agriculture, fisheries, and livestock breeding all over Frostmark Province.” His voice is lazy & almost bored, as if he asks about the weather instead of the food supply of an entire province. The System responds immediately. “Ding. Proceeding to analyze the state of agriculture, fisheries, and livestock breeding all over Frostmark Province.” Numbers begin scrolling across the holographic screen of maps, charts, produc

“Ladies and gentlemen, I will release the confiscated funds from the now extinct Frostmark branch of the Holy Bank to farmers, fishermen, and livestock breeders who suffered a loss as a result of the sabotage done by the Frostfang Guild. Buy what replacement stocks you need yourselves to keep your businesses up and running, and find a way to transport the replacement stocks you bought to your properties all by yourselves. To avail of the emergency cash release, just bring one copy of a proof of loss signed by a barrister, and present it to the office of the Frostmark Provincial Treasurer.” The crowd goes silent, then murmurs begin spreading like wildfire. They are filled with a mixture of hope, relief, & disbelief. Raphael yawns loudly and waves his hand as if dismissing servants. “Go, and rebuild your goddamn businesses instead of crying like the helpless babies you are in my castle courtyard. You all spoil such a fine day early in the morning.” Some laugh nervously, while some

“ My lords and ladies, my plan is delightfully simple. We will recreate the same fiery sermon Pope Valerian Blackmoor delivered with so much goddamn spirit, but we will turn it into a laughable, insulting parody. Say no more. I have already decided. It will sting them so badly they will howl for days. Let’s get straight to work.” Raphael says. The laughter of the nobles echoes through Bartold Knoll Theatre, bounces off gilded walls, embroidered curtains, and polished Umbralith steel balconies like the roar of a wildfire in a cathedral. Raphael Laurent, also known as Third Prince Cain in this life, stands in the center of it all while dressed like a mock pope. His papal cap is defiant, as it bears a snarling viper coiled around a crushed crucifix painted in bold strokes. House sigils of the Heretical Noble Alliance gleam proudly on his chest. The nobles erupt in wild & mocking laughter. Tankards clatter. Feet stomp in approval. The air is thick with the scent of spiced wi

The fire in the Frostfang Guild supply room dies with a hiss of steam and smoke as buckets of water slam against burning crates and shelves. Wet ash sticks to boots. The air smells like burnt oil, charred wood, and soaked gunpowder. A group of sellswords coughs and wipes soot from their faces. Then the night explodes. Sharp, & synchronized musket fire erupts from the hallway outside the supply room in short, precise, & disciplined volleys. The sound is not chaotic, but mechanical, controlled, & military. Before the sellswords can even draw their Holy Swords, bullets punch through leather armor, ribs, throats, and skulls. Bodies drop instantly & collapse into puddles of muddy water and ash. Smoke rolls into the room like a living thing. Boots step through it. Muskets reload with smooth & practiced motions of powder, ramrod, ball, cock, & aim. A man steps forward through the smoke, with musket resting casually on his shoulder. “The whole lot of you are fools. You thin

“ I hereby declare Third Prince Cain, Second Prince Theron, and their allies from the Heretical Noble Alliance permanently excommunicated from the Holy Church. “ The declaration detonates like a thunderclap. Pope Valerian Blackmoor rises in one smooth & commanding motion. His white robes cascade like a waterfall of sanctified authority, & his Holy Mage Scepter is raised high as if he alone commands the heavens. The bells of the Crimson Grace Basilica answer him. They toll in a deep, heavy, & apocalyptic tone. Each strike reverberates through marble pillars, stained glass mosaics, bone and blood, & the very spine of the kingdom itself, like a funeral march for unity, & a war drum for everything that comes next. The assembled Cardinals in crimson robes with sharp eyed & predatory exchange glances, not out of shock or fear, but recognition. They know exactly what this means. This is no longer politics but annihilation. The news spreads like wildfire across Thaloria, carried