The private study in Duke Albrecht’s manor smelled of old money.

  It was the smell of aged leather, beeswax polish, cedar wood and oil, used to maintain the steel, mixing together.

  Hunting trophies lined the decorated walls in disciplined rows: stag, boar and bear heads, but also more exotic ones - like hill troll’s skull or wyvern horns.

  A single, tall window let in a pale light.

  It caught visible motes of dust floating above the massive oaken desk.

  Clemont Faraway sat ramrod straight in the visitor’s chair.

  His hands were folded neatly on his lap, and his face wore a composed expression.

  Across the desk sat Duke Albrecht Norvain, a man in his late fifties.

  His silver hair was neatly combed back, and his gentlemanly demeanor was complemented by a warm smile that never quite reached his eyes.

  He lifted a crystal carafe and poured himself a glass of deep red wine with deliberate slowness.

  The second glass remained empty.

  He held the taste for a long moment before setting the glass down with a deliberate thump.

  “Clemont,” he said gently. “Do you know why I summoned you?”

  The young noble inclined his head. “The Storm Relief Council, Your Grace.”

  Albrecht’s smile did not waver.

  “That is a half-correct assumption.

  You may play at charity if you must, boy.

  But do not mistake a fool's applause for authority.”

  A pause.

  “Your grandfather understood the nature of loyalty.

  Your father does as well.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “I trust you will not disappoint three generations of service.”

  Clemont’s fingers tightened faintly in his lap.

  “My Lord, the intent was merely to-”

  “Silence.”

  The warm mask cracked away from Duke’s face, and his eyes darkened.

  “I did not summon you to listen to your justifications.

  As your father attends to my affairs in the south, you will attend to mine here.

  You will contact our friends and inform them that it is time to proceed.”

  He sipped.

  “Did your father even tell you of the plan?”

  Clemont swallowed once.

  “Yes, Lord Duke.”

  The Duke’s smile returned.

  “The Church’s authority has grown…

  It is wise, from time to time, to remind institutions of their… proper sphere of influence.”

  The private meeting ended shortly thereafter.

  As Clemont reached for the door handle, the elder nobleman called out to him.

  “And Clemont?”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Do not fail me again.”

  A few days later.

  The inn’s dining hall smelled of fresh bread, woodsmoke, and - thanks to yesterday's party going wild - a faint sourness of spilled ale.

  The party sat at their usual corner table, eating a late breakfast made of porridge, eggs and bacon.

  The doors slammed open with a loud thud.

  Erian burst in, cheeks flushed, clutching a sheaf of crumpled papers.

  “Look at this!”

  He slapped the fliers down on the table.

  Bold black ink headlines screamed:

  “GOLDEN DISASTER: FANATICAL NUN BRINGS RUIN TO INNOCENT VILLAGES!”

  “CHURCH PROTECTS MAD ZEALOT - WHO PAYS FOR THE CRATERS?”

  “HER HALO LIGHT WILL GIVE YOU LEPROSY, BLINDNESS, AND PREMATURE BALDNESS!!!!”

  The illustrations on paper were crudely drawn, but recognizable: Faná’s halo was exaggerated into a blinding corona, with villages burning and villagers fleeing in terror in the background.

  Gorzod scanned them and said:

  “Ah, so we’re famous now. My ego is finally satisfied.”

  Thrain grunted.

  “Har! Looks like some foul-minded bilger got himself a press…

  Liora briefly glanced at the papers, then went back to sharpening an arrowhead.

  Faná picked up one flier, read it calmly, then set it down.

  “But it’s only paper.” She looked at Erian,

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  “The Goddess knows the truth.”

  Erian’s voice cracked with suppressed anger.

  “But they are everywhere! They’re calling you a menace! They’re saying the Church is corrupt for shielding you! We have to find who’s doing this!”

  “If Faná herself doesn’t care…”

  Gorzod leaned back, and focused on his bacon and eggs.

  Thrain just shrugged.

  Erian stared at them, his face reddening.

  “If you won’t do anything… I will.”

  He stormed out, papers clutched tight.

  Liora watched him go.

  The party briefly discussed the fliers and then switched to other topics, but no one seemed willing to stop the young magician.

  After a while, the huntress silently rose and slipped out the side door.

  From a rooftop overlooking the slum alleys, Liora moved like a shadow.

  She quickly tracked the pattern: men and women emerging from sewer grates with small packages, passing them hand-to-hand through back ways and splitting bundles at corners.

  Then slum children - quick and dirty - took handfuls and darted into streets, tossing fliers like confetti.

  She let out a very, very, very long sigh.

  “This is gonna be maximum effort again, won't it?”

  Then she dropped silently behind one courier as he exited a grate.

  Her dagger kissed the side of his neck.

  “Where is the printer?”

  The man froze.

  “I- I don’t-...”

  She pressed the edge closer.

  “Sewers,” he gasped and paused. Liora could almost feel his eyes darting in panic.

  The dagger’s blade dug lightly into the skin, and a thin line of blood welled.

  “The third… third junction past the old cistern. Hidden door behind the rusted grate. Please-”

  Before he could finish, she struck him once, a hilt to the temple.

  He slumped down unconscious.

  And Liora descended into darkness.

  The sewers smelled of damp stone and rot.

  She moved carefully, hiding in alcoves when patrols of armed rogues marched past her.

  At the third junction she saw a rusted grate.

  She reached for it when a voice cracked behind her.

  “Stop right there, you knave!”

  She whirled around, a throwing knife already in her hand.

  Erian stood at the tunnel mouth, staff raised, faint arcane glow at the tip.

  They both froze.

  “Erian?”

  “Lio... Liora?”

  The spell fizzled, and the knife was lowered.

  Erian blinked.

  “You… you’re investigating it too?”

  Liora shrugged.

  “Minimum effort. Someone had to before it turns into serious problem.”

  They shared a quick, awkward nod, and entered the passage together.

  Just as they saw the entrance to a bigger, illuminated chamber in the distance…

  Four hidden bandits springed at them in ambush, weapons in hand.

  Liora moved first - with her dagger flashing, one bandit was down before he could even shout.

  Erian hurled a firebolt, and another screamed as his cloak ignited first, followed by his entire body.

  The remaining two bandits lunged.

  The huntress slipped aside, hooked her assailant’s ankle, and crushed his throat with her knee before he could stand up.

  A blade almost reached Erian’s face, but in the last moment the mage raised a shimmering barrier and parried the hit.

  Then with a sharp gesture of his hand, the barrier expanded and slammed the rogue into the wall.

  Silence.

  They finally entered the chamber.

  Inside was a large printing press. The press operators tried to escape when they saw the armed attackers, but most of them were knocked out by the two.

  In front of the machine, a pair of young operators remained, trembling.

  A boy with a bandana low over his eyes, and a girl whose face Erian recognized instantly.

  The one who had begged them to free her “unjustly imprisoned” brother from the garrison.

  She stared at Erian, eyes wide.

  Liora raised her daggers.

  Erian caught her cape. “Wait.”

  The girl flinched.

  Erian hesitated, and then said in a quiet voice, “You… you lied to us. Back then. Your brother wasn’t innocent.”

  The girl swallowed.

  The boy stepped in front of her, shielding her.

  Liora’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her daggers didn’t lower.

  But Erian shook his head.

  “Go. Both of you. Before we change our minds.”

  The two youths scrambled out.

  Erian turned to the press.

  He raised his staff, and channeled a spell.

  And with a burst of arcane force - wood cracked and metal bent, then turned into slag.

  The machine collapsed in a heap of splinters.

  Erian and Liora looked at each other, and both simply nodded.

  Later, in Faraway Manor’s study, Clemont read through a sealed report.

  He read it once. Then twice.

  The parchment crumbled slowly in his gloved hand.

  The bell rang again soundlessly.

  A shadow guard detached itself from the wall.

  “The Torvyn press has been destroyed,” Clemont said in an emotionless voice.

  “By the Saint's companions. Our leverage over the gangs weakens."

  "Ensure other locations are adequately protected.

  And find out how they learned of it.”

  The shadow bowed and disappeared.

  Clemont stood up, and walked to the window.

  His reflection stared back at him.

  Composed. Immaculate.

  “You think you've won again,”

  His fingers rested against the window glass.

  “But I will teach you,” he said softly, “what it means to provoke an old house.”