Gethin frowns at Ulwin, not particularly liking him. Officially, Ulwin is an administrative aide. Unofficially, he’s the Order’s most efficient information network, rumor mill, and hub for unsolicited advice. A slender man with quick fingers and quicker opinions, he has the posture of someone perpetually leaning in to whisper a juicy tidbit or rifle through the “confidential” drawer he’s never supposed to open. His crisp robes and spectacles worn slightly too low give him the air of a man who could proofread your sermon and report who flirted with whom over temple wine.
His desk sits beside Ember’s paper-choked office, always suspiciously tidy except for a stack of notes labeled “Strictly Private” he claims are “just hymn requests.” Ulwin has an annoying talent for appearing precisely when he isn’t needed. He offers tea when it’s already poured, finishes sentences he wasn’t invited into, and casually mentions he “happened to overhear” conversations taking place behind three closed doors and a sacred curtain.
Thus far, Ember has tolerated him because his efficiency is maddeningly unmatched. Supplies get ordered, meetings get scheduled, and Ember’s gruff comments are translated into legible reports with tasteful marginalia. No scandal, no matter how small, escapes Ulwin’s notice. No mood shift in his presence goes unremarked. Some have accused Ulwin of being meddlesome. Ember has merely sighed and shrugged, remarking that he at least alphabetizes the incident logs.
Ulwin, with great enthusiasm for his new position, flips through Ember’s calendar. “Ember has an opening next Tuesday. Shall I pencil you in?”
“Not next Tuesday,” Gethin says firmly. “Now.”
Frowning, Ulwin asks, “Can I tell Ember what this is about? With the Choosing delayed, he’s swamped.”
Deciding that Ulwin’s ears are too big and his lips too loose, Gethin sighs. “Tell him it’s about the Choosing.”
Clearly unhappy with Gethin’s answer, Ulwin knocks on Ember’s door. “Father Gethin is here to see you. He says it’s something to do with the Choosing.”
“Show him in,” Ember directs.
Ember’s office has become a bureaucratic siege zone. Stacks of parchment lean precariously against the stone walls, forming narrow corridors like makeshift ramparts. A filing chest sags under unsigned requisitions, outdated prayer rosters, and three separate copies of the Quarterly Ethics Inventory.
The once-proud walnut desk with its burnished Order seal is barely visible beneath maps, reports, grievance scrolls, and a half-finished speech. Inkpots form a defensive line at its edge, one long dried solid. A longsword leans against the far wall, collecting dust with the occasional memo skewered on its tip.
Behind the chaos sits Ember, armor swapped for a wrinkled tabard and a quill tucked behind one ear. His hair has gone silver from frustration, not age. The scar across his jaw twitches whenever someone mentions “supply requisition” or “duty roster.” He never asked to be acting Commander, but with the Order’s true Head unconscious in the infirmary, he brought his characteristic grit and zero appetite for bureaucracy. A mug declares “Righteousness Never Rests,” though it holds lukewarm tea and a sticky feather. A small shrine hosts a Storm Crow icon surrounded by offerings and one crumpled wax invoice. Despite the chaos, the room thrums with Ember’s personality, the same stubborn dignity he once brought to the battlefield.
Gethin steps inside, takes in the chaos, and chuckles. “Do you have time for tea with an old friend?”
"I know who the girl is," Gethin says without preamble. "I've already confirmed it with the Goddess. She is Emlyn, granddaughter of Melfyn ferch Ardan ap Draig—one of the greatest generals the Cymry ever produced, and a man I once called friend."
Ember sets down his quill slowly, eyes sharpening. "How did you—"
"The healers discovered something. The girl woke briefly and instructed them to add woad to her bandages. Woad is a traditional Cymry dye, used for everything from inks to tattoos. When I spoke to the Goddess about acquiring it, she showed me the girl's memory. That's how I confirmed her identity."
Gethin pulls up his pant leg, revealing the intricate indigo tattoos that spiral across his calf and thigh—whorled patterns that tell of his lineage and rank among the Cymry.
"She has these," Gethin continues, "but far more extensive. High enough to mark her as a Great House member, which matches what I know of Melfyn's granddaughter. The Goddess has already begun acquiring woad from the other temples. Clerics should be arriving with shipments throughout the day."
He releases his pant leg and meets Ember's gaze. "But that's not why I'm here. The girl isn't just Melfyn's granddaughter. She's a Renunciate."
Gethin lays out what she is and what he knows of the Renunciates.
Ember sits behind his desk, mind spinning, and steeples his fingers.
"Gods above," Ember breathes. "That means she is likely the last living Renunciate. The stories about them... half the world thinks they were some other god's secret assassins, the other half thinks they were demons summoned from the nether realms. Now you're saying that nobody knew the truth, that they were just children? There were rumors of six, but you're saying there were only four? If people find out one survived... Other gods will be after her. The worshipers of the Mad God will want her dead, and every ambitious king will want to weaponize her."
Ember stands and starts to pace, "Some of those battles are already being studied for the tactical and strategic lessons. Lake Nwdir was masterful, and Tir Diffaith was genius. No wonder the Goddess wants her so badly. But this... this is different. This is dangerous in ways I hadn't considered."
Gethin's voice is low, urgent. "Keep her presence here secret. If Tanis or Elphame learn she's here, they'll burn Harito to the ground to get her. If any of Rigan's faithful find out, they'll stop at nothing for revenge. And if word reaches any ambitious king, warlord, mercenary captain, or would-be conqueror with enough swords to storm our temple, they'll realize the girl who killed a god is here and then they'll try to claim her as a weapon. She's not ready to defend herself. Until she is, she needs us."
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Ember is silent, the words echoing in the quiet study. He feels the enormity of it settle on his shoulders, a threat not just from gods and cultists, but from every ambitious soul with an army and a hunger for power. The image of Harito burning, the temple overrun, and Emlyn dragged away to be used or destroyed, flashes before his eyes. He draws a slow, steadying breath as the gravity of their shared responsibility anchors him to the spot.
But Ember's mind spins further, following the threads of logic. "And it's not just the enemies we know," he murmurs, almost to himself. "You remember the stories, Gethin. Before Rigan captured them, the Renunciates were courted by dozens of gods. No one's really sure how many. Most of the stories put that number at forty or more. Even if it's half that, it's still dangerous. If she's not yet sworn to Morrighu, she's still vulnerable. Her promise is her word, but it's not a binding oath. If another god finds her first, if they're clever or desperate enough, they could try to take her. Kidnap her. Claim her as their own before she ever kneels at Morrighu's altar."
He bows his head, the old reflex of a paladin seeking guidance. In the silence, Ember prays as he has not in a long time. He's not just praying for Emlyn's safety, but for wisdom, for secrecy, for the uneasy peace to hold a little longer.
Lifting his head, Ember nods, his expression grim. "You have my word. I'll keep the staff in line. You keep the priests in line. No one outside this room will know. But if you're right, we need to be careful. Very careful."
Gethin lets out a shaky breath. "There's more. I've already had the Goddess reach out to the other temples about the woad. The clerics arriving with supplies will help establish a pattern, just routine deliveries for a healer's experiment. Nothing that suggests anything unusual."
Ember nods slowly, understanding the strategy. "You're thinking ahead."
"I've had time to think about what happens when the world learns the Cymry have a survivor," Gethin says quietly. "The last time our people were this visible to other powers, we nearly ceased to exist. We cannot afford that again."
Ember grips Gethin's forearm. "We'll protect her. Whatever it takes. But we need to change her name, keep her out of the records. Even her oaths should be recorded under another name."
"Why such measures?" Gethin asks, though he already knows the answer.
"Tanis and Elphame were involved with Rigan," Ember replies. "Do you really want them to come here looking for her? Are you going to defend her from a Goddess of insanity and torture? Or one of poison and disease? Best they not come here looking for her in the first place."
Gethin nods. "The Great Conflict didn't end that long ago. It wouldn't take much to get it all started again. We have an uneasy peace, at best, right now. Everything is so fragile; I'd rather not risk it."
Ember considers this for a few moments before nodding. "Your advice seems reasonable to me. She's had so little contact with anyone outside of Davilla or Vanya. I think we can keep it quiet. I'll speak to Davilla and Vanya about it. When the priests start teaching her, they need to understand that absolute discretion is required. Nothing she says leaves this temple. Nothing she reveals can be recorded in any way that might be discovered."
Gethin nods and accepts the cup of tea Ember offers him.
"There's one more thing," Gethin says as he sips. "The woad isn't just helping her heal. It seems to be connected to her bloodline somehow. The Goddess suspects there's something deeper—some magic or bond between Cymry and the plant that we don't fully understand yet. We may need to consult with Davilla about whether she's noticed anything unusual about how quickly it's working."
"Keep that between us for now," Ember says. "The fewer people who understand what's actually happening, the better."
“How quickly can you get her sworn?” Gethin asks.
Ember sighs and his expression is grim. “I don't know how quickly she'll recover enough to take the Oaths. You have my word. I’ll keep the staff silent. You keep the priests silent. No one outside this room will know. But we need to be careful... Very careful.”
Gethin exhales. “Thank you. I’ll keep watching her."
Gethin nods and sips his tea.
Later, Davilla gets a knock on her door. A cleric she hasn't met stands in the hallway. “Are you Davilla Myrelle? I have a delivery for you. Dye powder is an unusual emergency, but this is all we have on hand.” He hands her a small container. “If we find more in Enkassar's market, I'll return, but it's the wrong season. Good luck with whatever this is for.”
Snapping a smart bow, he takes his leave, pleased that he can go shopping in Harito before heading back to Enkassar. Over the next hour, the scene repeats itself as representatives arrive from Golpin, Poyka, Gros Bilot, Sebiba, and even as far away as Cyuna. Unable to continue her work, she finally posts a sign and a basket, asking that the dye powder be left there and suggesting a visit to the kitchen for a fried pie as a token of appreciation for the delivery.
Even so, the contents of the basket don’t come close to rivaling the contents of the chest that she managed to purchase in the market earlier. Finally able to work again, Davilla and Vanya get busy preparing the latest batch of drug-soaked bandages, this time with the woad included. After about an hour of intense work, there is another knock on the door. Rolling her eyes, Vanya goes to open the door, planning to chastise someone for not reading. A temple mage is sitting atop several large traveling trunks.
He hops off the pile of trunks in a swirl of dusty indigo robes and windblown hair, trailed by the faint scent of damp earth and scorched sage. His robes are marked with protective runes, and his pockets bulge, occasionally releasing a glimmer of green.
He winks and bows to Vanya, taking in her trim, lithe figure. “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” he says, adjusting the fold of his robe in a motion far more calculated than casual.
“I saw your sign,” he says, “but I didn’t want to leave all this in the hallway without letting you know it was here. Trevassa from the temple in Ibartica sends her greetings to Davilla and asks if you require her assistance.
One of these trunks,” the mage raps the one he was perched atop, “contains nothing but plants. She said to tell you that they’re a weed in the countryside around Ibartica. She said if you didn’t know how to prepare them, she’d come and show you. I can’t remember much of the rest of her message. Only that it involves fermenting the leaves.”
Vanya giggles as he swears.
He mutters, “I told her to write all that down. My memory is good, but not that good…”
Vanya calls for Davilla, and the mage gives his spiel a second time. Davilla sits down, practically weeping with relief. “Thank the Goddess! There is more than enough here for us to experiment with to try to heal her.”
“Heal who?” the mage inquires. Before Davilla can say anything, Vanya gestures to the mage to follow her. “We are about to go change her bandages,”
Vanya says as she cracks open the door. “Maybe you can help us with her while you are here. Perhaps a sleep spell or something. I hate causing her more pain. This time, because we’re trying something new, it might end up being worse than usual.”
Intrigued, the mage agrees. “I think I can help you… But how is that... how is she still even alive?”
Shrugging, Vanya says, “Her will to live is strong. You should have seen her when the Goddess brought her here. She is a lot better now.”
The young man grimaces in sympathy.
With a gallant bow, he winks at Vanya, flirting a bit, “I am Hedrek Grayhyrst, at your service. Let me know how I can help.”
“Let me go help Davilla in preparing the new bandages, and you can tell me what you can do to try to ease her pain while we work on her,” Vanya replies.
Hedrek observes as the women mix their carefully prepared ingredients.
Sniffing, he says with some alarm, “Is that p’zae?”
Nodding, but not looking up, Davilla confirms his suspicions, “It is. It is the only thing we have found that seems to stop her from thrashing and reopening her wounds.”
“Why in all the hells would you turn her into an addict?” Hedrek grouses. “Don’t you know how hard it is to kick that?”
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