The Fellowship of the Six, an august and unyielding pillar of faith, stood unrivalled as the spiritual heart of Udoris, its dominion over the souls of men unbroken for centuries. From the twilight of the First Age to the waning years of the Middle Era, it reigned as the paramount religious authority, weaving its influence through the rise and fall of countless realms. Its lineage stretches back into the misted folds of time, an enduring testament to its power and to the conviction of those who upheld it. It is said that before the hubris of Stefans de Zoroaster no crown was ever set upon a king’s head in Udoris without the blessing of the Fellowship, and no banner rose in war that did not invoke the Six.

  The Fellowship claimed a singular place in history, an absolute monarchy of the spirit that outlasted empires and reshaped the destiny of men. For nearly a thousand years, its Grands spoke with the weight of divine mandate, and its councils dictated the boundaries of truth and heresy. Its rites, its laws, its very architecture—the soaring spires of its cathedrals, the labyrinthine chambers of its basilicas—proclaimed its permanence. Yet, permanence is a fragile thing, and the Great War was the axe that split the roots of this mighty tree.

  To understand the Fellowship is to understand Udoris itself. Its doctrines, its rituals, and its long, blood-soaked history form the warp and weft of the land’s identity. Without its shadow looming over the centuries, the tapestry of Udorian history would fray into incomprehensible threads. Was the Great War an inevitable reckoning for the Fellowship’s unyielding rule? Or was the fall of its spiritual monarchy the result of its own hubris, a punishment meted out by the Six themselves? Such questions linger like ghosts, haunting scholars and priests alike.

  The Fellowship was not merely a hierarchy—a neat pyramid with the Grands at its peak and the common folk as its base. It was an intricate web of power, theology, and politics, where abbots clashed with bishops and councils with the Shepherds, all in the name of divine truth. And yet, it was the Fellowship’s unbroken chain to its storied past that gave it strength. The belief in its continuity, in the sacred truth of the Six passed down through the ages, was its most potent weapon. Without that chain, its authority would crumble, as stone crumbles when the mortar fails.

  Yet, for all its triumphs, even the most unyielding stone cannot escape the wear of time, and the Fellowship’s fate reminds us that no power, however divine it may seem, is truly eternal.

  …

  Excerpt from Jonas Diane's fourth book on Udorian powers- 'Religious Fallacies'?

  ???

  Mallowston, 2nd Moon, 23rd Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

  Lord Josh returned to Mallowston Keep at last, though not in the triumphal manner he had once envisioned. The cobbled path beneath his boots was slick with recent rain, his steps faltering as he stumbled forward, bound at wrist and neck with grimy flax. His captors, mounted bannermen loyal to the von Grifenburgs, regarded him indifferently, urging him on with curt words and sharp tugs of the rope when he lagged. The Lord’s once-proud bearing was a ghost of itself, his garments soiled, his hair matted with mud and leaves. He trudged past the portcullis and into the bailey, his head held low.

  From the corners of his vision, he saw faces. Familiar faces. Servants, grooms, maids—those who had once bustled about his hall, carrying his commands like whispers to every corner of his fiefdom. Their expressions told a dozen stories. Some looked upon him with pity, others with disdain or curiosity, and a few with barely concealed mirth. He thought he saw one of his former bannermen, a man who had once sworn oaths of fealty to House Hera, quickly avert his gaze, his cheeks flushing with shame. Yet Josh offered no reaction, save for a slight tightening of his jaw.

  Inside, his emotions churned. Anger simmered beneath the surface—anger at his captors, at his betrayal, at the ignominy of his fall. But weariness tempered it, a bone-deep fatigue that dulled the sharp edges of his wrath. Despair lingered too, like a shadow at the edge of his thoughts, whispering questions he dared not voice. What of my family? Are they alive?

  The guards led him up the stone staircase, each step heavier than the last, until he was ushered into his old study. The sight of it struck him like a blow. The room was just as he’d left it, though it felt like a lifetime had passed since he’d last sat within its sanctuary. The grand oak desk, adorned with brass fittings, was still piled with tomes and documents. His spectacles rested atop a stack of ledgers beside a quill and inkwell. The familiar scent of parchment and ink mingled with a faint hint of lavender, likely from the potpourri on the windowsill. The hearth glowed with a steady warmth, its flames licking at the early spring chill.

  And there, standing by the shelves, was a figure Josh recognized at once.

  “So, it was you,” the lord said, a hollow chuckle escaping his lips. His captor turned, the light catching his youthful features—Lord Aden’s true-born son, Levi.

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  “Yes,” the young lord said evenly, closing the tome in his hands. “How have you fared, Lord Josh?”

  Josh chuckled again, though there was no mirth in the sound. “Terribly,” he admitted. “I came close to death many times. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

  Levi offered a small, almost polite smile. “I’m relieved you did not succumb. That would have been most disappointing—though, truth be told, I am already somewhat disappointed.”

  “Oh? Why is that?” Josh’s voice carried a faint edge. “Did you expect a more regal appearance from a man who’s been three days on the run, starved and battered?”

  Levi chuckled, moving to the desk and settling into the chair behind it. He gestured for Josh to sit, his manner casual, almost affable. “Not at all. I am not so unreasonable. My disappointment lies elsewhere. You see, I was promised a skirmish at the harbour, yet what I witnessed was... underwhelming.”

  Josh sat stiffly, his gaze fixed on Levi. “That farce barely qualifies as a skirmish.”

  “Precisely,” Levi agreed. “And that is why I find myself disappointed. My counselors assured me of your defiance. Of a great battle. What I received was flight.”

  Josh bristled but said nothing. Levi leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting. “Forget all that. Let us speak of what comes next, Josh. Surely you’ve considered your position.”

  “To be frank,” Josh said, his voice heavy with resignation, “I expected you to ransom me to my sister at Norcastle. My famil as well... assuming they still live.”

  “They do,” Levi said smoothly, and Josh exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “But no, I have no intention of ransoming you. That would hardly befit a traitor. Treason cannot go unanswered.”

  “Then... you mean to hang us?” Josh asked, his stomach sinking.

  Levi’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he leaned back in his chair. “That remains to be seen. Perhaps you’ll convince me otherwise.”

  Before Josh could respond, the door opened. Levi’s smile widened. “Ah, Gilbert. Come in. Your father has returned.”

  Josh turned to see his son, rosy-cheeked and plump, but with a nervousness that made his movements jerky and uncertain. The boy’s eyes darted about the room, never settling on his father for long.

  “He was present at the skirmish, you know,” Levi said conversationally, “bound to the mast of the Seabiscuit. I thought his presence might inspire you to stand and fight. Clearly, I overestimated your resolve. Needless to say, it proved unnecessary, given how swiftly you and your bannermen opted to flee.”

  Josh’s fists clenched. “What have you done to my son?”

  “Gilbert,” Levi said, his voice cool, “greet your father.”

  The boy stammered, “G-good morrow, Father,” but his voice trembled, and his gaze quickly dropped to the floor.

  “Pay him no mind,” Levi said, waving a dismissive hand. “He required... correction. He is compliant now, though perhaps overly so.”

  Josh surged to his feet, his fury flaring. “What have you done to my son?” His eyes flashed with despair as a sudden realization dawned upon him. “And what of my wife and daughters?”

  Levi’s smile vanished, his tone hardening. “Mind your tongue, Josh. I am not so uncouth as to inflict upon the ladies what you insinuate of me. Your family remains unharmed... for now. But that can change if you try my patience.”

  The fire in Josh’s eyes dimmed, and he sank back into his chair, defeated.

  “Good,” Levi said, his tone light once more. “Now, let us discuss reparations.”

  “I have nothing to give.”

  “Quite contrary,” Levi quipped gesturing for Gilbert to stand in a corner. “For one, you will testify against the Timels, declaring them complicit in your actions. Secondly, you will renounce your title publicly, and accept your family’s servitude to mine for a decade. And lastly, you shall pen a missive to your sister at Norcastle, informing her of your defeat at the harbour and subsequent capture, as well as my gracious decision to pardon you and your kin. You shall make mention of your family's new status as indentured servants of mine. Furthermore, you shall bid her to dispatch a trusted subordinate to visit and verify your well-being and standard of living under my care, beseeching her not to incite her husband to raise an army against me. In return, I will allow you and your family to keep your lives.”

  Josh’s heart sank further. “And if I refuse?”

  Levi merely arched a brow. “Choose wisely,” he said.

  Josh fell silent, the weight of the decision crushing him. After a long pause, he whispered, “Very well. I accept.”

  Levi’s smile returned, bright and wolfish. “Excellent. I knew you were a reasonable man.”

  "...May I make a request?" Josh implored.

  "Go ahead. I shall consider it."

  "You have a betrothed, Lancelot's daughter?"

  "Aye?"

  "I beseech you to appoint my youngest, Titi, as her Lady's Companion. She is but a child, unacquainted with the ways of our world. I entreat you to show mercy."

  Levi smiled. "Nay. I shall not entertain the notion of appointing the offspring of a traitor to such a prestigious position based on such a flimsy argument. Young? You should have pondered that before even considering treason."

  Josh fell silent, his gaze frantic. "What of my eldest?" he proposed.

  "Malina?" the young lord inquired, brows furrowed in confusion. "What of her?"

  "She could serve as your handmaiden," Josh suggested. "She is well-born... and unwed! Her wit surpasses her mother's thrice over; I believe she would excel in such a role."

  A glimmer of understanding appeared in Levi's eyes. "Still striving to regain some semblance of power, I see," he remarked with a smile, before turning away, his gaze pensive. "...I shall allow it," he declared a few moments later, "yet only after she has proven herself worthy of the post."

  "Thank you," Josh sighed. Though a profound sense of loss still weighed heavily upon his heart, at least a sliver of hope remained.

  "Gilbert, lead your father to the guest chambers," the young lord instructed with a smile. "I believe your mother and sisters shall rejoice to see him again."

  "A-aye, My Lord."