“Ain’t no excuse for lettin’ leaks go,” growled Gorm. “Nor allowin’ the dust to build up, nor toleratin’ them mushrooms growin’ in the floorboards, nor leavin’ that giant rat in the sanctuary.”

A dog-sized ball of fur and bones gave a rasping cough and half-limped, half-skittered toward the door.

“Oh, that’s just old Scabbo,” said the Elf. “He’s too far along to be any harm, and since we got scargs in the basement he likes to hang around up…” The young Human lost momentum as Gorm turned the full force of his glare on the acolytes.

“Hire a hero to clear out them scargs and the rat.” Gorm pointed a finger at the pair like it was a crossbow, and they shrank from it as though it might actually fire. “Fix the leaky roof. Weed the hallway. And dust and sweep the sanctuary. I told the last acolyte all of this!”

“Yes, we know,” said the Elf meaningfully.

“They started the two of us on door duty after she quit,” added the young Human, with as much reproach as he could muster.

“Then get it fixed, or I’m going to have actions with someone.”

The acolytes shared a confused look. “I beg your pardon?” asked the Elf.

“Ye and I are havin’ words now, but actions’ll speak louder.” The threat in Gorm’s voice was as subtle as a ballista. “If necessary.”

The Human paled. “Ah, that won’t be… I’ll send word to the high priestess, sir, but I honestly don’t think the All Mother feels disrespected if the sanctuary is a bit… uh… decaying.”

“Ain’t her I’m worried about.” Gorm made his way over to his usual spot in front of a bronze sculpture of a man with long robes and a melancholy expression. The memorial to High Scribe Niln of the Al’Matrans was likely the cleanest spot in the goddess’ temple, well swept and meticulously polished.

“Uh, right. Right,” said the acolyte. “We’ll just leave you to it, then?”

The Dwarf didn’t look up from his inspection of the statue. “Aye, and see that someone cleans the rest of the sanctuary come morning.”

Gorm settled in as the acolytes scurried out. There was a well-built chair set up near the sculpture for his visits.

“Hello Niln,” he said, settling into the chair.

The statue of Niln responded as one would expect.

“Sorry I ain’t been in as much lately. I been busy. And I… I get tired sometimes,” he confided in the statue.

Niln waited in expectant silence.

“A year ago I thought we were almost there… like we were right on the edge of avengin’ ye,” Gorm mused eventually. “Rightin’ the ways ye and Tib’rin and Zurthraka and all the Guz’Varda was wronged. Expected next time I came to see ye, I’d be tellin’ ye Johan was dead and we avenged ye. Course, I can’t say that yet. Maybe that’s what kept me away.”

Gorm looked around at the All Mother’s crumbling sanctuary. Scabbo wheezed at him from behind a rotten pew. He sighed. “A nation ain’t like a dungeon, right? A society ain’t like a monster. Ye can’t just kill it, take its money, and celebrate with some ale. My whole career I been doin’ jobs where the final solution was me axe, and once the targets were gone all me problems were solved. Especially the financial ones.”

A lump rose in his throat. “But then I met Tib’rin. Changed me life, he did. And as he helped me get to know the Orcs and Goblins and other folk, I realized what a horror that was. That the ones I was killin’ were people too. That ye can’t treat ’em as monsters. And I… once I saw what I’d done, the whole thrice-cursed world looked upside down.”

He sat in silence for a time, remembering the shame of it. The statue of Niln waited patiently.

Eventually, he took a deep breath and continued. “But the whole thrice-cursed world was made by people. Friends and families, hard workers and folk who do their best to be honorable. And ye can’t tear society down without destroyin’ them too. That’s why the Red Horde have the wrong of it. They want to kill the ones in power, to burn their homes, to orphan their children, and then to take back the money so that callous, murderous people won’t be in power. But they would be. It’d just be a new batch of ’em.”

Niln looked solemn as ever.

“How can ye save the world when the world seems like the problem?” Gorm asked. “How do ye solve a problem when the only visible solution is the same problem again? How can ye save a kingdom from its own king? Or from the people that keep him king? It’s hard, Niln. It takes a long time. And in the meantime, the others are back to old careers or startin’ new ones. The Guz’Varda and the other Shadowkin are takin’ to business. Thane… gods, I searched for him so long, and no trace of where he’s gone to. I know everybody’s got to try an’ get by, but I just thought we’d fight through the problems instead of workin’ around ’em or runnin’ away.”

The statue of Niln looked down on him in sympathetic silence.

“I suppose ye know what it’s like, fightin’ battles that nobody else is fightin’ for a solution nobody can see. But ye… ye were stronger than me in that regard. Every day ye got up and dove headfirst into a fight for somethin’ everyone else doubted, and ye took on a world that was too much for ye.”

He looked up at the bronze visage of his old friend. “I never gave ye enough credit for that. With Tib’rin I… I got to say goodbye. To tell him how much I learned from him, how he was a good friend. And ye… ye were ripped away thinkin’ I thought ye a fool. Because I did. A nice enough one, but a fool. Wasn’t ’til after ye were gone that I realized how strong ye were, in your own way. In a better way than me.”

Niln’s smile was contrite. Serene. Forgiving.

“But I learned from ye, sure enough,” said Gorm, standing. “Me friends all think I’m barmy, just like I once thought ye was. But ye showed me, and now I’ll show them. There’s a way to bring justice. There’s somethin’ more here. And what we found in the ashes of Sowdock, it’s going to change the world, Niln. To save it. Even if I don’t know how, I’ll keep marchin’ toward it. No matter what comes.”

He grinned up at Niln, who seemed to be smiling back at him. “We’re gonna shake the foundations of the world, ye and Tib’rin and I. Just wait.” And with that promise, Gorm strode out of the sanctuary of the All Mother and left the bronze statue of the high scribe alone in the dim light of the waning candles.

The echoing clanks of the Dwarf’s iron-soled boots faded. Soon the only sound in the sanctuary was the wheezing snuffle of Scabbo grubbing about for mushrooms and roaches. Eventually, the old rat tired and shuffled off to sleep somewhere beneath the altar. Even the crickets stilled. For most of the night, nothing disturbed the solemn silence around the statue of the high scribe.

Then the acolyte responsible for singing the matins hour came in, saw Niln’s face, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

“Such a reaction belies a lack of control, do you see?” said the old pyromancer. “Control is everything.”

Laruna stared at the ancient woman from across an alabaster table, doing everything in her power to wear a serene smile. It was not working. Her face was trying to twist itself into a mask of rage, suitable for loosing the screams that she was holding in her heaving chest. As hard as she fought to will her treacherous features into something serene, the most she could manage was holding them in a manic, rictus grin.

“I… am… controlled,” she rasped through her teeth. “See?”

The old woman’s heavy-lidded eyes followed an errant spark that flicked away from Laruna. Embers of latent sorcery popped off the young solamancer’s head like infernal dander, singeing the silk cushions in the fine chambers of the Order of the Sun. “I see a lot,” she said deliberately. “I do not see control.”

Laruna sucked in a deep breath. This was the Ember of Heaven, she reminded herself, the mightiest pyromancer to come from the Empire this age. When she had been the Flame of Heaven, the Ember had served the Imperial Court for decades and earned praise from all corners of the Empire and the Free Nations alike. It was said that no foe but time could snuff out the Ember, and she seemed to be giving time itself a bit of a hard go. The years had marbled her rich walnut skin, turned her raven curls silver, and turned her famously curved figure into something more uniformly spherical. Her new moniker made it clear that she couldn’t wield as much magic as she did in the legends of yore. Yet, while her youth and power were waning, her mastery of pyromancy was undiminished. It was said that she could steal the flame from a dragon’s mouth.

It had taken all of Laruna’s influence as a Hero of the City, some of her recent wealth, and a not insignificant amount of pleading on the solamancer’s part to arrange this consultation. Now it took every ounce of her self control not to blow it up in a writhing ball of flame. She took a deep breath and tried another approach.

“Archmage, I can weave spells with excellent technique,” she said, channeling fine threads of fire into a complex formation. “I know the eighteen forms of Zhut So Tsi. I can cast spells of the eighth order of⁠—”

“What is that to me?” The Ember’s voice dripped derision. “You speak like a noctomancer, all cold and damp, collecting spells and forms like a child pinning insects to a corkboard. We are of the sun! We cast from the heart!”

“I thought you told me I needed control!” snapped Laruna, weaves of pyromancy flaring around her fist as she pounded the table.

“You do. And the fact that you see casting from the heart and losing control as the same thing tells me that you are not ready.” The Ember’s voice was firm, but not unkind. “You need to learn life’s lessons before you wear the pyromancer’s robes.”

“Then teach me!”

“I cannot,” said the Ember. She cut off Laruna’s next demand with a wave of her hand. “Nobody can. You must discover some things for yourself.”

It wasn’t the denial that did it, Laruna reflected. She never really expected a mage like the Ember to train her, or to play matchmaker for an apprenticeship. It was the way she wasn’t allowed to speak, the quick dismissal of her thought before she was able to give it voice, that drove her over the edge of rage.

Fire suddenly wreathed Laruna as she leapt to her feet. “Enough riddles! Just tell me what the pyromancers want from me, or⁠—!”

“I see that you are angry.” The Ember spoke levelly, neither without fury nor at the mercy of it. “That’s good. I am angry too. When your rage comes you wield the fire, Laruna Trullon, but who is wielding it in that case? You? Or your anger?”

The flames around Laruna billowed like a funeral pyre. “What are you talking about? You just said we’re both angry!”