The meeting was every bit as horrible as Stephan had expected.
No one shouted. No fists banged the massive table. Voices remained polite, measured—too measured. Each word felt like a dagger wrapped in silk and dipped in poison.
They walked on eggshells for his sake, and that made it worse. Their careful pauses. Their courteous smiles that never reached the eyes. The subtle barbs slipped between phrases like knives hidden in their sleeves. And even if they weren’t aimed at him, each hit Stephan’s heart.
No wonder Lord Marshal left these things to his wife to manage; they sap the life from you. Another thought, natural and yet quite strange, followed. Could Lacy handle these people for me?
The image came unbidden. Lacy in his place, calm and sharp-eyed, cutting through nauseating sophistry with a single stern look. It was a lovely reverie. The snakes sitting at the table would have eaten the small-town girl in a blink.
Still, it made for a pleasant fantasy, and Stephan let it linger in his mind a heartbeat while the council debated grain storage and rationing schedules. He had a shallow understanding of city management in the broadest strokes.
People needed to be safe, warm, and fed. That was obvious. The web of levies, supply chains, distribution routes? That was a fog nobody had ever taught him to navigate. Marshal Harrington had drilled him on The Art of War, not on sacks of barley and winter allotments.
He scanned the table and found he trusted a number of those present.
Silas. His golden eyes steady, radiating patience. Anita, upright and watchful, her frown cold but honest.
Two. That was how many people in the room he trusted.
Two is a number too.
His gaze shifted to Queen Eleanor.
Do I trust her? He tapped his finger lightly against the desk, then stopped when everyone seemed to notice, their attention turning to him, the conversation dying.
About as far as I can kick her. Stephan considered the strength he had gained in the past month. Probably less. But she is in Cliffort, and there’s no retreat for her. If she wants to survive, she will need to run it well.
All those thoughts culminated into an idea.
Stephan cleared his throat, terminating the plans about grain rationing six months in the future.
“I believe city management isn’t something we should take complete control of.” That came with no context and isn’t helpful one bit. “What I mean to say is that yes, a siege is coming; yes, the military will govern everything, but there’s no need for a cadre of officers,” Stephan felt proud at remembering the word, “to run Cliffort. Her Majesty, Lord Silas, Lord Bradley, and Lord Hardy can manage it well enough. Perhaps with a few more civilian officials.”
Stephan thought it was smart to include the three most influential Priests, especially since Hope, War, and Knowledge made for a fine city council during a siege.
The reaction was immediate. He could see it before anyone spoke: the tightening shoulders, the flaring nostrils, and the deep inhale before protest. The room was ready to explode, and he hurried to finish his thought.
“And this will have the benefit of helping Queen Eleanor gain levels. She has a rulership class, and ruling will help her grow.”
“With all due respect,” the bald Captain Avery said, little respect and a lot of challenge in his tone, “we need at least one military representative on the council. While I understand the previous Lord Marshal may not have personally participated in every meeting, his will was never absent.”
The Priests bristled. Silas frowned, Lord Bradley’s clenched fists as if ready to strike. And Stephan spoke before a fight broke out.
“I don’t believe anyone would ignore my will. And to make that clear, this is what I expect from a city: not to revolt, not to starve, not to burn from internal strife. I want diseases handled before they can turn into plagues. In short, I wish safety and prosperity for the people in my care.”
That didn’t help, and an argument broke out. Captain Avery and five of his colleagues, who defended him, argued against two who attacked, joined in by Lord Bradley, the Priest of War. Ernest, Anita, and the rest remained silent, watching the situation unfold.
While the two sides fought, the Queen gave Stephan a knowing look, apparently thinking he was scratching her back.
I just want to get out of here and talk to Lacy.
The thought came with a sudden ache. He missed her steadiness; her teasing. The way she looked at him without calculation. And if she calculated anything, it was how much mischief she could get away with.
Stephan focused on the argument, and they weren’t even fighting about what he had said, but about who would do what if they had the power. Accusations started flying about the Priests risking the soldiers over their own flocks, when Bradley finally shouted.
“Soldiers are my flock!”
That shut Avery up, but didn’t help Stephan one bit.
We’re doomed. He knew clearly, and he wasn’t thinking of Cliffort, but wider. If we can’t agree on such simple things in such dire times, mankind is truly doomed.
He glanced at the ceiling, and the sky hidden beyond. Am I supposed to conquer them and rule with an iron fist to make them do the right thing?
No answer came, but the only alternative Stephan could find was fighting the fiends and dragons and fae all on his own while the rest of mankind killed each other behind his back over a golden hat.
How did the other Paladins feel? What were their lives like? The ones nobody knows about…
His attention shifted away from the chaotic room and towards himself.
He thought about how he had wound up where he was. Everything that had happened before; all instances of him being guided by others because it was the best path; all the deaths that came from it; all the suffering; all his suffering while making no decisions: all of it snapped together and gave him an understanding about what he was supposed to do.
“Queen Eleanor,” his voice shut them all up, “along with the representatives of the three prominent temples and one captain will make up the civilian council. With Her Majesty presiding.”
He addressed her in person. “If you believe you need anyone else to join you, feel free to add them, but notify me.”
That settled it. Not a suggestion. Not a debate. An order nobody in the room could ignore. From the Paladin. From the Marshal of the East.
As for the Knight representative, Stephan’s first pick was Anita.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ her murderous glare said, so he didn’t.
His second choice was Martin Harrington, but like Stephan, he lacked experience and the rest would gobble him up in political waters. Not to mention that he wasn’t a captain.
Reluctantly, Stephan chose the only other Knight who had remained neutral.
“Captain Ernest, I want you to represent the military’s interests on the council. Use your judgement, and should anything require my attention, don’t hesitate to inform me.” Stephan considered his words before clarifying. “Err on the side of caution. I would prefer to know too much rather than too little.”
Ernest inclined his head. No hesitation. No hidden glint of triumph in his eyes. That at least assured Stephan.
He stood. “Unless there’s anything else, this meeting is adjourned.”
The scrape of chairs echoed as everyone followed suit. Protocol forced them up.
A few lips were pressed thin, mouths swallowing words they dared not speak. Anita and Ernest bowed and departed first. With two captains obeying their orders, the rest followed, others trailing behind them.
Finally, only the Queen and the Priests remained.
Stephan looked at them and spoke freely. “I will trust your judgement. Please don’t let me down.”
They left, and for all his trouble, for everything he had been through, Stephan got not a sliver of warmth.
Why? That was harder than fighting the undead and saving Lord Robert.
Stephan cracked his neck. He burned with desire to speak with Lacy, but she needed time. She needed space. He wouldn’t ruin things by rushing.
“Dorian,” he said, leaving the study. “Take me to the marshal’s private library.”
He doubted studying would give him any warmth, but learning and seeing what he could glean from the library was more important than levels.
“Please, bring the master key, Sir.” Dorian turned around and headed down the stairs. Stephan followed the old butler to the ground level, then towards a wing he had visited when Lord Marshal had presented him with his armor.
They passed a pair of armored guards who saluted smartly and opened the door for them.
“These are Lord Marshal’s private quarters. Only Lord Marshal and his wife are allowed here unsupervised; even the children were raised in a different wing.” Dorian explained while leading Stephan down a narrow corridor. They turned left and reached a chained door with a thick lock and massive iron fittings.
“Is this the treasury?” Stephan asked.
“Sir,” Dorian said slowly, “Lord Marshal’s private library is the property of the Marshal of the East. Many marshals have contributed to it. It has two hundred and seventy-six books, and they are worth more than I know. You can discuss their exact value with Lord Silas, if you’re interested.”
Stephan still felt uncomfortable with his lack of insight. Books were written by hand; he knew that much. The temple back in Brighthollow had a pair of small, worn books Lady Clara read to the children who attended weekly lessons on reading and numbers, rewarding them with stories of brave champions facing danger to perform good deeds in the name of the gods. And Marshal Harringtom had lent him that book on strategy without hesitation. He didn’t think they were that special.
When he unlocked the door and entered the library, he realized how wrong his view of books was. The chamber was tall and comfortable, with two chairs and a desk. Small, narrow windows high on the far wall let in pale light and fresh air. To the left and to the right stood the built-in shelves filled with books, their oiled brown leather spines free of text or descriptions.
Until he had entered the room, Stephan didn’t understand how many books Dorian was talking about. He certainly hadn’t expected two walls full of unlabeled volumes.
“Do we have someone in charge of the books?” he asked. “Any way I can know what I’m supposed to do here?”
“I shall fetch the scribe, Sir and return with haste.”
Stephan was left alone in the room, surrounded by the smell of herbs, dry parchment, and oiled leather. He approached the darkened oak shelves, which reached the flat ceiling and the heavy beams. He ran his hand along the spines, picked a book at random, and pulled it out. The brown leather had no letters on it; instead, a single eagle with spread wings was stamped on the cover.
He opened it to find tightly packed words written in neat, tiny handwriting.
== On the Distribution and Collection of Tribute:
Let it be known that every family dwelling upon the demesne…==
Stephan flipped the pages, finding taxes, labor obligations, and weapons each household needed to own. The last one caught his attention, since men of Brighthollow only had to appear at musters with a sturdy enough club, but before he could read more, Dorian returned.
“Sir, this is Chandler, our scribe.” He presented a man of indiscernible age, thin and pale as parchment.
“Lord Marshal,” Chandler bowed. Stephan feared he would fold in half, but the man straightened without an issue.
Stephan closed the book carefully.
“I would like to find some books on military; sieges in particular,” he had decided to start with the knowledge he would get to use in the immediate future.