October of the Sainted Year (Third Civil Month)

Within the tall facade of polished stone and enchanted latticework, the Guilds' Association building in the Central Gentry District rose like a bastion of sanctioned ambition. Unlike the disorder of the Trade District where independent guilds and businesses squabbled for space between cracked streets and makeshift halls, here, the halls gleamed, the marble floors shone, and even the enchantments on the walls hummed with restraint. It was a place for visibility, legitimacy, and the kind of quiet power that made customers trust the Guilds affiliated to the Association to handle efficiently and discreetly their business.

The Crafters Guild, under Sir Artemian Meyerandi's direction, had enjoyed a privileged position within the Association for many years.

The Guild occupied part of the sixth and fourth floors, as well as the entire fifth, in the Guilds' Association building. Those floors were not privately owned but had been assigned for use by the Association.

It had been through Artemian's connections that the Guild had obtained such privileged position and the man himself had come from very far.

Artemian Meyerandi was originally born to two low Laynobles who were distant cousins within the same family. His parents' marriage had been arranged by their respective branch families. His mother was originally from another Province and left within two years of Artemian's birth, dissolving the marriage and returning to her homeland. Artemian was raised by his father's family and, in time, inherited the position of Guild Master of the Crafters Guild. Since then, he had expanded both his business and the Guild significantly.

Sir Artemian Meyerandi sat now in one of the leather-backed chairs near the inner glass-paneled balcony, fingers steepled, posture precise within his office located on the sixth floor of that famous building. An office he used mostly for VIP reception and doing his confidential and important work.

In his early sixties, Artemian held an important place in the city. His hair might have turned completely white, but his mind was still sharp and his body solid, with the kind of bearing that made juniors stand straighter whenever he entered a room.

Artemian's gaze flicked toward the door. He was waiting.

To be more exact, he was waiting with his son Baronet Maenari Meyerandi for a powerful woman to arrive. One he had known for almost two decades. Sylia or more accurately one of her Divisions. The woman was a Saint, a lover and the maker of most his fortune.

In anticipation of her visit, Artemian had already cleared most of the sixth-floor offices. The woman valued discretion. The refreshments and snacks she preferred were ready; all that was missing was the Lady herself.

Maenari Meyerandi stat quietly sipping coffee not far off in one of the settees reserved for guests. He had been waiting as impatiently as Artemian for this visit. The woman had truly charmed them both. She had opened more paths and businesses for them than he could ever remember. It had been likely because of Sylia that Maenari had chosen to remain unmarried after his short lived marriage with a Lady broke. It was not for the lack of prospects. Maenari had much to offer a woman. Any woman.

His thirty-four-year-old son was an accomplished man who had both the looks, the charming manners and the elegance of a Noble Gentleman. He was also intelligent, kind and dutiful.

Maenari had settled for Vice Master of the Guild when his title alone could have made him claim the Guild Master's position. He had done so to avoid the scrutiny of his Noble family and most of all his grandfather the Marquess of Mardevus-Standlers.

Artemian had raised him well, and Maenari had taken to responsibility like iron to forge.

His mother, Viscountess Vera Dersacci, had contributed much to Society with her magical skills—recognized as a gifted mage known across the country. The boy had inherited her composure and, blessedly, a share of her magical talents.

It had taken time for people to understand Maenari wasn't just another Noble's get with a Noble crest and the arrogance of his bloodline. Few knew his connection to the Marquess of Mardevus-Standlers through his mother's side. It wasn't information Artemian publicized. Vera had never been recognized by her Marquess father. She had been one of his eldest. A by-blow with Commoner's blood. Of course, she had been discarded by the man and his family immediately after her birth.

Vera Dersacci's own mother was a Gentlewoman of Dersacci blood who had also not been formally recognized as such due to her illegitimacy and Commoner background. She had lived, back then, in one of the poorest districts, far removed from the prestige of the Dersacci family. Despite carrying noble blood, she had not benefitted from the family's protection, privileges or wealth. Her Magic level had been too low for even a Noble Gentlewoman so her family had ignored her very existence until Vera was born from a young and powerful Lord whose family was predominant in Mardiova Province. A territory where some of the most sacred lands and most ancient Churches were located. One that struck fear in many and had never abided by any of the King's rules as they ruled themselves and never followed any law that didn't agree with their principles.

They held some of the most Magical lands of the country after Griffondya Province but what really set them apart was the small population and the very low proportion of Folks and lower Commoners in that Province. Here they were with all those lands that were mostly unpopulated. This had set conflicts but with Nobles who all had dangerous combat abilities and protections of much higher Gods and Spirits, all attempts at an incursion was met with deadly force.

Once upon a time a King then a Prince tried invading them. Both their lands and birth Provinces were scorched. Nothing had remained. Not even lands. Well, technically the Spirits left one mile each time for travelers to see they were passing through the once renowned Provinces that once declared war on Mardiova, the Blood and All Saints Churches' stronghold.

Once a Prince had declared how unfair it was to have all that territory. A Spirit went to shrink his lands and stuck him to a cross on what remained of the first Prince who invaded Mardiova. He left him there a century as a half dead creature. People had nicknamed him the Ghost of Mardiova.

So, it was no surprise that Artemian had hidden any connection to that man and the Mardevus family. He hated complications. Particularly when they came from the Nobles.

Artemian scowled and tapped once on the edge of his chair as he was suddenly reminded of another complication. Or liability. Arturos.

His much older half-brother, Arturos Monterrini, had taken every opportunity to make his life hell. Born of the same father but not the same woman, Arturos carried the Vilyademors blood with obsessive pride. A former Under-Baronet, now reduced to the mere courtesy of "Sir," he still held himself like a titled lion—even if he did his roaring from the Trade District, not here in the Central Gentry District. At seventy-five, the man should have been retired by now but he had refused to pass on his power to anyone and would likely die holding on his seat.

Arturos hated that Artemian had inherited the legitimacy. Hated more that the Crafters Guild held presence in this building within the wealthy Central Gentry District while his own Trade and Merchants Guild remained in the less privileged Trade District where no Noble wishes to be seen. His Guild had never been admitted in the Association despite many attempts.

They hadn't spoken in years. Not since the matter with Anais Vernes.

Artemian clenched his jaw at the memory.

He hadn't wanted a child with that woman. She'd been trouble long before she took refuge in his arms—long before Arturos made her his prize. And yet, when she appeared in Artemian's life again—pregnant, desperate, manipulative—it had been Arturos who forced his hand. It had been Arturos who demanded he renounce the boy. All to protect his own reputation from gossip. Artemian had given the child up, handed over Dukes Monterrini to avoid scandal.

And now? That boy, now a man, despised and mocked him. Dukes spent most his time with Arturos' whores and shady businesses. Repeating the same spiral of arrogance that had stained Arturos for decades.

As of late, he had even made an enemy of the most powerful man in the City: Mathias Herves. When Artemian had tried warning him, he had once again mocked him and didn't believe anything he said. Called it utter rubbish and claiming he knew Mathias Herves better than most people. Again that same arrogance.

Artemian breathed deeply.

No. This morning was not about the past or even his problems with his brother and Dukes. It was about the woman who was coming.

Suddenly, a message came, through one of the secretaries. A gentlewoman named Shihaly Montdermors was awaiting them in the main hall.

Artemian blinked once, then again.

Shihaly Montdermors. A Division of Sylia. Not arriving discreetly by teleportation. She had come openly, publicly. Walked through the front entrance of the Guilds' Association and waited like any ordinary visitor beneath the marble arches, in view of every eye and whisper.

Both he and Maenari exchanged a look that needed no words.

She was not supposed to arrive like that. None of Sylia's Divisions or Sylia herself ever did.

And that disturbed him more than anything.

Because Sylia never did anything "like any other."

He stood, meeting his son's gaze.

"Let's take the express lift," he said. "No point making her wait."

Still, Artemian was still wondering about her motives for showing up publicly. Mathias Herves had done it deliberately, to be seen. He made it appear as though he were engaged in a serious meeting with them, then abruptly left, leaving behind one of his Bunnies with the simple command: do whatever he tells you. That Bunny, as it turned out, had full authority to demand anything, even if that meant forcing them to act as advisors in the planning of a new district… or worse, an entire town.

Artemian didn't want to think about it.

The Bunny had at least been reasonable. The Squirrel, on the other hand—less so.

"Let's build a city with new people," the Squirrel had said cheerfully. "One where squirrels are free to climb walls at will!" And somehow, he had begun doing just that in new lands absorbed into the Province.

Worse still, they had to establish an entirely new branch of the City Monderins Squirrels' Guild, all because he had a natural Squirrel Summon running in his bloodline. His son, more unfortunate still, had inherited a different Squirrel Summon—this one from his grandfather's side—thus forcing him to join the far less amiable new Meany Monderina Squirrels' Guild.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Artemian had tried to reason with the Squirrel that creating hundreds of thousands of people might be too much. Why not recruit instead? Many would love nothing more than to join such a city. It was what the Bunny had done.

The Squirrel cut him off with a dramatic flick of his tail. "Look at my tail," he said solemnly. "It's very big. It's curvy. It's cute. Clearly, I am no commoner Squirrel, like your son's. I command many Squirrels. They will make the people. They will build the city."

Then, narrowing his beady little eyes, he added.

"Don't mistake me for one of those do-gooder Bunnies who want to save people. I do the opposite. I punish. I am your punishment… for interfering when the Bunny tried to create his city. You talked too much. He couldn't concentrate on his drawings. He can conjure it all at once—thanks to the Spirits. Unlike me. I prefer to see it built little by little, so I can make adjustments along the way."

***

Artemian and his son arrived downstairs, immediately sensing the atmosphere: curious, adumbrative glances trailed their steps from all sides. They let those furtive looks guide them, following their silent current until they found her—standing straight-backed against the wall. She had just risen to her feet upon seeing them approach, her composure unbroken.

Time seemed to suspend as Artemian took a moment to admire her.

He ignored the murmurs; gossip was sure to start. He would likely have the visit of Mathias Herves about this, soon. The man sat at the other far end of the hall, where only VIPs and higher-class Nobles could wait when there was no private room to show them in. Mathias Herves—and a few others he dared not even name—obviously never did that. They were there to be seen, to justify hours of absence. Some came only to see an undesirable mistress discreetly or to handle business away from watchful eyes.

Here she was. Shihaly.

She stood poised within the arched marble halls of the Guilds' Association, a portrait of composed elegance framed by an air of quiet strength. Her long, flowing chestnut hair cascaded past her shoulders in soft, natural waves, held delicately at the side by a small golden blossom pin that hinted at old-fashioned refinement. Her skin was luminous, pale as parchment, her expression serene yet alert—eyes large and vividly blue, betraying a depth of observation beneath her calm exterior.

Her dress, a dusky rose hue embroidered with fine green vines and budding florals, clung gracefully to her frame. It cinched at the waist beneath a gathered black sash, its corset bodice buttoned with a line of antique bronze fastenings. At the throat, black lace fanned high in a noble collar, adorned at its center with a single blush-pink rose—subtle, yet unmistakably symbolic. She wore long black gloves, fingers lightly entwined, as if she were either waiting to be addressed or holding back the power to command.

There was something distinct in the way she held herself: not meek, not boastful, but exacting. She was a woman well-versed in the games of court and contract, and she did not stand here as a guest. She was far too well-dressed for the Province. She looked Noble, but her dress—though luxurious—showed the etiquette of a foreign, wealthy Gentlewoman.

The Guilds' Association hall, with its polished floors and stained-glass clerestory, became a backdrop to her authority. She might have been a powerful negotiator, a representative of a foreign Guild, or someone whose presence here was simply not to be questioned.

Even without speaking, she conveyed one truth. She belonged there, without belonging. She was too fine for the place, or even the City.

Moments later, they were seated in Artemian's office. Silence lingered until the attendants had finished serving tea, various refreshments, food, and coffee for both Maenari and Artemian. The Lady, of course, wasn't given any coffee—they already knew she didn't like it.

Once more, time seemed to suspend itself as Artemian studied her face. He had to admit—most of her Divisions had this effect on him. But this one… this one was different. She did not feel like an autonomous Division. No, she carried within her a part of the Source herself.

Even Maenari seemed to sense it. It was in her bearing, in the composure that felt far more than performed.

And there had been the visible amusement on Mathias's face as they passed him on their way upstairs. Most of the men in the VIP hall had risen to greet her discreetly. A few women had done the same. One had even offered a reverence. Only Mathias Herves had remained seated, his quiet chuckle earning him a sharp glare from the Lady—one that unmistakably said: Behave, you bad boy.

Artemian finally spoke.

"So, my Lady, to what do we owe the honour of your personal visit? Why did you not send one of the discarded or independent Pieces?"

Shihaly rose and moved to the window. She stood before it, gazing out, then turned without shifting her posture.

"I needed to speak to you personally. And to Maenari as well."

"Is there a problem?" Artemian asked.

"You tell me," she replied. "You've been attacked more than once. Clearly someone—or several—wants you dead. You must take greater care."

Artemian gave a weary sigh.

"I think it's this building. It breeds nerves and greed. Too many want offices here."

Shihaly looked at him, unimpressed.

"Is that so? I doubt that's all it is. Mathias will deal with the primary threat. Your cousin—the one acting under your brother's and Dukes' orders."

Artemian shuddered. Maenari froze beside him.

"Dukes?" Artemian echoed.

Shihaly nodded.

"Mathias will handle him. He's been too deeply corrupted. The most infected piece must be removed. We may even recall the souls of some of his tainted children."

Maenari broke his silence.

"I'm not surprised about Dukes. But which cousin?"

"Lirek Margar," she replied. "From the Wine and Spirits Guild. He owes Arthuros favors and doesn't want to lose the special services he receives from him and his family."

Artemian, now pressing a hand to his forehead, turned to Maenari.

"I'm not surprised about Margar at all. We have history. But Dukes… Dukes couldn't have…"

Shihaly cut in gently.

"That's why the two of you make such a good team. You miss what affects you personally. Didn't you recently revise your will in his favor?"

Artemian nodded slowly.

"Yes… I told him to reassure him. Promised him advances, even."

"He's greedy enough to want it all now," she said plainly. "He likely thought you were mocking him."

"Why?" Artemian asked.

Shihaly's expression turned pained.

"Because someone likely told him so. An Avatar of a Goddess he follows, perhaps. You were blessed early on—before I arrived in this world as I am now. You'd already come into contact with higher parts of myself. The Goddess who blessed you increased your Mana, Magic, and your lifespan."

Maenari looked stunned.

"I beg your pardon?" Artemian said quietly.

"You may beg," Shihaly replied, "but not for this. You've been reckless. Fortunately, Mathias looks after the loyal… even if a part of him is possessive and a little jealous. Your lifespan was extended. Who knows how much?"

"But I've aged," Artemian protested.

"Outwardly, yes. But your condition? You're healthier than most thirty-year-olds. You couldn't have lain with me otherwise—you'd have died. And your lower half wouldn't be in such perfect form."

Artemian flushed.

Shihaly smiled, a touch indulgent.

"I know it benefits me more than you. I admit, I've never liked gray hair. White is better. Gray reminds me too much of home."

Maenari cracked a smile.

"It's not so bad. So… what will happen to Dukes? Will you kill him?"

Artemian turned to his son in alarm, but Shihaly only chuckled.

"Of course not. I just said we decided to give him a chance. Men like Dukes—even when you put them on the right path—they'll leap over the fence to wallow in the mud with whores and monsters. If we keep cutting off the bad parts, there'll be nothing left to salvage. Best to let him run wild. He already has a target. Mathias."

"No!" Artemian cried. "What he'll do to him… it would be unbearable."

Shihaly laughed and returned to her seat.

"Who says Mathias hasn't already cut off a piece he keeps for his own entertainment? This time, Mathias' smaller pieces get to play. The Bunnies are bored—they'll enjoy the Bad Wolf and Adorable Bunny game for months. Maybe even years."

Artemian looked panicked. Maenari only nodded, accepting.

"You need to disinherit Dukes," Shihaly continued. "And offer a small sum to Arturos—just enough to ensure he keeps Dukes away from you and your son. A hundred and fifty crowns should be incentive enough."

Artemian recoiled.

"That's a fortune! Why would I ever—"

He stopped. Shihaly placed her coffee cup on the table—though he hadn't seen her take it. Only now did he notice a small Bunny grinding oddly colored coffee beans nearby.

"It's simple," she said. "You'll explain—ashamed, in tears—that it was for Maenari's sake. His grandfather from Mardiova, a powerful Noble, will be wiping out many of Margar's relatives after they dared to target one of his bloodline. Those exiles were banished from Mardiova millennia ago for good reason. Now they've earned a purge."

Maenari stared, stunned.

"Of course, this isn't true," she added with a faint smile. "One of Mathias's Bunnies has already made many slaves from that man's soul pieces. He'll send one of them, carrying a Spirit, to carry out the task. The old bastard can take the credit—we don't care. It solves all our problems without needing to kill Dukes."

She paused.

"Dukes hates you because you only started showing him affection once it was too late—and he's always been better suited to people like Arturos anyway—the kind who act without scruples, bribe the right people, and never leave a trace. That's the world he trusts. He admires that. What he doesn't realize is that Arturos sold himself into a millennium of torture."

Artemian blinked.

"Mathias had used him for the last fifty years to absorb the rotten soul parts of his bloodline." She went on. "He established a system to destroy the rot, cleanse the corrupted souls, and inject neutral soul matter—just enough for them to regenerate as they were freed from the decay. That's the core of the experiment: to see how much pure soul matter is needed to slow the rot. He intends to observe the results across a sample of a thousand, then narrow it to a hundred—to track how the corruption in that bloodline evolves, and how it compares to the corruption in their Gods. After all, a creation almost always follows in the tracks of its creator."

"What?" Maenari asked.

Shihaly smiled.

"Mathias is experimenting with others too—including your grandfather, Maenari."

"What?"

"Yes, but it's more complicated. That soul once belonged to a Sainted One from a Church that was closed off—permanently. It was quite the fall: from Sainted Arch-Duke, Mage, Knight, Priest, and Monk… to what he is now. He obviously had too many powers. That was supposed to make him perfectly balanced. Except he wasn't. The God who made him made a single, fatal assumption—he looked at Lord Chester's children and thought he could do the same. Bad boys with all sorts of powers, who act fierce and dangerous, but still run to their Papa whenever something goes wrong. But that only works for Lord Chester. He's too old. Too experienced. He has a gift—or maybe a triple curse—for creating children more balanced than himself. Well—maybe a triple curse. The kids are supposed to keep him balanced. It was stupid to try to make someone like his kids. Someone tried. And failed."

"And the difference?" Maenari asked.

"Oh, Mathias only used special souls—and fragments of Gods who were Subordinates to the God behind the failure."

Maenari's mouth parted.

"There's little left of him now," Shihaly added. "Mathias confirmed it last time when that man struck one of his Divisions. One of the cutest ones. We could hear the screams of Spirits all around. He's going to have a truly bad time. I'm not sure Matteos will be forgiven."

"No," Maenari said. "He's one of the good ones."

"He corrupts too quickly," she replied. "Had it not been for Mathias, he would've fallen long ago."

"But he's the rock of that family," Maenari said. "Even Mother says so."

Shihaly burst out laughing.

"Seriously? Mathias must be damn good. Matteos is watched like warm milk left on a stove. The truth is, the real Matteos died at birth. I don't even know if a soul had time to form. His blood was used to create a new child—one that carries more than a single soul. One of them is trapped inside, though I don't know why. Maddeyus wanted that piece destroyed. "A powerful God forcibly created that Division. The corruption comes from both the God and the act itself. It left a scar on Maddeyus's soul and spirit."

Maenari was speechless.

"Mathias wants to continue the experiment," she said. "My own memories were tampered with. I didn't even know at the time."

"But he's lived without blemish," Maenari murmured. "Unlike his siblings."

"He does nothing," Shihaly replied flatly. "His maternal siblings do everything. Each time he's given a task, he fails. Mathias convinced him he's reliable just to chain him to work. Matteos is vain. Some of Mathias's Pieces toy with him—making him act like the dutiful elder brother. Even some of my Divisions were fooled. One I had to destroy, and another I had to remake."

She exhaled, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I do have a permanent problem with some of the Divisions. They're influenced by pieces of fallen Gods they are made of—pieces I absorb and process to keep this world running. You see, if nothing is left, we risk losing what's still good. When seventy percent or more of a being is corrupted, the whole has to fall. But even then, we must find a way to process the remaining good parts. The real issue is dealing with impurities. That's why we create Divisions—to expel them. I tried an experiment once, and it backfired. Too many Goddesses' wills. Still, I managed to gain a few good new followers from it, so it wasn't in vain."

Artemian swallowed hard and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Shihaly looked at him with a faint smile.

"Oh my. I've said too much. Let me block some of those memories."

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