In a society balanced precariously between faith, governance, and military might, it is inevitable that tensions arise between the Pillars — the Nobility, the Pantheonic Church, and the Wardens. When disputes grow too heated, when quiet negotiation fails, or when public spectacle demands resolution, the Concordium Summit is convened.
The Concordium is neither court nor council, but something between. Representatives from each Pillar gather under neutral ground—often in a grand hall designated by ancient agreement—to air grievances, levy accusations, and seek resolution. Yet no side acts as judge; instead, whichever Pillar is least implicated serves as the active mediator, guiding dialogue and imposing binding rulings if consensus cannot be reached.
If the Nobility and Church find themselves at odds, the Wardens mediate. If the Wardens and Nobility clash, the Church intervenes. Should discord rise between the Church and Wardens, it falls to the Nobility to adjudicate. In theory, this triangular structure ensures no one Pillar may dominate the others unchecked. In practice, outcomes often hinge as much on leverage, reputation, and quiet alliances as they do on the pursuit of fairness.
The wood of the black carriage creaked in protest as it rumbled along the worn dirt path, flanked on both sides by fences and fields.
Siegfried glanced out the window, brow furrowing at the wooden sign they passed. The letters were faded but still legible. Wesmere. He knew the name—one of the larger townships in the northwest region of Bellacia. Not quite a city, but larger than most villages, and far from irrelevant. A trade town, if memory served. Its placement made it a natural hub for grain merchants and minor lords who didn't quite merit a seat at the central table of Brelith.
"We've arrived." Mia said plainly from across the carriage, tightening one of the buckles on her gauntlet.
Siegfried leaned back, arms crossed. "Are you going to tell me why we're here then?"
"No," Mia said, without so much as a glance. "You're here to observe."
"Observe what?"
She looked at him—briefly, but pointedly. "Whatever unfolds."
The carriage passed through Wesmere's gate, the creak of timber and distant sounds of town life growing as they moved deeper into the town. Farmers, traders, locals—going about their routines.
As the carriage began to slow, Mia's tone sharpened. "Let me do the talking. Don't speak unless you're spoken to."
Siegfried scowled, but he gave a single nod. Siegfried scowled but gave a single nod. This kind of treatment was all too familiar from his youth.
As the carriage rolled deeper into the township, past low stone walls and ramshackle merchant stalls, Mia shifted in her seat, the metal of her armor clinking as she moved.
"What do you know of Wesmere's local nobility?" she asked flatly.
Siegfried responded without hesitation, the information clearly long committed to memory. "Minor houses, for the most part. House Apford holds dominion over the farmlands, while House Oster oversees trade—primarily small merchants, with little influence beyond local affairs. There is also a branch of the Whitlock family present, though they have fallen into misfortune. Last I heard, the head of the branch had passed, leaving behind no worthy heir."
Mia's mouth curled slightly—not quite approval, but close."Good. Anything about them we ought to be concerned with?"
Siegfried thought for a moment, "The Apfords are staunch traditionalists—land before people. The Osters will pledge their loyalty to whomever best secures their wealth. As for the Whitlocks…" He shook his head slightly. "They cling to their name, but they are fractured—irrelevant."
Mia shook her head thoughtfully. "Perhaps irrelevant where matters of the aristocracy are concerned."
Siegfried arched a brow but said nothing. The carriage gave a small lurch as they turned onto the township's main street. He looked out at the window as they passed by a local tavern.
What was their goal coming here? Why was she asking him about the nobility? It was evident that there was some connection there, but what could it be?
The carriage rumbled to a halt with a jolt. A moment later, Geoffrey swung open the door with a polite dip of his head.
Siegfried reached instinctively for his sword, but Mia shook her head sharply and motioned toward the weapon. A clear signal—leave it. He hesitated, but eventually relented, setting the broadsword back against the seat.
They stepped down onto cobbled stone, the air sharp and brisk. Before them loomed a stout, formidable structure. Its lower walls were built from thick stone, reinforced with metal that caught the light at key structural points. Narrow, arrow-slit windows peered out like suspicious eyes. Two wardens stood guard at the entrance, their emerald cloaks draped against the wind.
Above the heavy oak doors hung a simple banner—white, stitched with the emblem of the Concordium: three intertwined circles, each representing the Church, the Nobility, and the Wardens.
A symbol of unity for Bellacia.
Mia paused at the bottom of the steps, casting Siegfried a glance. A reminder that she was in charge and he was to follow her lead.
He gave a curt nod.
Mia ascended the steps. Siegfried followed, his boots echoing dully against the cold stone.
The doors opened for them with a low groan.
The halls were narrower than Siegfried had expected, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Lamps hung from the walls, casting soft light across the rough-hewn floors. The smell of aged wood clung to the air, a reminder of the history that this place carried.
Mia moved forward with a determined pace. Siegfried matched her stride, his gaze flicking to small details—the banners hung periodically along the hallways, each bearing the insignia of various houses and orders tied to Wesmere.
They passed a pair of heavy doors, slightly ajar, just enough for Siegfried to glimpse an armory within, racks of polished spears and battered training dummies catching the lamplight from the hallway.
A set of double doors stood at the end of the hallway. As they neared, Mia pushed through them without ceremony.
Inside, the space opened dramatically, a stark contrast to the cramped passage behind them. A vast chamber with vaulted ceilings, banners hanging like sleeping titans high above. Two long wooden tables stretched down either side of the room, leaving a wide aisle of bare stone between them. Subdued conversation filled the space, every word layered with double meanings and a palpable guardedness filled the space.
On the left table, Siegfriedspotted familiar faces—various local lords and dignitaries he had once been forced to memorize as part of his upbringing. Men and women dressed finely, some in muted colors out of respect for the severity of the occasion, others still clinging to vanity with subtle flashes of jewelry and embroidery.
Opposite them sat another gathering—men and women in the vestments of the Pantheonic Church. The colors varied slightly between them, each hue tied to a different sect of the faith, but the underlying unity was clear.
Several others stood behind each table—guards positioned near their charges, while lesser nobles and dignitaries, lacking the influence to have a seat at the table, observed quietly from the rear.
Siegfried realized with a jolt why they were there. He had heard of such summits in theory, but he had never witnessed one himself.
He glanced at Mia, watching her move forward with her unreadable expression, before falling into step behind her.
Whatever tensions had festered between Wesmere's lords and the local clergy, it was evident that it was now their responsibility to prevent the conflict from escalating. It appeared that their role was to play mediator.
They stopped in the center of the room, between the two long tables, and Siegfried could feel it immediately—the weight of a dozen eyes on him. Silent appraisals, measured curiosity, thinly veiled distrust. Not much different from a noble party, in a way—except that here, the masks were more subtle, and the stakes far higher.
Mia wasted no time. "Mia Caerlem," she announced, her voice carrying easily through the hall. "Second-Class Warden, acting under special commission."
Siegfried caught the subtle omission in her words. She gave her rank, but not her division.
Several of the nobles glanced toward him, expectant, but he remained silent. Their attention slid away from him like water off stone, and one by one, they stood to introduce themselves.
A stern-faced woman with sharp cheekbones and a forest-green cloak rose first. She wore a brooch in the shape of a wolf's head—Apford's ancient sigil. "Lady Cassandra Apford, matriarch of House Apford. I speak on behalf of my kin and the farmlands of Wesmere."
She sat back down smoothly, her face offering nothing beyond rigid politeness.
Next came a heavyset man, gray-haired and broad-shouldered. His surcoat bore the split-oak symbol of House Oster. "Lord Percival Oster," he rumbled deeply. "Patriarch of House Oster. I stand as representative of the western trade routes and the merchants who depend upon them."
His tone was blunt and clipped, as if he had little patience for the ceremony.
Finally, a younger man—no older than Siegfried himself—stood from his place. His dark robes were trimmed with muted silver, the crest of a rearing stag pinned neatly over his heart. "Elias Whitlock," he said carefully. "Steward in Baron Whitlock's stead." A brief, almost apologetic pause. "My lord remains indisposed following the... recent disturbances."
A rough chuckle broke the rigidity. Lord Percival Oster leaned back in his seat, a sardonic grin cutting across his weathered features. "Disturbances, is it?" he said, his voice carrying through the hall. "Since when does an illness that leaves a man in the ground get called a mere disturbance?" He drummed his thick fingers against the table, the sharp sound cutting through the silence. "Baron Whitlock is dead, boy. No polished turn of phrase will alter that truth."
Elias didn't respond as he sat back down.
The nobles fell into a tense silence, and after a moment, a man from the opposite table rose.
He was older—well into his sixties by Siegfried's guess—with thin white hair neatly combed back and a robe of deep sea-green, embroidered with a flowing river motif. He bowed his head slightly, his voice strong despite his frail appearance. "High Vicar Thomond Northgate of the Meris Sect, presently assigned to the Grand Archive."
A few whispers stirred from the noble table; it wasn't often that someone of such high standing involved themselves personally.
Another man rose beside him, younger, with hawkish features and a robe of vibrant gold and burgundy. A medallion bearing a smiling mask dangled at his chest. "Reverend Sestor of the Vanir Sect," he said with an easy smile, his tone far lighter than Thomond's. "From the village of Eldrun, west of here."
Finally, the last of the clergy stood—a portly man with a sun-darkened complexion and the green-and-brown vestments of the Ephydra Sect. His voice was gruffer than the others, but carried a deep sincerity. "Reverend Harland. Shepherd of Wesmere's faithful."
As he sat, Siegfried pieced it together quickly enough. Only Harland was native to Wesmere. The others had traveled—summoned, no doubt, by the gravity of whatever dispute was about to unfold. However, the inclusion of a Vicar from the archive couldn't bode well.
Once the introductions had faded into silence, Mia stepped forward, her boots clicking against the polished stone floor. "Let us proceed," she said, voice carrying through the hall. "The accused will stand."
Across the room, Elias Whitlock rose from his seat with slow, deliberate movement. His posture remained straight, his hands folded calmly before him, as though he had accepted his fate long before this meeting.
Mia inclined her head slightly. "Explain the accusation brought against your house."
Elias's voice was steady. "A thaumaturgical device was discovered among my family's possessions—one classified as a dangerous weapon." He made no effort to defend himself, to plead or explain. His tone was clear and unadorned, offering no justification or excuse.
Mia nodded once. "Sit."
He obeyed, folding back into his chair the weight of the room seemingly pressing down on him like a physical force.
Mia turned next toward a figure near the wall—a man in simple but official robes bearing no religious or noble crest. Likely a proctor—a neutral attendant assigned to the summit to manage evidence and ensure procedure.
"You may present the item," Mia ordered.
The proctor bowed stiffly and approached, a sealed wooden case carried carefully in both hands. He stopped before Mia and Siegfried, unlatching the case to reveal a spherical object within. The weapon had been disarmed, wires and panels removed, faint blackened streaks marred its frame where energy had once flowed.
Siegfried's eyes widened. He knew this device. The design was unmistakable—the same as the one he'd pried from the would-be saboteur back in Brelith. Even disarmed, its intricate design and interlocking bands were seared into his memory.
His gaze snapped toward Elias. Across the room, the young steward met his eyes—but not a flicker of emotion showed on his face. No guilt or fear, just stoic complacency
Mia's voice cut clean through the gathering. "I trust everyone here is aware of the attack on Brelith."
No one answered aloud. Instead, a heavy silence settled over the hall. Heads bowed or nodded grimly, the recent tragedy still fresh in every mind. Even the Vanir sect's reverend furrowed his brow at its mention. Mia turned to the proctor once again. "Read it."
The proctor nodded stiffly, reaching into the folds of his robes. From within, he drew a folded, crinkled parchment. He unfolded it carefully, cleared his throat, and began to read:
"To the Common Folk of Bellacia,
For too long we have toiled in the mud while nobles dined in their gilded halls. For too long have we broken our backs to build a kingdom that we will never inherit. They dress our chains in velvet and call it civilization. They tell us it is order.
But no more.
We are The Verdant Hand, faithful children of Ephydra reborn. We reject the false world built by blood-soaked crowns. We reject the selfish lords who hoard wealth, the corrupt wardens who shield them, the meek priests who dare not speak against them.
The land itself cries out for justice, and we have answered.
The fires of Brelith are only the beginning. We will tear down their castles stone by stone, and from the rubble we shall raise a new Bellacia—a holy nation where the Church alone will shepherd the people, and the fruits of the land will be shared among all.
If you are weary of being a pawn in their endless games, if you are sick of kneeling to bloated lords—join us. Rise with us.
The soil will drink deeply of the old world's blood—so that something pure may grow anew.
For Ephydra. For the People."
The proctor's voice faded, leaving the words hanging in the air like smoke.
The parchment crinkled faintly as the proctor folded it back into his robes. The room remained steeped in silence.
A group had already claimed responsibility? The words echoed in his mind like iron on an anvil. The fires of Brelith were only the beginning.
Siegfried's fists clenched tight against his thighs. It boiled his blood, knowing how callously the Verdant Hand spoke of their so-called cause. They spoke of liberation, of justice—yet it wasn't just nobles who died in Brelith's fires. It was farmers. Merchants. Bakers. Children. Families who had nothing to do with the aristocracy, who had no say in the politics they so despised. Ash, rubble, and corpses—sacrificed for a "purer" world.
The devastation gnawed at him, jaw clenched. The audacity—the gall to call it liberation—was almost worse than the act itself.
Mia's voice broke the silence, drawing him back. Her voice carried clearly across the gathering. "This flier was no isolated incident. It was distributed the morning after Brelith's fall—across every major city in Bellacia."
A ripple of unease passed through the room. Hushed whispers quickly passing among the assembled groups.
"This is not merely an opportunistic claim," Mia continued. "It was coordinated. A declaration of intent."
She let the weight of her words hang for a moment before driving it home: "If left unanswered, it could mark the beginning of widespread insurrection."
Her gaze swept across both tables. "I ask you now—does everyone here agree with this assessment?"
The room was deathly still—until Lord Oster's palm struck the table with a resounding crack.
"Of course, we are all in agreement!" he bellowed, rising to his feet, his face flushed with indignation. "What wretched soul would not recognize this as a threat to our nation?"
Before the murmurs around the room could rise, the High Vicar lifted a hand—a gesture of calm—and addressed Oster directly.
"The Church," the High Vicar said, his voice deep and even, "is in full agreement that such heinous acts lie far beyond anything the faith would ever sanctify."
A heavy pause.
"However," he continued, his tone sharpening slightly, "it would be a grave mistake to ignore the causes that led to this catastrophe. For too long, the nobility has built walls between themselves and the common folk—walls of indifference, of privilege, of disdain. It is little wonder that despair eventually turned to hatred. You must recognize," he said, his gaze sweeping the noble table, "that the seeds of rebellion were sown in the fields the aristocracy long abandoned."
With a screech of wood on stone, Lord Oster shoved back his chair and rose, face flushed with fury. His voice shattered the silence with thunderous force.
"Enough of this sanctimony!" he roared, jabbing a pudgy finger toward the High Vicar. "Bellacia was forged through the allegiance of the noble houses! It was we who cast off the yoke of Shinhana's tyranny—we who bled, bartered, and built this nation from the ashes! And now—" he sneered, sweeping his arm to encompass the entire church delegation, "—you sit there and prattle on about privilege and disdain?"
"Too soon do the common folk forget their place! Too soon do they forget the debts owed to the bloodlines that preserved them!" He raged. "And you—you are as much to blame as any. Preaching your false charity, filling their heads with grand delusions. You erode the pillars of loyalty and obedience beneath the hollow guise of virtue, and now you reap the harvest of your folly! This fire was not set by common hands alone—it was kindled by the very ideals your priests whisper into every ear too simple to question them!"
The room simmered with apprehension. Several of the lesser nobles nodded in grim agreement; others exchanged wary glances with the clergy across the aisle.
Siegfried watched the intensity of Oster's outburst pulling the air tight around them, like the drawn tension of a bowstring ready to snap.
And yet, for all his anger, Oster's words carried the weight of history—tinged with an undeniable bitter truth. Without the unity of the nobility to fend off the Shinhanans, Bellacia itself might never have survived, let alone flourished.
Mia said nothing. She simply turned her head and fixed Lord Oster with a cold, unblinking stare—one so pointed and unwavering that even the blustering noble faltered beneath it. The fire in the lord's face wavered. He shifted in place, cleared his throat gruffly, and after a long, awkward moment, slowly lowered himself back into his chair.
Siegfried, still standing at Mia's side, felt the weight of the room once more upon them. The urge to step back tugged at him—but he held firm. This was far from the political games of Aldinia's courts. There was bad blood here, deep and festering.
The tenseness was finally broken when a voice rose from the clergy's side. Reverend Harland spoke with an almost weary patience.
"The Church stands aligned with our noble brethren on this matter," Harland said, folding his hands atop the table. "We do not condone these extremists, nor do we lend their cause any blessing." He paused, letting the words settle before continuing, more pointedly, "However, the High Vicar's reminder is not without merit. It was not so long ago that House Apford—under the late Matron—took violent action against the village of Glaslow, a small forest settlement under their protection. If memory serves," Harland said, his voice turning faintly sardonic, "the dispute was over unpaid taxes following a bad harvest."
Across the room, Matron Apford stiffened; she clearly wanted to retort, but held her tongue.
"Injustice," Harland went on, "is a rot. It seeps downward and breeds bitterness among the roots. If we intend to extinguish the flames of rebellion, we must address the coals that have smoldered for generations."
He finished calmly, as if he had merely recited a prayer, and leaned back into his chair, inviting no immediate response.
The High Vicar lifted a hand.
"And if I may add," Thomond said, his gaze sweeping both tables evenly, "according to the records preserved within the Church archives, the survivors of Glaslow sought refuge within Brelith not long after their village's destruction."
A murmur rippled through the room, a shifting tide of sudden attention.
"It is worth noting," the High Vicar continued, "that these same refugees—whether through misfortune or design—have recently been implicated in the assassination of Lord Léveque and his family."
A louder swell of conversation broke out at that, voices low but urgent.
Siegfried stood still, absorbing the information. It aligned certain pieces in his mind—pieces that had, until now, floated disconnected. A displaced, embittered people... a sudden surge of violence... the coordinated bombings across Brelith… It was plausible that the refugees had been plotting something all along.
And yet…Something about it didn't add up. Why would they turn on the very nobles who had offered them shelter within the city's walls? Unless, of course, that had been part of the plan from the start. A longer game. A seed of rebellion carefully nurtured in the shadow of charity.
There were still too many unanswered questions. But at least now, Siegfried thought grimly, he had a clearer idea of the battlefield he was standing upon.
Mia gave a short nod toward the High Vicar. "Thank you, High Vicar Thomond," she said. "Your insight is appreciated."
Siegfried, however, noticed Mia didn't seem even remotely surprised by the revelation. Was she already aware of this information?
Before Mia could continue addressing the gathering, a sharp voice cut through the low babble of the room.
Lady Apford stood, her expression taut and imperious. "Regardless of what my house may have done in the past," she declared, her voice firm, "the House of Apford is not the one presently under suspicion. To quarrel over old grievances is to squander the time and purpose of this Concordium."
She swept a hand across the room, as if brushing aside invisible accusations.
"This summit was convened," she continued crisply, "to address the matter of House Whitlock and the device discovered among their possessions. Let us not stray from the matter at hand."
A few nods—tight, reluctant—rose from both tables. Even the clergy seemed inclined to let the matter rest, at least for now.
The room's attention shifted back to Elias Whitlock who was still composed and sitting comfortably.
"Then let us remain focused," Mia said. "I would ask this next—who among you discovered the device, and where precisely was it found?"
A brief silence fell.
Lady Apford rose once more, her hands folded neatly before her.
"I did," she replied, her voice smooth as polished stone. "Or rather, my steward did—acting under my instruction. We had recently acquired one of House Whitlock's former holdings and discovered the device concealed within. Concerned for the stability of Wesmere, I advised immediate action against the Whitlocks. However, it was Reverend Harland who urged that the matter be brought before this summit, with Wardens in attendance."
Siegfried frowned slightly. Lady Apford had moved deftly—shielding herself while casting a net around Elias Whitlock, and, in the same breath, suggesting that the local clergy had sought to delay true justice.
Mia turned, her gaze steady. "Very well. Then I would ask this—Elias Whitlock, Reverend Harland—have either of you, anything to say regarding Lady Apford's claim?"
Elias stood, his movements calm and composed. He shook his head once. "No, Second-Class Warden. I have nothing to add."
Mia nodded and turned her attention to the reverend.
Reverend Harland rose more slowly, smoothing the front of his plain robe. "The Whitlocks are—were—part of my congregation," he said. His voice held neither defensiveness nor pride. "Given the severity of the accusation, I felt it only prudent to conduct a full and proper investigation. It was not my place to deliver judgment without evidence."
A loud scoff echoed from the noble table.
Lord Oster leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Convenient, is it not? A follower of Ephydra so eager to defend a house now suspected of consorting with the Verdant Hand," he said, his lip curling in distaste. "The very cult that invokes devotion to Ephydra as their divine cause."
"I follow the true teachings of Ephydra," Hardland replied. "Charity, patience, stewardship of the land. I do not chase phantoms and conspiracies. Lord Oster, you see connections in every shadow because you expect to find them. Not unlike the way you find a meal in every gathering, whether one was meant to be served or not."
A murmur ran through the chamber.
Siegfried stood still in the center of it all, an outsider amid rising tensions, as the rift between church and nobility widened. He wondered how long the illusion of unity could hold before the seams tore completely.
Before the restlessness could fray further, a new voice cut through the building chaos, ringing across the room.
Reverend Sestor had risen from his seat at the clergy table.
"Enough. This summit will last the span of a week, as agreed. We have time to weigh the matter thoroughly—and tempers left unchecked will only cloud judgment. I suggest we adjourn for now. Let the Wardens conduct their own investigation in the interim. We will reconvene when new facts are at hand."
A moment of silence followed his words, then a few nods of agreement rippled through the gathered officials. Even Lord Oster gave a begrudging dip of the head, grumbling under his breath.
Mia inclined her head. "My thanks, Reverend Sestor. I was just about to say the same—though perhaps with less grace."
She turned to address the room at large. "This session of the Concordium is hereby adjourned. We will meet again once our inquiry has progressed."
Chairs scraped against stone and muted conversation sprang up as the officials began gathering towards the exits.
Siegfried exhaled quietly, feeling the tension of the room begin to lift.
The summit had only just begun, and he was already weary of it. Petty noble conflicts were tiresome enough—but with the church entangled, it was a storm brewing toward something far worse.