In a crisis, you have to act fast. If someone has a stroke, for example, the speed at which a victim can be transported to and then treated in hospital has a proven correlation to the damage the stroke can have on their brain. In the case of cardiac arrest, CPR - chest compression and mouth-to-mouth - has to be started almost immediately and then maintained until help arrives to defibrillate the heart back into a normal rhythm. The point of this is to say that a person's ability to think fast and keep a level head when the world is falling to shit around them is often a genuinely impressive feat of mental fortitude. It is not, however, the end of the story. A call to emergency services, no matter how promptly that decision is made, is impossible if you don't have a phone, and no amount of speed is going to help the victim of a heart attack if nobody around them knows how to perform CPR. So that mental fortitude has to always be paired with some form of preparedness.

The same can be said for combat.

Being ready to fight and being able to fight were two vastly different things.

Sure, the people gathered in the Conclave Cathedral would all have fallen somewhere on the scale of fortitude, all of them being somewhere between woefully inept and staggeringly disciplined, but what doomed them to failure had nothing to do with how fast they could think on their feet. It was the fact that none of them, not a single one of the thousands of people in attendance for Uri's funeral had ever even considered the Cathedral as anything other than a haven. The idea that they could be attacked here, the notion that it wasn't the bastion of safety they had always thought it to be, had never occurred to any of them. So not only were they wildly unprepared for what was about to happen, and not only had they no earthly idea of how to defend themselves in the situation I was about to enforce, but they had never even considered if it was possible to do so at all.

No matter.

I had warned them once, and they had chosen to ignore it. This was not revenge, this was not a war, and this was not a fight for my principles. This was a reckoning. And it was long overdue.

********

As counter-intuitive as it might seem, the mindscape did operate according to certain rules, or at least guiding principles that provided a semblance of order amidst the chaos. Take my city and its formidable walls, for instance; in this realm, size mattered. The larger something was, the more power it inherently possessed. Imagine, if you will, a balloon: its capacity to hold air increases as it expands. In the mindscape, the concept of air can be replaced with the notion of power. The bigger it is, the more it holds. Thus, a sprawling city with towering walls brims with an immense reservoir of power, much like an enormous balloon filled to its limit. In the mindscape, physical dimensions weren't merely a matter of visual dominance--they were a direct expression of the power contained within.

The Conclave cathedral, however, functioned on a different set of principles, and as the Mantle bestowed upon me a deeper understanding of its mechanisms, I began to discern the nuanced ways in which it operated. Unlike the sprawling cities of the Evo, where sheer physical size equated to power, the cathedral employed a more intricate and centralized approach to its authority. This colossal edifice we stood within was, in itself, a manifestation of immense power. Granted, in terms of size, it didn't rival the vast expanse of a typical Evo city, let alone my own, but it was still jaw-droppingly massive when compared to anything that could be constructed in the real world.

Within this cavernous structure, the people within it were not individual powerhouses but rather served as integral cogs in a vast, intricate machine. Their abilities, while still significant, were largely regulated--or perhaps 'controlled' is a more fitting term--by the latent power embedded within the cathedral's walls. When inside this sacred space, the limitations of personal power became apparent. No single Evo - perhaps not even me - was as strong as the entire cathedral. This power wasn't solely derived from the presence of its current occupants but also from the cumulative essence of countless Evos who had contributed their final energies to fortify the cathedral over the boundless reaches of time.

This revelation cast a more sinister light upon the last rites I had performed for Uri. His power, according to the cathedral's logic, wasn't meant to be a personal boon for me, a strength to carry forward into future battles. Instead, it was siphoned off to sustain and bolster the very institution we both theoretically served. His essence, his final remnants of power, didn't belong to him in death, nor to me as his successor, but to the Conclave itself.

Ha, yeah, right! Insert a snort laugh sound at your leisure.

The cathedral itself, physically speaking, was designed in a manner reminiscent of a medieval European institution, firmly rooted in the belief that pretty much everything was God's fault. Structurally, it mirrored the iconic shape of a Christian cross, akin to many traditional Christian churches, but the similarities ended there. The sheer scale of this colossal edifice dwarfed even the most ambitious architectural feats of humankind. Here, the 'vertical' branch of the cross extended an awe-inspiring three miles in length, with a width measuring roughly a quarter of a mile.

Stepping into the cathedral, one would be struck first by the titanic doors that constituted the entrance at the foot of the cross - at least from the inside, they didn't really lead anywhere and were just the large monolithic oaken slabs before which you materialized when entering the Conclave. These doors were not merely an entryway but a statement--massive, intricately carved, and imbued with an aura of solemnity. Looking inwardly from them, it revealed the vast expanse of the Nave, the central aisle that, in a regular church, would lead worshippers from the entrance to the altar. Stretching out to about one hundred yards in width, this Nave was nothing short of breathtaking. Unlike traditional churches where long, bench-like pews provided seating for the congregation, this space was dominated by ascending platforms. Each platform was meticulously arranged with ornate desks, hundreds upon hundreds of them, each a testament to the grandeur and purpose of the structure.

Above these platforms, the cathedral's ceiling soared to unfathomable heights, painted with frescoes that wove tales of ancient Evos and their exploits. Enormous stained glass windows lined the walls, each one as tall as a multi-storied office block, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the Nave. These windows depicted not just religious motifs but also scenes of great battles, revered individuals, and significant moments in Evo history, their vivid imagery imbuing the space with a sense of timelessness. I still didn't know the details of what each of them represented, but they were impressive nonetheless.

Cradled beneath these towering windows were colossal banks of what could only be described as bookshelves. Their sheer size and breadth defied comprehension, each one seemingly stretching endlessly, filled with the wisdom of eras past. When compared to this repository, the famed Library of Alexandria would seem diminutive, and even the British Museum, where the closest low-power entry point was to my home, would appear modest in comparison. Of course, in the ever-shifting realm of the mindscape, these weren't actual bookshelves; they were symbolic representations of the cathedral's boundless accumulation of knowledge, the memories and life experiences donated by countless generations of the Evos that came before.

Within this mental construct, Evos of all ages, from the novices to the most seasoned veterans, could sit at these desks and delve into the vast sea of collective learning and experiences from innumerable predecessors. This wasn't merely a library but an intellectual haven where the recorded wisdom of hundreds of thousands of Evos was readily accessible. It was important to acknowledge that not every Evo in history had contributed to this vast compendium. Many, in the grand tapestry of existence, would never have been part of the Conclave, having never encountered it within their lifetimes. An Evo from Feudal Japan, for example, would have had no knowledge of this order, and even those residing in Europe over the past few centuries might not all have lent their wisdom, especially considering the fractures caused by the Schism, not to mention the Evos that simply weren't brought into the Conclave.

Nevertheless, the sheer magnitude of collective intelligence and experiential wealth contained within these symbolic shelves was unprecedented. It surpassed any other repository of human wisdom that had ever existed, encompassing libraries, institutions of learning, and centers of knowledge alike. Here, the distilled essence of countless lifetimes converged, offering an unparalleled resource for the Conclave's members. The cathedral thus stood not merely as a place of safety and communal gathering, but as a monumental testament to the accumulated intellect, power, and mystical heritage of its adherents. Here, the past was not simply remembered; it was actively lived, being constantly accessed and utilized by each new generation to guide their path forward.

I should probably put some effort into... I dunno, not burning it down, then... Maybe?

In a typical church, the nave would extend up to the crossing, where the two outward branches of the cross intersected it. Beyond this intersection, in the top segment of the cross, there would usually be the ambulatory, an area often housing the altar and other ecclesiastical furnishings, the sort of "priest stuff" I found myself utterly uninterested in. However, this was no ordinary church. Here, there was no altar to sanctify, and - I fervently hoped - no priests skulking in the shadows either.

Instead, the layout of this colossal edifice diverged significantly from traditional church architecture. The northern arm of the cross mirrored the same grandiosity as the southern one I had entered, although it was somewhat shorter in length. The same applied to the eastern and western arms, stretching out into equally imposing thoroughfares. These arms, far from being simple corridors, were also flanked by vast library spaces, their towering bookshelves extending endlessly, filled with the same dense, symbolic knowledge that characterized the rest of the cathedral.

While the southern arm culminated in the massive, intricately carved doors leading to the outside world, the northern, eastern, and western arms concluded in a series of grand staircases. These staircases ascended to upper floors that, until this moment, I hadn't even known existed. The discovery of these additional levels further underscored the sheer immensity of this cathedral.

It was fucking massive!

Ascending these stairways promised yet another journey into the unknown. Each step taken would reveal more layers of this seemingly infinite structure, each level brimming with even more knowledge and power. The notion that the cathedral extended vertically as well as horizontally was both exhilarating and daunting. What other secrets and chambers did this immense structure conceal? How many more volumes of forgotten wisdom were stored here, waiting to be discovered by those deemed worthy? And what treasons and betrayals lurked in shadows yet unseen?

The imposing architecture exuded a sense of power and authority, its very walls seemingly imbued with the countless contributions of past Evos. The upper floors, hidden from view until now, beckoned with the promise of greater understanding and deeper insights. They were part of the labyrinthine complexity of the mindscape, designed not just to house but to protect and preserve the accumulated knowledge of generations.

I couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement, awe, and trepidation as the full scale of the cathedral became apparent. Its vast upstairs corridors and towering bookshelves served as silent witnesses to the countless lives and histories that had contributed to its creation. The cathedral's monumental presence dwarfed anything that could be built in the real world, a testament to the limitless potential of the mindscape and the enduring legacy of the Conclave.

The cathedral was beyond massive; it was an endless, ever-expanding realm of intellectual and mystical pursuit, a living testament to the combined might and wisdom of those who had walked its halls before me. As I gazed down the long thoroughfares and let my mind trace the construct up the towering staircases, I resolved to explore every nook and cranny of this awe-inspiring structure, eager to unlock the untold potential that lay within its grand, hallowed halls. This was a new feeling, one that I could tell wasn't wholly mine; it was a need to reclaim the construct as if I had personally had a hand in its foundation, yet at the same time, a feeling of total revulsion at the corruption that now filled its halls.

It was the Mantle that granted me this insight, even though I couldn't physically see things like the staircases clearly, particularly with the throngs of people assembled for Uri's funeral obscuring my view, let alone the upper floors. Much like a form of supernatural sonar, the Dragon enabled me to trace the latent power embedded within the cathedral's walls, providing me with a mental map of the building's entirety. This newfound awareness didn't extend to detecting the location of people beyond my line of sight--it wasn't some fresh addition to my already extensive array of abilities. I couldn't track the thousands of individuals congregated within the cathedral, nor could my mind pierce directly into theirs, but I could grasp a deeper understanding of the structural and mystical elements I was already capable of sensing.

As I stood among the mourners, a minuscule, almost undetectable fraction of my power was being siphoned off to help support the cathedral simply by virtue of my presence inside it. This subtle interaction allowed me to... feel the structure, for lack of a better term. The Mantle's influence facilitated this connection, making me acutely aware of the cathedral's dimensions and the intricate networks of energy coursing through its walls.

Through this heightened perception, the cathedral transformed from a mere physical space into a living, breathing entity. The power flowing through the structure wasn't static; it pulsed rhythmically, resonating with the cumulative essence of every Evo who had ever contributed to its creation, including each member of the masses now in attendance. This symbiotic relationship between the cathedral and its occupants amplified my own connection to it, providing me with an almost visceral sense of its vastness and complexity. The only way my mind could properly translate the explanation was to say that it was almost like a single glass of "water" had been permanently removed from the well of every Evo who had ever stepped foot within the Cathedral, with that power being used to maintain the construct. An infinitesimal amount from each person in the grand scheme of things, but cumulatively, it added up to a mind-bogglingly massive reservoir of pure power, and all of it was imbued into every brick, every marble column, and echoing floor slab.

I could sense the power radiating from the enormous stained glass windows, reaching out like silent sentinels to greet the sunlight streaming through, each beam refracted into a spectrum of colors that danced across the Nave. The towering bookshelves, laden with symbolic knowledge, hummed with the collective wisdom they represented; their presence felt more than seen. The grand staircases, spiraling up to hidden levels, beckoned with the promise of further understanding, deeper insights, and the discovery of dark secrets. Every slab of stone in every wall, every piece of ornately carved marble in every monolithic column almost vibrated with the power that kept this construct standing. I could feel all of it. I could almost see it. Just like I had once looked at Faye and been able to see the decision behind every single change she had made to her outward appearance, I could see how every stone had been laid in this building. Not with mortar and strength of labor but with power, concentration, and focus on the final idea. I could even sense the sentiments poured into it, the reasons behind building the cathedral in the first place, the hopes that its creators had for its future, and the values that its construction was meant to embody.

And with a shiver of revulsion that ran through my entire core, I realized that the Mantle, the Dragon etched onto my skin and stitched into my being, had once been part of the group involved in the foundation of the Cathedral. Maria hadn't built it; she had formed the idea of the Conclave, but the Cathedral was something different, something much older, something meant for another purpose entirely, and the Conclave had just grown to assume dominion over it. But each and every one of those ideals used to build the Cathedral, each value held by those who created it, every sentiment and hope poured into its construction had been betrayed by the people who now called it home. More than that, the stench of Marco's corruption was like a physical assault on my senses. I could feel it everywhere, and the Dragon was pissed.

I could feel it rumbling unsettlingly under my skin, no longer held back by my fortress-like inner walls but instead proudly emblazoned onto my outer ones. It was no longer testing me, no longer measuring my resolve; it was now a part of me. Its feelings were my feelings, and although I could tell where mine ended and the Dragon's began, it did nothing to temper the indignant rage that now filled it and, by extension, me.

Alright, settle down, big fella. We're both gonna be getting our pound of flesh today.

Uri's funeral, with all its pomp and ceremony, served as a stark reminder of the transient nature of individual power contrasted against the enduring legacy of the Conclave. As mourners moved around me, their collective grief and respect added another layer to the cathedral's ambiance, further enriching the energy that I could now perceive with such clarity.

In this moment of heightened awareness, I understood that the Mantle did more than simply bolster my understanding of this place. It was, in some respects, a conclave unto itself, carrying the ingrained will of all the Evos who had held it before me. And at least one of those ancient vanguards had been part of the group that had originally founded the Cathedral. That person, or the remnants of their character, was seething at what it had become. Far from being a bastion to gather wayward Evos before their introduction to the Praetorians, it had been founded as a means of escaping them. A way to free our kind from the tyrannical insanity of the order I was now at war with. A small part of me smiled at that; I knew I wasn't the first to rebel against the Praetorian's grand plans, but to know I carried within me the mind - or the echo of it - of one of its original detractors, left me with a sense of common purpose and renewed resolve.

But Maria, the "founder" of the Conclave, had been the Cathedral's very first traitor, violating the principles on which it was built, planting the first seed that would eventually turn it into the festering pit of betrayal and corruption that it had become. The original message had long ago been lost, and although Maria's intent to feed these people into the Praetorians also seemed to have been lost to the sands of time, hers had opened the doors to its infiltration by the enemy, and with every new realization, the Dragon rumbled a little louder.

The Conclave was a fortress of history, wisdom, and power, a structure sustained by the contributions and sacrifices of generations of Evos. For good or for ill, I was part of it, even if only for the small measure of time I was standing within its walls. Even though I had come with the specific intention of bringing it down on the heads of those who had defiled it, I was a part of it, and it was a part of me.

But not for long.

The Conclave, the Cathedral, a place that had stood proudly for the better part of a thousand years longer than the people who now inhabited it, and had been the home for countless men, women, and children of my kind - both innocent and guilty - had seen its last sunrise.

********

Mine had always been an analytical mind; it was why I had reveled in my degree in game development software during college. It wasn't the creativity of designing games that captivated me, nor was it about tracking the ever-shifting trends in the popularity of certain genres. My passion lay squarely in the meticulous construction of them, the "blood and guts" of game development, as I used to fondly say.

What truly fascinated me was the intricacies of coding--the way a specific line of code could make a game perform action "X," which in turn triggered response "Y," and thus set off a chain of events invisibly customized to every choice or action the player made. It was a practical form of art where abstract ideas were transformed into interactive reality through precise and deliberate programming. The actual content of the game was almost secondary; what intrigued me was taking a concept and meticulously crafting the code that would breathe life into it, making it playable, enjoyable, and functional.

For me, each character and symbol in a line of code had its distinct purpose. Every bit of data, every algorithm, every nested function was like a cog in a finely tuned machine. All these elements worked in harmony to fulfill my deep-seated need for order and precision. It was about building something magnificent in a way that only I--and perhaps a select few who had delved deeply into the same craft--would truly comprehend. While the end-users saw an engaging game filled with dazzling visuals and immersive gameplay, I saw the craftsmanship behind it and the unseen intricacies that made the whole experience possible.

Creating a game was akin to composing a symphony, with each note carefully chosen and placed to form a harmonious whole. The joy I derived wasn't from the external allure of the finished product but from the internal logic and structure that supported it. Every successful execution of a command, every seamless transition between game states, provided an almost unparalleled sense of fulfillment. It was an exercise in both creativity and discipline, a dance between artistic vision and technical prowess.

Despite the complexity and occasional frustrations that came with debugging and optimizing code, the process was profoundly rewarding. Each challenge overcome was a testament to my analytical abilities and my unwavering dedication to making sure every piece fit perfectly into the grand puzzle. This precision, this attention to detail, wasn't just a professional trait; it was a fundamental aspect of who I was. It shaped how I approached problems, how I viewed the world, and now how I interacted with the mindscape.

I was more than aware I was probably a little odd in my thinking, but that was who I was, and I had long ago stopped making apologies for that.

It was precisely for this reason that my newfound comprehension of the mindscape, and the Conclave Cathedral in particular, had me so utterly transfixed. As I stood there, a few feet inside the grandiose main doors, my senses were immediately ensnared by the sheer majesty of this mental construct, bolstered immeasurably by the understanding the Mantle was feeding me. The intricacies of its design and the brilliance of its purpose unfolded before me in a mesmerizing display, rendering me momentarily oblivious to my surroundings.

In those first few moments, the bustling crowd became nothing more than indistinct shapes in my peripheral vision. It looked like over a thousand individuals had gathered, all ostensibly present to pay their final respects to Uri, arguably the most renowned and revered Evo of recent memory. Yet, even as the aura of solemnity filled the air, my attention remained anchored to the architectural and metaphysical grandeur surrounding me.

It almost seemed a shame to have to be the one about to fuck it all up.

Almost.

But eventually, and perhaps inevitably, I was noticed. The murmuring of the crowd began to quiet, replaced by a ripple of recognition that spread like a wave. Eyes turned in my direction, and the collective focus shifted towards me. My moment of quiet contemplation dissolved as the reality of the gathering reasserted itself. I was a part of this convergence, entwined with the legacy of the Conclave, and the weight of both the past and present settled upon me as I stood at the cusp of the new future that awaited not only me but every person present.

"You!" A voice boomed over the crowd after a minute or so of quiet murmurs. To be honest, it wasn't the voice I expected to hear. I knew it was incredibly unlikely to be the man I was hunting above all others; Marco knew how long ago Uri really died, meaning he also knew that the only people who could have told the Conclave it had happened later than that would have known about Marco's involvement, so the chances that he turned up to this funeral were practically non-existent. But at the same time, I could feel the stench of his corruption all around me; maybe he had become complacent or too convinced of his own invulnerability. Maybe he wanted to try to control the narrative and turn up to show he had nothing to hide. But no, it wasn't his voice that boomed over the gathered crowds. It belonged to the Archon.

My eyes rolled so hard I could almost hear them. The masses parted around him like the Red Sea, and he power walked toward me, his face a mask of fury.

"How dare you show your face after..." He froze as my eyes snapped onto his, matching and then dwarfing the fury that was rapidly fading from his expression. He couldn't comprehend why he was suddenly feeling the way he was about me, but he recognized danger when he saw it.

"After what?" I arched an eyebrow at him, challenging him to continue before laying into him when he stayed nervously silent. "I warned you," I growled at him. "I told you what would happen if you or your order did anything to attack me again."

"But, we didn't, we..."

"Harbor traitors!" I snapped back. By now, we had the attention of the entire congregation and there were more than a few murmurs rippling through the crowds. "How long have you known?" I went on, not really sure - or even caring - if he knew at all. Thomas was the leader of the Conclave; everything that had happened since my awakening had happened on his watch, meaning that - aside from Marco and the genuine traitors in our midst - the responsibility for the crimes of the Conclave rested squarely on his shoulders.

Archon Thomas backed up a few paces, blinking rapidly at me as he spluttered. "Know what?"

Another sadistic smile curled across my face as a series of massive "screens"--for lack of a better term--materialized above the heads of the crowd. Each ethereal screen measured an enormous Ninety feet in height and one hundred sixty in width and hung in the air like spectral projections. Spread strategically above every corner of the Conclave Cathedral, the dozens of these screens blinked to life, capturing the attention of each person within the gathered crowd.

Above the assembled masses, these magic-like displays began to play out the vivid, unfiltered memories of my recent past. Every crucial detail about Marco and every mention of the Conclave were laid bare for all to see. The memories unfurled like a dam bursting, raw and unvarnished: the uneasy, but secret peace that had existed with the Inquisitors for generations, the insidious corruption that Marco seemed to spread to everyone he came into contact with, the proclamations by Tiberius and other Praetorians that revealed the Conclave as nothing more than a puppet to their order.

Scene after scene flashed before the captivated audience, including Marco's own grim admission of guilt following Uri's horrific death. These revelations were damning and irrefutable, painting a vivid picture of deceit and manipulation that had long festered beneath the surface. The climax of the visual narrative reached an emotional crescendo, replaying the harrowing moments after the bullet struck my mentor. I watched again as Uri's city, the mental fortress he had painstakingly built, began to crumble, his thoughts disintegrating around us in his final moments.

The dialogue of that fateful encounter echoed through the cavernous cathedral. Uri's last rites reverberated solemnly, carrying a weight that seemed to press down on every soul present. The screens captured the essence of his final words, the poignant wisdom of a dying man imparting his last truths to his protégé. His hopes, his fears, his suspicions, his kindness, and his final words of support that spurred me onward were witnessed through this visual chronicle. They saw the agony and the resolve. He, as head of the black knights, the order within the order tasked with the protection of every Evo present, had made Uri into a respected and revered man. Every one of those people got to watch the passing of the torch from mentor to student.

Every truth, every lie, every revelation, all of it on display for everyone to see.

And finally, the moment of my acquisition of the Mantle was laid bare for all to witness. This was not merely a transfer of power but an inheritance of burden and responsibility, a symbolic and literal passing of the guardianship of the - not the Conclave's legacy - the legacy of all Evos and all Inquisitors. For the first time, the people of this order started to understand that they and the Inquisition were not ancient enemies but two sides of the same coin, two halves of the same whole, and that they had been lied to for their entire lives.

The ethereal screens suspended this moment in time, and the luminous energy of the Mantle enveloping me solidified my new role in front of an awestruck audience.

The crowd's collective gasp reverberated through the cathedral, their attention fixated on the unfolding drama. This was no ordinary revelation; it was a profound unmasking of truths long hidden, a cathartic release of pent-up tension that had gripped the Conclave for far too long. The towering screens, shimmering with the weight of my memories, served as a testament to the turbulent journey that had brought us all to this moment.

So as they watched, their eyes widened with shock, horror, and perhaps a flicker of understanding, I felt a grim satisfaction. The truth, now laid bare, reverberated through the cathedral-like a tolling bell, signaling the end of one epoch and the uncertain dawn of another. This was the moment of reckoning I had promised, a dramatic confrontation with the past, a painful unveiling of the truth of the present, and a stark reminder of the responsibilities that came with the Mantle now resting heavily on my shoulders.

This was the moment that the Conclave, as it had been known for all these years, died.

It took a while to get it all out, but my eyes were flicking between watching Thomas's increasingly horrified expression and scanning the crowds for anyone trying to make themselves scarce. Just like the Sect, it was unclear how many traitors were working to insert their poison into the order, but there was no doubt that they existed, and it was more than likely that at least some of them would be here now. To them, this would have been the realization of their worst fears, all their decades, maybe centuries, of work undone in only a few minutes, and I'm sure they could feel the clock ticking down to the moment their own truth was discovered. I doubted any of them wanted to be around when that happened.

So anyone making for the doors - which would be futile considering I was blocking them, and therefore trapping them inside the mindscape - or sneaking off to hide in one of the innumerable recesses and chambers of the Cathedral itself immediately drew my attention.

Before that, though, it happened. A collective shudder ran through the crowd as the truth of Marco's corruption was discovered in the vast majority of the people present. As soon as the details of it were broadcast to the crowd, the congregation instinctively looked for it in themselves, and far too many people found it. The stronger Evos, those with the power to do something about it, excised the poison from their cities with savage, brutal efficiency and then started to help the others do the same. With each passing second, the stench of it that I had felt as soon as I entered the Cathedral grew less and less pronounced.

There were precious few who had not been corrupted. Some of them, newer and younger members, simply hadn't ever crossed paths with Marco. But there were others - older, more powerful, and more prominent in the order - who had never been infected. These people instantly fell under the suspicious glare of the rest of the gathering.

And more than a few of those were trying to inch their way closer to the stairs.

That sadistic smile grew on my face.

An instant later, summoned by the part of me in the real world, Jerry, Fiona, Rhodri, and Charlotte blinked into existence next to me, forming a line that blocked the doors and wearing the same grim expression as mine. In front of them, a man shimmered into existence, the last one anybody in the cathedral ever expected to see again. Uri stood tall and proud as his eyes first surveyed the room and then finally settled on Thomas. The Archon could only gawk as understanding of Uri's presence, and his place in my mind quickly dawned on him.

Uri's physical body was gone, not even I knew what became of it, but the vast majority of people here had never seen him in person. They had only interacted with his mind in the hallowed halls of the Cathedral, and the entirety of his mind was now inside mine. For all intents and purposes, he was as much here now as he ever had been.

Uri's hand reached out to gently scratch under the chin of a large mole that had shimmered into existence beside him. The mole preened under Uri's affectionate touch, his World War II-era metal helmet wobbling slightly on his head. The mole's leather flying goggles gave him a comically serious expression as he gazed up at Marvin's newest friend, clearly delighted by the attention. One of his large, clawed feet began tapping rhythmically on the ground, reminiscent of a puppy being tickled.

Feeling emboldened, the mole reached into his pouch and, with a little tugging effort, pulled out a satchel charge. This explosive was identical to the ones that had wreaked havoc and decimated Sterling's city. He offered it to Uri, holding it out with a hopeful yet unmistakably maniacal glint in his eyes. It was as if every fiber of his being was excited at the prospect of being useful, and leaving no doubt as to what he thought should become of the Cathedral and everyone in it.

Uri looked down at the mole with a gentle smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement before he shook his head slowly. The mole's eager expression faltered, and with a dramatic huff, he stuffed the bomb back into his pouch. Disappointed, he slouched petulantly, his entire demeanor radiating a comical mix of dejection and stubbornness before he looked up at Thomas and growled. Or at least, he did his best impression of what a massively oversized mole would sound like if he was able to growl. Uri's smile widened as he fixed his gaze back on Thomas. "Marvin doesn't like you," the Ukrainian whispered ominously. "Bad things happen to people he doesn't like."

"Uri, P... Please, I didn't know," Thomas spluttered, starting to take more steps away from our group. His eyes quickly flitted to the other, less powerful Evos of my team. He obviously didn't know that each of them had been imbued with as much of my power as they were able to carry, and each of them was now more than capable of holding their own against the most powerful combative Evos here.

"You knew," Uri said levelly. "I told you. I told you there was a traitor in our midst. You didn't want to hear me. So tell me, Thomas. Were you naive or complicit? More lies won't help you now; only the truth can save you; we will know one way or another. Your time as leader has already ended, whether you know it or not; the only question now is whether you were an incompetent one or a treasonous one."

Thomas didn't get the chance to answer. The dragon within me had reached its limit of patience, or perhaps it just understood the power of good timing. With a sensation that felt like an itch burning deep within my shoulder blades, it surged forth and burst from my body, an unstoppable force demanding recognition.

Still facing forward, I couldn't see its full magnificence firsthand, but I could feel it as though I were seeing through the eyes of every Evo present. This was no ordinary dragon; it was not a creature of flesh and fire but a colossal, ethereal shadow. It embodied the very essence of dread and awe, an immense specter that filled the entirety of the vertical space of the Nave. Its immense form loomed like the winged harbinger of death and justice itself, swirling vortices of impenetrable blackness forming its shape like the darkest of smoke, yet with two piercing white eyes that burned with a terrifyingly foreboding intensity.

The shadowy dragon's wings, as nebulous and dark as the rest of its visage, spread out menacingly in both outward directions. These vast appendages blotted out the light streaming through the lofty stained glass windows, casting this part of the grand hall into an eerie gloom. The towering bookshelves that lined each side of the Nave, once so imposing in their own right, were now obscured in the mantle's immense shadow.

As the dragon emerged, it let out a loud, rumbling growl that echoed like thunder through the hallowed space. The sound reverberated off the cathedral walls, cutting through the hushed, stunned silence of the gathered crowd. The dragon's eyes, those burning white orbs, seemed to pierce straight through to the soul and conscience of every single person present. In that instant, it felt as though all their secrets, sins, and fears were laid bare under the dragon's unyielding gaze.

The Mantle was more than a symbol of power; it was the ultimate arbiter of morality for our people. It made perfect sense that it could sense the transgressions committed under its watch, delving into the deepest recesses of anyone's heart to uncover truths hidden even from themselves. As the dragon's ghostly form moved - turning its head to cast its gaze over all - it seemed to weigh the balance of each soul, its presence a tangible reminder of the Mantle's purpose and judgment.

The cathedral had transformed from a place of ceremony to a court of divine reckoning, with the dragon as its judge. Every flicker of its eyes and every shift of its wings seemed to exude an otherworldly authority. The members of the Conclave, regardless of their status or past deeds, found themselves dwarfed and humbled under its gaze, their collective breaths caught in their throats.

This magnificent specter was more than an extension of my will or power; it was an embodiment of the Mantle's eternal vigilance. As its presence dominated the room, the reality of its capabilities resonated deeply with those assembled. The dragon was a living shadow of justice, an incorporeal guardian that could see the crimes written within the hearts of those it judged and act upon them with unerring certainty.

In this awe-inspiring display, every Evo, from the youngest novice to the most seasoned veteran, could feel the weight of their actions exposed to its gaze. The dragon's spectral form served as a stark reminder that the Mantle was far more than a mere relic; it was the living arbiter of moral truth, enmeshed deeply within the very fabric of our society and yet forgotten - or perhaps corrupted - in the long centuries since the Dragon's last appearance. As this realization settled over the hushed crowd, the cathedral stood silent, a testament to the unassailable power and purpose of the Mantle they now beheld in all its fearsome glory.

One by one, the congregation succumbed to the overwhelming weight of their judgment, their knees bending as if pressed down by an invisible, inescapable force. It was like watching a line of dominoes fall in slow motion. The minorly guilty and the ostensibly innocent alike, each of them answerable to some small indiscretion or another--minor acts of deceit, petty jealousies, trivial violations of our unspoken laws--shared in this communal act of contrition. They fell not because their transgressions had directly attracted the Mantle's furious attention but because the sheer presence of its judgment was an all-encompassing, overwhelming force, and they were left with no option but to kneel in respect and awe at its presence.

As the dragon's ghostly form towered over them, its eyes blazing with a penetrating intensity, the people realized that their secrets, however minor, could not be hidden from the Mantle. This divine reckoning cast a profound silence over the cathedral, broken only by the soft rustle of clothing and the muffled sounds of knees hitting the hard ground. Each bowing figure seemed to be internally grappling with their own conscience, and there were more than a few muffled sobs and quivering breaths in the kneeling crowd, a visible manifestation of the Mantle's immense moral authority.

Even I, standing at the forefront of this spectral trial, recognized that I was not without fault. There wasn't a person present who hadn't committed some small act they would prefer remained hidden, myself included. However, these minor transgressions, while acknowledged by the Mantle, were not severe enough to summon its wrath. The dragon's essence served as both judge and confessor, exposing the layers of guilt that each person carried yet distinguishing between the degrees of their sins. Mine were not for the death and destruction wrought at my hands but for the way I had treated Becky, a guilt that I carried deep within myself but had already acknowledged and was already trying to atone for.

The only individuals who remained standing were those whose intentions were far darker, their hearts harboring deeper corruptions. These were the ones who had begun to surreptitiously inch towards the exits; their faces twisted in fear and guilt. As they tried to slink away, the dragon's spectral eyes turned toward them, its gaze freezing them in their tracks. These were the true traitors, those whose sins warranted the Mantle's full, unforgiving scrutiny, and there were dozens of them, all exposed before the rest of the Conclave, the one place they didn't want to be.

The stark contrast between those kneeling in reluctant acceptance of their minor flaws and those standing, trying to escape their imminent reckoning, was palpable. The air was thick with an almost tangible sense of dread and inevitability. The congregation watched in a mix of fear and fascination as these would-be escapees found themselves unable to move, their attempts at evasion rendered futile under the dragon's relentless gaze.

As I watched this profound spectacle, the reality of the Mantle's power settled deeper within me. The bearing of the mantle came with a profound responsibility to uphold justice and morality within our ranks. Those falling to their knees were not just showing respect; they were offering themselves up for judgment, a silent acknowledgment of the Mantle's all-encompassing watch.

And so, in the cathedral filled with kneeling figures and a few frozen in their tracks, the true nature of the Mantle was given form and broadcast for all to see. It was a force that transcended human and superhuman frailties, a divine arbiter that balanced mercy with justice, and in this moment, it demanded truth and reckoning from all who fell under its shadow.

Thomas was still standing. My gaze settled on him first.

"You knew," I said. The full measure of his crimes laid out before me like an open book, the verdict of the Mantle filtering into my mind through our bond. "You didn't know about Marco or the Praetorians, nor about the traitors within the Conclave," I nodded to the frozen, terrified-looking men and women behind him, "but you knew about the peace between the Evos and the Inquisition. It was you who took control of the communications between them and us. You used that knowledge to reorganize the hierarchy of the Conclave, to put yourself in a position of power and then to use the Inquisition to eradicate any competition to your position as Archon. But this raises another question, doesn't it? If you weren't passing hit names to the Inquisition, if you knew we were at peace, who did you think you were communicating with? Who did you think was carrying out the unsanctioned attacks?"

"I..." He tried to fight it; he tried to resist the truth that was just burning to spill from his lips, but the Mantle's presence was far too much for him. He sighed and slumped his shoulders. "I thought there was an element within the Inquisition that wanted to reignite the war. I thought I was using them. When they killed people whose names I hadn't given, I just assumed this was their attempt at restarting hostilities, but who could I tell? The Conclave thought we were always at war; telling them would have shown I already knew the truth, and telling the inquisition would have tipped my hand and told them that the average member of the Conclave knew nothing about the peace. As long as they kept their attacks small, and they didn't target anyone in my inner circle..." His voice faded off

"How many?" Uri asked after a brief pause, but not before letting thousands of accusatory eyes snap furiously to the soon-to-be-former Archon.

"I... don't know." Thomas winced, then suddenly cried out in pain as every one of his nerve endings told him he was being bathed in fire, the heat of which only he could feel. "Eighty-six!" he screamed after a few seconds of agony. "I gave them eighty-six names." His pain faded away to nothing.

A collective gasp rippled through the hall. "And how many deaths did those names lead to?"

Thomas, now knowing the cost of lying, just sighed and hung his head. "More than seven hundred, including human lives lost in the crossfire. I... I don't know the exact number."

Uri looked at me, and I gave him a nod; he looked at his former mentor, his former leader, and his former friend with utter disgust before nodding back to me. I took a deep breath and turned my gaze onto the Archon. "Thomas, you have been judged and found guilty of murder, of conspiracy to deceive your people, of conspiring to maintain the rift between our two peoples, and of ending the lives of our human wards..." that last bit surprised me. This was the mantle speaking through me, not me speaking for myself, but the idea that humanity - the average people inhabiting the same planet as us - were to be protected was a new piece of information, yet one that I seemed to have understood on an instinctual level the whole time. I had felt the temptation to establish my dominance over them in Ukraine and resisted, but other than that, I had always seen them as equals. I had always assumed this was because of my time living as one of them, but maybe it was something more. "...For your crimes," I went on, "you have been sentenced to die. Your power will be drained from you, and the ravages of time that you have long evaded will be allowed to catch up to you."

"No, please," Thomas finally sank to his knees, but the Dragon ignored him.

"You used your powers for your own gain at the expense of the people you were sworn to serve. You risked the destruction of our kind through your callous disregard for human lives. You intentionally kept the peace with the Inquisition from the people of the Conclave and allowed, through incompetence and through indirect action, the Praetorians to corrupt the order you should have been leading. For this, you will die. Do you have any last words?"

"Please," Thomas pleaded, "Have mercy, I beg you."

The dragon's eyes, glowing with a furious and brilliant white light, shifted down and focused intensely on him. Those twin orbs of incandescent fury seemed to bore directly into his very being, unraveling the layers of his soul with their unyielding gaze. As the dragon's scrutiny intensified, the atmosphere became charged with an almost tangible sense of foreboding.

Then it came--a sound that transcended mere auditory experience, striking deeper than any conventional noise. It was a deep, resonant vibration that seemed to ripple through the very fabric of the air, through the stone walls of the cathedral, and ultimately through my entire being. The sound was horrifying not just for its volume or tone but for the way it resonated, as if it were shaking the core of one's existence. It felt less like a sound and more like a violent, dissonant tremor that reverberated through my soul. It was as though the dragon's vocalization was a seismic event, sending shockwaves through the room that each person could feel in their bones.

Despite the alien nature of this profound vibration, it unmistakably answered Thomas's plea, forming a single, merciless word:

"No."

The reverberation of that single syllable was profound and inescapable. It was as if the very air had solidified, carrying the weight of an ancient judgment. The word echoed throughout the cathedral, the sound waves crashing into the towering bookshelves and ricocheting off the stained glass windows. The resonance of it was almost tangible, a heavy, oppressive presence, one that seemed to hold a physical weight that pressed down on everyone within earshot.

The crowd's reaction was immediate and visceral. Eyes widened in terrified understanding, heads bowed lower, and breath was collectively drawn in a gasp of dread. Those closest to the dragon's line of sight felt the vibration more acutely, their hearts pounding in response to the terrifying judgment conveyed by that single word. It was a moment of collective reckoning, where guilt and innocence were given verdict, and the gravity of the Mantle's power was undeniable.

In that instant, the room was filled with a silence that was almost as deafening as the dragon's roar had been. The echoes of "no" lingered, a grim reminder of the inescapable judgment that had just been rendered. The dragon's eyes, still glowing with that brilliant, furious light, seemed to pierce through the very darkness of the human soul, leaving no refuge for deceit, denial... or mercy.

The specificity of the sound--the way it cut through the air and reverberated within the cathedral--underscored the dragon's role as the ultimate arbiter of justice. The word held more than just denial; it was a statement of truth, an obliteration of falsehoods, and a revelation of the immutable laws that governed all of us. The dragon, an ethereal entity of judgment, had spoken, and its word was final.

A sentence had been passed, and punishment was immediate, public, and completely devoid of mercy.

Thomas screamed as the light behind the stained glass windows surged to an almost unbearable brilliance. The radiance intensified, growing so powerful that it nearly pierced the impenetrable blackness of the dragon's form. All of that blinding light, in its myriad rays of brilliance, seemed to converge and focus directly on the Archon. It was as though the heavens themselves were casting its discerning, witnessing gaze upon him.

I could feel the raw, fundamental power being forcefully and savagely ripped from his being. Thomas was far from the most powerful Evo in history, but he was certainly up there. Unlike the methodical drain I had performed on Sterling, though, this was an act of utter and complete annihilation. The Archon's very essence, his well of power, was not merely drained but torn out of his mind in its entirety, as if his well had been ripped from the ground of his city by the vengeful hand of god himself. The process was brutal, almost violent, leaving no room for resistance or reprieve.

The Archon's body began to spasm violently as the draining continued. His screams, initially loud and piercing, quickly devolved into a series of horrified, gurgled groans. His eyes, wide with terror, rolled up into his skull, and thin rivulets of blood began to seep from them. His skin, once taut and flush with life, started to crack and hollow as though aging rapidly before our eyes. The very vitality of life itself was being dragged out of him by the sheer, relentless will of the Mantle.

His convulsions grew more extreme, his body jerking uncontrollably as his remaining life force was extracted. His eyes sank deeply into his head, and his hair turned a ghastly white before thinning and falling out in clumps. His lips peeled back, his gums drew upward from his teeth, his tongue turned black, and his eyes closed for the very last time as twin lines of blood ran down his face before drying on his skin in only moments. The transformation was horrific and swift; his skin shriveled, clinging desperately to his skeleton as if being vacuum-sealed by death itself.

The onlookers, stunned into silence, could only watch in horror as the Archon's deterioration reached its grim conclusion. His body seemed to collapse inward, shrinking to a mere shadow of its former self. Within mere seconds, what was once the undeniable leader of the Conclave had become nothing more than a desiccated husk. The hollowed, lifeless shell that had once held such a commanding presence toppled to its side with a soft, final thud.

The cathedral, now bathed in the residual glow of the stained glass windows, fell deathly silent. The stark contrast between the once-vibrant Archon and the lifeless, almost mummified corpse that now lay before them was overwhelming. The sheer brutality of his end served as a chilling reminder of the Mantle's unmatched authority and its unyielding demand for justice. Not to mention its power.

As the congregation watched frozen, processing what they had just witnessed, the dragon's presence remained a looming sentinel of judgment. Its eyes, glowing with a persistent, brilliant white, now seemed to hold a silent warning to all who might challenge the sacred order of its will. The air hung thick with the echoes of the Archon's final moments, an indelible mark left on the collective psyche of everyone present.

Even as the light from the windows began to fade back to their normal hues, the weight of the event remained. The image of the Archon's rapid decay was seared into their memories, serving as a dire testament to the power and resolve of the Mantle. In that instant, the true cost of defying such a force was laid bare for all to see, an unspoken covenant etched deeply into the essence of the Conclave from that day forward.

Without turning to look at my friends, I cast my wrathful gaze to the few dozen frozen traitors dotted throughout the hall. "Bring them."

********

Ninety-seven desiccated corpses lay scattered on the cold stone floor of the Nave, close to the door, each one a grim testament to the Mantle's unyielding judgment. Their lifeless forms were a stark contrast to the grandeur of the cathedral, adding an unsettling layer of mortality to the otherwise ethereal environment. These bodies, now mere husks of what they once were, represented just a drop in the ocean compared to the number of lives I had ended over the past few months.

Recalling the aftermath of my escape from the Praetorian compound, where several times this number of bodies had been left in my wake, brought a sense of scale to this moment. My rampage through Ukraine had added even more to that harrowing tally. Yet, despite the carnage I had wrought, I found a peculiar sense of solace in the fact that these ninety-seven deaths were not directly by my hand, but by the Mantle's inexorable decree.

There was a certain grim relief in knowing that it had been the Mantle, and not me, who had delivered the final judgment upon them. More than mere vengeance, these executions were the embodiment of justice, meted out by an authority far surpassing my own moral compass. Their deaths were not acts of retribution but the fulfillment of a higher law; an unbiased and immutable reckoning that served the greater purpose of maintaining balance within our world.

As I sat among the remnants of this judgment, I felt a weight lift slightly from my shoulders. The knowledge that these individuals had been executed by a moral authority beyond my singular perspective allowed me to live with their deaths more easily. It was not my hand that had drawn their final breaths, but their own actions judged by the Mantle. Each one of them had been found wanting under the unwavering gaze of the dragon, and it was their own guilt that had sealed their fate. Their blood was not upon my hands--it was upon theirs.

The Mantle's justice was absolute, and in its unwavering resolve, I found a strange sort of peace. This was not about absolution or escape from guilt, but an understanding that I was but an instrument of a greater force. The Mantle's power was imbued with a sense of righteous authority that transcended personal vendettas and subjective morality, a beacon of true justice in a world riddled with shades of gray.

The cathedral, with its towering stained-glass windows and lofty architecture, stood as a silent witness to this act of divine judgment. The spectral dragon, now receded into the depths of my mind, had left its mark not just on the lifeless bodies, but on the living witnesses and the structure itself. The air was thick with the echoes of the recent judgment, a palpable reminder of the line that delineated justice and vengeance.

In the somber quiet that followed, the remaining Evos were left to contemplate the profound reality of the Mantle's power. Each desiccated corpse was a testament to the consequences of defying the sacred laws that governed our existence. Their ends were a stark warning, a somber footnote in the larger narrative of our collective history.

The rest of the crowd was still here, mulling around and talking amongst themselves, with only the brave few daring to approach more than fifty feet from where I was sitting on the recently vacated throne of the Archon. No, I had no desire to lead the Conclave. My place here wasn't a declaration of my position as the new head of the order, this wasn't a coup; it was just a comfortable place to sit. My thoughts, however, were elsewhere, grappling with the information that had been pried from the dying gasps of the ninety-six men and women who had followed the Archon into death's cold embrace.

Some of them were guilty of crimes with no ties at all to the Praetorians; one of them, in particular, had used his powers to build a criminal empire responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of people. Another had seduced women in much the same way I had, but instead of granting them pleasure or even just allowing them to think it was their idea, he had forced them to live through tortures and sexual abuses that wouldn't have been out of place in ancient dungeons. Both of them had died screaming. The only female to have been innocent of treason was guilty of crimes no less horrific. She had taken delight in killing the human children of people she didn't like. More than twenty of them in total over the span of several decades. She was sobbing pathetically when her verdict came and screamed like the rest when her menace was ended forever while she, like her other guilty counterparts, were forced to relive, over and over, the agony and terror of their victims' final moments until their own came to greet them.

It was a sobering reminder of the old adage that power corrupts, and that absolute power corrupts absolutely. The vast majority of the people in attendance for Uri's funeral were guilty of no more heinous crimes than I was, give or take the death and destruction I was responsible for - although that had seemed to be forgiven by the mantle in the name of the greater good and war casualties. But almost all of them had kept a low profile due to the perceived threat posed by the Inquisition. Marco had once given me the same warning: essentially boiling down to "behave, don't draw attention to yourself, or the Inquisition will come for you." How many of these Evos would have followed the paths of their now-dead brethren if not for that simple, if inaccurate, warning? It was not a pleasant thought to be grappling with.

So I didn't.

Instead, I focused my attention on the dozens of people who had been working for the Praetorians. Their crimes, aside from the obvious treason, had actually been relatively minor. If they had not been working for the enemy and trying to corrupt the Evos of the Conclave, they would have been no more guilty than the masses still murmuring amongst themselves in the crowded cathedral. There were only a few exceptions, and all of them were guilty of the same crime. Murder. They had killed off any Evos who had gotten too close to the truth. Three of them had been responsible for the events in Paris more than a century earlier, the one I had relived through Sterling's memories, the events that Mattius and Jacques had been so callously killed while trying to expose. They had known about the rot in the Conclave, they had enough information to make it known, and these men, the ones who Mattius and his cohort had discovered, had killed them for it. Jacques's death at the hands of Sterling was just a happy accident. Jesus, the events that had unfolded after their deaths had directly led to the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the carnage of the First World War. Indirectly, these men were responsible for the deaths of tens of millions. Their executions seemed almost comically trivial when compared to that.

But Uri had been right; trying to track these people down wouldn't have only been impossible, but would have painted a very large target on my back in the attempt. A target I was nowhere near ready to deal with back then. I rolled my neck and cast my eyes to the husks of former traitors. Marvin was sniffing around them, apparently unsure what to make of them, his nose twitching and his stubby little tail wagging slowly and cautiously back and forth while occasionally glancing up at the small part of the crowd who were nervously watching him.

I was fairly sure he winked at one of them. Then he went back to sniffing.

I had to agree with his sentiments. I didn't know what to make of them either, or of anything else that had happened since I had arrived. Out of the eighty-something people executed for treason during the trial - not including the ones guilty of non-praetorian related crimes - only twenty of them had actually committed offenses they felt a modicum of guilt about. Each of them knew that the murder of another Evo was the highest of our crimes, they knew punishment would be swift and harsh when it came, and that is what provoked the fear they so obviously felt. But as for the reason why they had committed them - their almost fanatical loyalty to the Praetorian order - not a single one of them felt even the slightest amount of remorse.

The only way I could describe it was a spy of one enemy nation caught infiltrating the nation of another. Sure, they knew they would face punishment if caught, but they had picked their side with unwavering loyalty and resolve. They were soldiers, soldiers on the losing side, soldiers on the wrong side of history, but soldiers doing their duty nonetheless. I couldn't help but feel a sense of respect for that.

The dragon, however, had judged them and bestowed its measure of justice without hesitation, compromise, or mercy. They were guilty of betraying their race, not the Conclave, not even Evos, but all superhumans. Their knowledge of this fact was irrelevant as far as the Mantle was concerned. It was black and white, as many people thought justice should be; complicity in a crime didn't require there to be an understanding that a crime was being committed in the first place. Ignorance wasn't a thing; even in human society, ignorance of the law was never an excuse to break it. Yet something was nagging at me. How could a person know which side of a moral war was the right one to fight for if they were working with only half the deck when it came to information? Even after the atrocities and horrors of the Second World War, the rank and file of the German and Japanese war machines - despite their allegiance to those who had committed unbelievable crimes against humanity, were largely allowed to return home free. Where was the line?

I was bloodthirsty, I was brutal in my application of justice and vengeance, and I was utterly without mercy to those I deemed guilty or those who stood between me and them. But everyone else? I wasn't so sure. I had literally come here immediately after sparing the lives of the captured praetorians In Isabelle's estate. They had arguably committed more heinous crimes than many of the people now lying dead on the cathedral floor, and yet the dragon hadn't even ruffled a feather. Was it because they had submitted to me, to him, when they recognized him? Because these traitors didn't seem to have been given that chance. Was it because they had been defeated in battle first? Were they considered some version of prisoners of war now and subject to different rules? Again, these people had never been given that chance. Or maybe it was something different. Maybe the Dragon saw in them something irredeemable; maybe the surrender and re-dedication of the captured Praetorians showed their willingness to change, to learn, to grow, to follow rules they were only just learning when these traitors would have done nothing of the sort.

Each of them had died screaming, but not a single one of them had died sorry.

The only real explanation for that was that they didn't consider what they had done as a crime, and were too fanatical about their cause to ever be any different. That was a sobering thought. Since the death of Becky, when I first started to understand the kind of people I was up against, I had always said that I would keep fighting until the end. That only one of us would come out of this alive - Them or me.

It had never really occurred to me that they might feel the same way.

They were fighting for an institution; I was fighting for my life and the lives of those I loved. I didn't think for an instant that a person fighting on behalf of a nameless, faceless organization would have the same sort of resolve as someone fighting to survive. I thought that if I did enough damage, if I put the fear of God into enough of their members, they would roll over, give up Marco, and sulk back off to the shadows from where they came.

But no, I was wrong. This was a fight to the death, and neither pain nor sacrifice would be enough to get the other side to back down.

Fucking awesome, a blood feud. Just what I needed.

There was more to this, though, at least from my own personal perspective. As the judgments proceeded, one horrifying example being made after another, I realized that I was merely a bystander. I was the dude carrying the Mantle around. I was beginning to understand that I wasn't the Dynast as Nathan and Julius had insisted; I was just a voice. The Dragon worked through me; I gave words to its judgments, but that was where my involvement ended. So, as far as my personal perspective went, I didn't have one.

And considering what had just happened, that was more than a little odd.

I should be clear here because even sitting on that throne, staring at the crowds gathered around the hall and studiously avoiding the rows of desiccated corpses, I could feel that this was important. I felt nothing. I couldn't quite put words to it; I couldn't describe it even to myself, but for the sake of my own sanity, I was determined to try. I felt like my life had been on a set trajectory since the day of my awakening, a steady upward climb to reach the peak of power in a world in which power was the only real metric of one's value. I had been born as a human; I had lived my entire life without even the smallest shred of ability and next to no control even over my own life. Then I had come into my powers and the sailing since then had been far from smooth.

Death, destruction, violence, betrayal, loss, heartache, and no small amount of sex, my life over the past year wasn't just unrecognizable to who I had been before; it was as though I was a completely different person, stumbling my way through an existence that was so far beyond what I could have imagined as a human it was almost impossible to compare the two halves of my existence to date. But yet, my life as an Evo, when all the bullshit was taken away, was at least understandable. To be anyone of note, to be safe, to be respected, I needed power. I had been awakened with a fuck load of it and between the additional power granted to me from draining Sterling, performing the last rites on Uri, and now the Mantle, I had grown from someone of note - which was already a novel experience at the time - to a force to be reckoned with. I was the king-maker, I was the destroyer of empires, I was the storm that could level cities and blow away anyone or anything that opposed me. I was the devil, and it was better to be by my side than standing in my way.

And I fucking hated it.

I hated the emptiness, the detachment, the constant agitation of being a pawn in a far greater game, and now feeling so insignificant. In the grand scheme of things, where my word could end lives and reshape destinies, my own voice now felt like an echo lost in a canyon. Each act of judgment was another stone added to the mountain of my discontent, and with every passing moment, the true horror of my existence became more apparent: it felt like I was no longer a decision-maker; I was an instrument, an extension of the Dragon's will, void of personal agency. And the very power that had seemed to promise freedom and influence had instead shackled me to a fate that felt more like a curse than a blessing.

In the end, my power couldn't save me from myself. It only fueled the torment, amplifying the chasm between the person I had once been and the entity I had become. I had traded my humanity for power, and now, I was adrift in a sea of my own making, a king by title but a prisoner in truth, and this reality clawed at me. No matter how far I had come, I had still ended up in the same place I had started.

I had spent the first part of my life being completely at the mercies of people more powerful than me. My existence was shaped by the whims of my parents' mood swings, and I was utterly helpless as a victim of their violence. There had been nothing I could do as a child to defend myself against their cruelty. But there is an old saying: you can either break the cycle or let the cycle break you.

Leaving home was my act of defiance, my vow to be the better person, to never become like my parents. Despite the contradictory nature of their final moments--giving their lives in an attempt to protect me--the decades prior had been marked by their barbaric treatment of the very child they were meant to love and protect. This promise to myself was far from an easy one to keep, especially since discovering the more violent aspects of my powers at that party. The struggle not to fall into their patterns, not to unleash my anger on the undeserving, and not to resort to force when it wasn't necessary became a constant battle. Violence was to be my last resort, a final option when all else had failed.

Yet reality had forced my hand more times than I could count. I had become an instrument of wrath and vengeance, inflicting more pain and wrath in the last few months than my parents could have ever conceived. Though many of these acts were unavoidable, moments where I had no choice, they never brought me any satisfaction. I never craved the violence, never felt any twisted joy or pride in the death I had dealt to those who had stood against me. This aversion, this internal recoil at my actions, I liked to think of it as some form of conscience. Perhaps it was even a side effect of the Dragon's judgment, compelling me to scrutinize myself more closely, to have the consequences of my actions and my decisions laid out in startling, glaring clarity. There would be no hiding from them so close to the Mantle, no looking the other way, even as much as I had been confronting my actions already, the Dragon seemed intent on ensuring that I fully appreciated the destination of the road I had put myself on.

I remember standing in my apartment after returning from Ukraine, looking into the mirror and feeling a profound disgust at what I saw. More accurately, I knew the old me would not have recognized the person staring back at him in the reflection. He would have been horrified by what he saw--the transformation from a powerless child to a powerful being capable of unparalleled violence. The face in the mirror was a reminder of the chasm between who I was and who I had become. The reflection bore the burden of choices made under duress, of a life forever altered by power and its accompanying responsibilities. Power and responsibilities that only ever seemed to grow.

It was a struggle, a constant effort to remain grounded, to hold onto the humanity that had once defined me. Each instance of violence chipped away at the core of who I used to be, threatening to turn me into the very thing I loathed, the kind of monster my parents had been. But even when the darkness of my actions seemed to overwhelm me, the resolve to break the cycle persisted. It was a fragile hope, yet it was all I had to keep myself from becoming lost in the abyss.

Ultimately, the challenge wasn't just about wielding power responsibly or curbing my anger; it was about preserving my soul in the process, ensuring that the power I had gained wouldn't corrupt the essence of who I was striving to be. And that, more than anything, was a fight worth fighting.

But the old me had been human, or at least he had been living as one, and maybe that is what I had been wrestling against this whole time: my humanity. Humans, as a species, possess the capacity for incredible violence--this is undeniable. However, the average person on the street, unless thrust into extreme situations, would find the prospect of inflicting physical harm on another to be horrifying. Most would never dream of causing pain to another, and those who did were often viewed as aberrations. The remnants of my humanity, those lingering aspects of a life once lived without power, continued to pull at the tattered threads of my conscience. They nagged at me about all the pain and violence I had inflicted, especially on the nameless, faceless individuals who had the misfortune of crossing my path.

For getting Becky killed and for how I had treated her before that. For the injury to Philippa sustained because of me. Even for the deaths of my parents. All of it, no matter what anyone said, felt like my fault--even if my responsibility was indirect. If they had never known me, their lives might have taken different, perhaps safer, paths. This burden of guilt was something I had battled since the earliest days of this war, a war that had been both external and internal.

The weight of my actions bore down on me relentlessly. Each life affected, each soul lost, added another layer to the mountain of remorse I carried. Thoughts of Becky haunted me, her life cut short because of choices I had made. Before her death, our relationship had been marred by my inability to navigate the complexities of my new existence, even if I was the only one who knew it. Philippa, too, had been drawn into the crossfire of my tumultuous journey, her pain a constant reminder of the collateral damage left in my wake.

And then there were my parents. Their deaths were particularly haunting, not just because of the finality of their loss, but due to the sheer dichotomy of their sacrifice compared to the years of torment they had imposed upon me. Despite their final act, the scars they left had shaped who I became, and this paradox gnawed at my psyche.

I had been caught in a relentless struggle to reconcile my actions with my sense of morality. Each act of violence, necessary as it often was, felt like a betrayal of the person I used to be--or at least the person I had hoped to become. The old me, the human me, had dreams and aspirations that seemed so far removed from the realities I now faced. Every time I raised my hand in aggression, every time I unleashed power unto others, it felt as though another piece of my humanity was being chipped away, leaving behind someone I could hardly recognize.

This war, both within and without, consumed me. The fight was not just against external enemies but also against the darkness within. Every decision, every moment of hesitation, was a reminder of the thin line I walked between maintaining my moral compass and succumbing to the abyss. My powers, though vast, offered no solace, no reprieve from the guilt that clawed at my conscience.

Ultimately, the greatest battle was one of self-preservation--not of the body, but of the soul. As I navigated through life, wielding power that could alter fates and shape destinies, the specter of my humanity lingered. It was a fragile tether that kept me grounded, a reminder of the person I had been and the person I still yearned to be. And amidst the turmoil, that small, flickering spark of humanity was the only thing preventing me from being consumed entirely by the shadows.

I had grown to hate what I had become and what I had been forced to do.

That was what made my current situation so disturbing.

Because right then, I felt nothing.

It was as if the humanity in me, those struggles, that relentless internal battle between my better nature and the darker impulses driven by power, had simply been switched off. From the instant I stepped into the Cathedral to this very moment, I had completely lost touch with my humanity, with who I was before, and with who I aspired to be in the future.

For the past year, my life had been devoted to amassing power. I had ascended to become the most powerful Evo alive, perhaps even the most powerful Evo to have ever existed. Yet, in the presence of the Dragon and the Mantle, with the awe, reverence, and judgment they commanded, my significance felt almost laughable. This was so much bigger than me. It was like a street thug or a common foot soldier comparing themselves to the vast machinations of nations and nation builders. Sure, a thug could throw a punch or pull a trigger, but the power wielded by leaders and entities at such a monumental scale made him look like an ant trying to stand up to a freight train. I hadn't felt so small and weak in months. Now, I was reduced to nothing more than a mouthpiece for something ancient and immensely powerful, something that had been a monument of justice when Alexander and Caesar were marching their armies to build their empires.

Even in the throes of my most raging abilities, when I had been awe-inspiring to friends and terrifying to my enemies, I understood now with absolute clarity that the Dragon could obliterate me as effortlessly as it had done to Thomas, without even breaking a sweat. My power, formidable as it was, was dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of the Dragon's ancient might. It was a humbling realization, one that stripped away the veneer of invincibility I had wrapped around myself.

Standing in the Cathedral, I could almost feel the weight of the eons pressing down on me, the ancient and enduring presence of the Dragon filling the vast space with an otherworldly gravitas. It was as if I were a speck of dust in the presence of a vast, cosmic force, something so far beyond comprehension that my mind struggled to fully grasp it. My previous struggles, the battles I had fought, seemed petty and inconsequential in comparison.

The terrifying part was the detachment--the absolute numbness that wrapped around me like a cocoon, isolating me from the frail threads of my former self. The compassion, the guilt, the empathy that had previously defined my internal conflicts--they were all muted into an eerie silence. The parts of me that had resisted--that had wrestled with the morality of my actions--were now dormant, leaving behind only a hollow shell that was gradually breaking down into nothingness again.

I was not the Dynast, I understood that now. Well, I was the Dynast, but that title meant nothing--certainly not what the Praetorians understood it to mean. The Dynast wasn't the moral authority of our race; he was merely the bearer, and the Dynast that they knew was either a figment of someone's imagination or an outright imposter. The Mantle was the true power; it was the judgment; it was the arbiter. Compared to it, I was less than nothing. I was little more than the guy who carried it around.

As my humanity, my "old self," slowly began to reemerge from wherever the Dragon had banished it, I couldn't help but shiver at the cold, calculated, and almost casually simple logic the Dragon had used in its judgments. They were guilty; therefore, they would die. That was it. The process was as mechanical as flipping a switch, devoid of emotion or hesitation.

Thinking about my own actions, I knew I couldn't claim the same detachment. During my hunt for vengeance, the deaths I had inflicted, as justifiable as they may have been, held a weight that I would always carry--a burden that gnawed at my soul. Each life taken was a step further down a path I had never intended to tread, and no matter the reason, each act of violence left a mark on my conscience.

The Dragon, on the other hand, had just executed almost a hundred people with the same ease one might swat away a fly. To it, they were less than a single drop in an enormously vast ocean. I got the distinct impression that not only were those lives insignificant to the Dragon, but it would never let thoughts of them cloud its mind again. There was a finality to its actions that I couldn't comprehend, a brutal efficiency that seemed as ancient and immutable as time itself.

This stark dichotomy between us was jarring. The weight of every life I had taken clung to me like a shroud, a constant reminder of the moral lines I had crossed. Each death was a chapter in a story of suffering and regret, a narrative that was inextricably linked to my identity. Even now, as powerful as I had become, these ghosts whispered incessantly in the recesses of my mind.

The Dragon's judgments, however, lacked this human complexity. Its decisions were devoid of personal anguish or second-guessing. It wielded authority with a detachment that seemed about as human as your average rock. This absolute absence of empathy and sorrow was bewildering to me, a stark reminder of the chasm between my mortal struggles and its own unquestioned authority. It was a creature of ancient logic and endless power, a being for whom morality was an alien and unnecessary concept.

They say justice should be blind and fair. They never said it should be this... detached.

As I grappled with these realizations, a chill ran down my spine. The casual finality with which the Dragon dispensed death contrasted sharply with my own tortured path. The very notion that my title of Dynast meant nothing more than being a carrier of the Mantle--a tool rather than a wielder of true authority--stripped away whatever illusions of grandeur I might have entertained. I was a cog in a grand, unfathomable machine, my significance dwarfed by the enormity of the power I served. In the grand scheme of things, I was nothing.

I was nothing.

In the end, the Mantle's true nature eclipsed me entirely. I was a vessel carrying out an ancient and inscrutable will, and any delusions of autonomy or moral high ground crumbled under the weight of that realization. The path forward was fraught with the danger of losing myself entirely to the cold, mechanical logic of the Dragon. And as terrifying as that prospect was, it was a fate I couldn't ignore,

I didn't know what I was going to do or how I was going to do it. But as the remnants of my battered humanity reasserted itself and the haunting screams of Thomas and the other vanquished enemies added themselves to the chorus already bouncing around my head, I knew I needed to find a way to keep a hold on who I wanted to be... and it wasn't this.

Somewhere in the deepest parts of my city, I felt the Dragon smile in approval.

I didn't even know where to start making sense of that.

I took a deep breath and shook my head, before looking up and around at the scene surrounding me. Everyone was keeping their distance, even my band of merry men were off to one side, watching the crowds and me in equal measure. Yet all of them were avoiding being anywhere near the remains of the Dragon's judgment. The corpses marked the center of a gaping void in the gathered people.

I found myself looking at the bodies; there were a fair few people in the crowd doing the same, but their attention was on something - or someone - else entirely. My friendly neighborhood mole, metal combat helmet, flying goggles, and all, was slowly and curiously circling around the bodies-his short stubby tail still wagging slowly- apparently as unsure what to make of them as I was. I watched as Marvin experimentally batted his paw against the head of one of the corpses, possibly that of Thomas - it was hard to tell; they all looked the same at this point. The body's head collapsed in on itself, turning mostly to dust in the process. Marvin sniffed at it again, wrinkled his nose, and then sneezed, blowing a cloud of what had once been a person's brain all over the group of people watching him. They coughed, spluttered, and tried dusting themselves off, looking up in time to watch Marvin-a maniacal, comical glint in his eye-pounce his entire body weight onto the rest of the corpse, turning it into a billowing cloud of dust, before he sucked in a deep breath, and stared intently back at his audience with a wink.

They ran back toward the rest of the crowd.

And I found out what a seven-foot mole sounds like when he giggles.

It was turning out to be a long fucking day.

With another deep breath, I sighed and pulled myself to my feet. It took less than a few seconds before a nervous hush settled over the crowd and every eye turned to me. I knew what needed to be said, I knew what needed to be done, so I just opened my mouth and let the words flow.

"Now you know," I started, taking my time to let the full weight of my words have their effect on those listening. "Now you know what has been going on right under your noses. For all your powers, for all the things you thought you knew, for all your childish duels and your petty rivalries, for all your subtle quests for power, this was what was really happening all along. For too long, you've lived under a shroud of deception. For too long, you've been told what to believe, how to act, and where your loyalties should lie. You've been conditioned to worship, to serve, to think in terms of us and them, to measure yourselves and determine your own power not by what you do or what you contribute, but by the level of power you were born with, to defer to lesser men simply because of a quirk of our biology, to dedicate our lives to an institution that promised us salvation and purpose. But today, I came to reveal a truth that many of you may find hard to accept, but it is the truth nonetheless.

"You have been lied to. The Conclave, this so-called great institution that you've built your lives around, has been nothing more than a facade. For generations, you were led to believe that your devotion to the Conclave would bring you closer to enlightenment, to power, to a higher purpose, or to some form of brotherhood. You were made to think that your sacrifices, your unwavering faith, were building towards a greater good. But this belief is nothing but a carefully crafted illusion. Even the war with the Inquisition was a fabrication designed to keep your puppet masters in power. This whole thing, the entire order, is just a means to filter you into a regime that would have you bowing and scraping to lesser men and the pursuit of conflict. Maria didn't found your order in an attempt to unite you all, she did it so she could enslave you! No, not enslave you, a slave recognizes the chains that bind them! They hate them, they fight against them, they yearn to be free of them... You were to be enthralled. A thrall loves their chains, they need them, they cannot conceive of a life without them... that was to be your fate! That was Maria's vision! That was their vision!" I pointed at the stacks of desiccated corpses.

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd.

"The entire conclave, the whole order, everything you think you know, all of it has been set up with that vision in mind. From start to finish, top to bottom, all of it is designed to feed you into the hands of your real enemy, and because of that, today is the day it dies. So you, the innocent people here only because you didn't know any better, have three choices before you. You can stay here, take your chances with the Praetorians, join them if you will and hope you suffer a different end to them." Another nod to the dead. "You can strike out on your own, live your lives as best you can and hope you find the peace and sense of community this place promised to give you... Or..." I looked around at the group. There were too many people to be able to look each man and woman in the eye, but I looked at enough of them to demonstrate the level of my resolve. "Or... you join me, we start our own order, and we find a way to live up to the promises made to us by charlatans, traitors, and cowards; we embrace the peace with our Inquisitor brethren, we uphold and protect the laws that our ancient forebears were bound to, and we try to make this the better world it always had the potential to be. I'm not going to try to trick you with grand promises or flowery words. Each of you needs to look to your own conscience and your own character, then make your choice from there. But those of you who wish to join me, you will know what to do."

With that, I cast a look at my friends, stepped off the raised platform that housed the throne, and headed toward the doors, stopping only once I had cleared the throngs of people and waiting for my group to catch up. I watched Marvin sniffing at a few more corpses before looking up and bounding after Uri as he and the others strode toward me. I smiled at our friendly-ish neighborhood mole as he joined our little huddle and flashed me one of his now trademark salutes. Uri chuckled and scratched the back of his head, causing his combat helmet to tilt on his head, then wobble as one of his hind legs started the thump against the floor.

I was still looking over at the newly deceased. There was an odd feeling inside me, one that was announcing itself with more and more vigor with every passing moment since the Dragon had receded back into me. Was it pity? Did I really feel bad for the fates of people who would have happily done much worse to me? I didn't know; I couldn't find the words to articulate, even to myself, what was running through my mind, but I could say with certainty that I felt none of the self-righteous validation or justified sense of satisfaction at their demises that had filled every part of me when the Dragon was dishing out his judgment.

No, it wasn't pity. It was more akin to a recognition in myself of the hole where my pity should have been. It was the humanity within me seeing the chasm between my own thinking and the Mantle's. It was an acknowledgement of the struggle that, whether I fully grasped it before that moment or not, was now in full swing for control of my soul.

"Well," Rhodri cleared his throat to pull my attention back to the group of my friends now surrounding me. "That was certainly not what I expected to happen."

"Nope, nor me." Fiona nodded, her voice lacking the, by now, almost customary arousal at the display of my power. "I feel pretty shitty about myself right now, actually."

"I don't think any of us is completely innocent," Jerry agreed. "And I think it's safe to say that the Dragon forces us to confront our own moral shortcomings."

"Among other things," Uri added with a nod over his shoulder at the crowds. None of them seemed particularly keen to approach the bodies between us and them, but every single one of the thousands of eyes was firmly fixed on us.

Or, to be more accurate, on me.

"It seems they are as awestruck and reverent of you, or of the Dragon, as the Praetorians were."

"Hmmm," I sighed. "But, just like the Praetorians, not all of them were converted or prompted to surrender, and I had to do some pretty fucked up shit to get their attention in the first place."

There was silence for a few moments, each person in the group, with perhaps the exception of Uri, seeming subdued by their own thoughts. It was an air of soberness that came in waves off the crowd too. The effect of the dragon was not just profound, it was absolute.

Finally, Charlotte spoke up. "Now what?"

"Now we head back. I need to meet with Isabelle and decide on a plan of action going forward. Then I need to deal with this place," I shrugged with a look around the cathedral. "After that, business as usual."

"So hunting down Marco and butchering Praetorians," Jerry chuckled dryly.

"Pretty much, yeah," I gave a weak smile back. I wasn't in the mood for any more fighting right now. Charlotte nodded, the rest of our little team offering some variation of the same gesture before she turned toward the crowd.

"I strongly urge all of you," she started, her quiet voice being projected into the enormous vaulted hall with a power that would have normally been quite startling, "to think about what happened here today, to tell any friends that didn't witness it for themselves, to give serious thought to the feelings you are all experiencing now. The moral bankruptcy of the Conclave is at an end. The Conclave is finished. What happens to each of you going forward is for you to decide. You can join us and make something of yourselves, something that was never going to be allowed to happen under those lot..." she nodded toward the rows of the dead, the entire audience hanging off her every word. "...and we can build something that benefits all of us, everyone who inhabits this little blue rock, living our lives free of fear or guilt. Or," Another pause for effect, "or you can make a different choice. One will have you live out the rest of your lives cut off from your kind, left to whittle down your days in anonymity.. That may appeal to some of you, and to you, I wish you luck. The rest of you will choose to join our enemies. To you, I say this..." Her words echoed around the Cathedral, bouncing off the walls and resounding back to the crowds. "Tell the Praetorians, too. Tell them we are coming for them, and pray that the next time you meet us we are in a merciful mood, because one transgression is a mistake. Two is a choice."

"How do we find you," a voice from somewhere in the crowd called back to her. I couldn't see where it came from. "Those of us not powerful enough to enter the Conclave without the entrance sites, I mean."

I shook my head, sighing before I answered the question for Charlotte. "The Conclave, and every member of it, has always laid claim to their own power. It was what you were born with, so it's yours. There is a sort of logic to that, but it also kept you locked into a hierarchy you would never be able to escape from or rise through. The new order will share power. Any time you want to enter our new Order, just focus on the thought of the Dragon, and even the weakest of us will be able to find home."

A ripple of murmurs washed over the crowd, more than a few of the faces closest to us looking impressed by what they had just heard, but most of them looked just as uneasy as they had before Charlotte's speech.

I nodded to the others, signaling that this ordeal was now over. One by one, they stepped through the enormous main doors, their silhouettes gradually fading back into the real world, leaving behind the palpable tension that had filled the air moments before. Just as I was about to follow them, I hesitated. The weight of the crowd's nervous gazes bore down upon me, compelling me to turn back and face them.

"Please," I spoke softly, my voice steady yet imploring, letting the depth of my power resonate not just through the air, but deep into their hearts. "I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to hurt people; I don't want to kill people. All I desire is peace--just like you." My words hung in the air, wrapping around the crowd like a soothing balm, searching for empathy amidst their fear.

"Please," I continued, my tone earnest and unwavering, "don't put me in a position where I have no other choice." I could see the glimmers of doubt and apprehension in their eyes, the flickers of hope fighting against the shadows of despair. "You have a choice, all of you. If any of you feels threatened or pressured into joining the Praetorians, I urge you to come to me. Speak up. Tell me what you need--I will be your shield. I promise I will protect you, and I will protect the people you care about. I understand the fear that looms over you; I've felt it too, and I refuse to let it dictate our lives."

As my voice rose, I could sense the crowd leaning in, drawn closer by the sincerity in my plea. "They are going to be dealt with," I assured them, determination filling me with every word. "I won't let their influence go unchecked. But please, don't force my hand. Don't make me regret letting you live."

The silence that followed was thick with emotion--a tumultuous blend of relief, uncertainty, and cautious hope. I could feel the weight of history pressing down on us, the decisions of the past echoing in the tense air. But within that silence, there was also the stirring of resolve, a latent courage waiting to be ignited.

"You are not alone," I pressed on, holding their gaze, letting my sincerity flow through the moment. "There is strength in unity, and together we can reclaim our lives from the tyrants who think they can control us. We do not have to walk this path of violence and hatred any longer. There is a way forward, built on trust and understanding, one where we do not have to fear our neighbors or the shadows that linger. I stand here today not as your conqueror, but as an ally; someone who believes in the power of the collective. So I ask you: choose wisely. Choose life. Choose peace."

With these final words, I locked my gaze with those of the gathered crowd, hoping to convey all the sincerity and urgency that stirred within me. I let the silence linger for a moment longer, hoping that my plea had resonated in their hearts as it had in mine. Then, one by one, I watched as their expressions began to soften--a flicker of understanding sparking amidst the fear.

After a weighted pause, I turned back toward the main doors, my resolve hardened anew. Whatever lay ahead, I knew in that instant that I would fight for them, for us all. And I would not do it alone.

********

"I'm going to leave their fate in your hands," I nodded to Isabelle and Bob, referring to the Praetorian prisoners I had interrogated before my jaunt to the Conclave. "Although I don't think for a second that they're innocent, I don't think they are anywhere near high enough in the organization to be guilty of anything bad enough to warrant their deaths. That being said," I gave each of my Inquisitor friends a pointed look, "I won't pretend to know the rules you guys have when it comes to this sort of thing. If you deem their crimes more serious than I do, I won't object to any punishments you decide upon. I personally think they are redeemable as people and maybe could even become assets in the future. I have to assume, based on the lack of objection, that the Mantle agrees with me, but they would need to earn it. The choice is yours, but that is my two cents worth."

Isabelle and Bob, each of them sat at different angles in front of me around a large, circular table, shared a look and nodded. "Thank you, Pete." Isabelle started. "I appreciate it couldn't have been easy or pleasant, but your intervention was necessary. I am intrigued about this whole subject of the Dynast, though. I won't pretend not to have considered the possibility that it could be used to our advantage in future altercations with the Praetorians."

"Yeah, I'd had the same thought," I admitted. "If even a few of them are willing to give up and surrender just because they consider me some sort of moral leader of their people, rather than the Dragon, I'm not going to complain."

"There are other questions, though," Bob added with an uncertain frown marring his face. "Firstly, how come it only affects some people and not others? If only Evos were able to see this Mantle in you, I could understand, but some of the people in our custody were Inquisitors and they accepted the fact that you were the Dynast without question. I certainly have never felt anything like that from you. I don't understand the mechanism by which some people understand what you are and some people don't."

"I don't know, Bob," I shrugged. "Maybe only people in direct opposition to me can see it."

"That's an interesting concept," Bob said, his frown growing deeper.

I shrugged my hands and shook my head. I didn't have any more answers than he did.

"The second question," Bob continued, "is how we could consistently and reliably use this to our advantage if its effects are anything but consistent or reliable?"

"We can't," I shrugged again, I seemed to be doing a lot of that recently. "I say we use it when it gives us an advantage and carry on as normal if it doesn't. Relying on it seems... premature, at least until we know exactly how it functions. I understand it a whole lot better now, but I am confident in saying that this is not something that can be wielded like a weapon. I seriously doubt that it would intervene on my behalf in a battle unless there were some pretty unique conditions at play. It certainly didn't help me out in the Praetorian compound."

Isabelle nodded thoughtfully, letting Bob and I watch her in silence as whatever thoughts she was having whirled through her mind. It was still quite jarring to not be able to read them, not that I would have if I could, I would have respected her privacy. Still, though, it was odd being around people I couldn't read at all, no matter how easy it would be for me. There was a whole lot of ground between "won't" and "can't," and the chasm between not reading her thought process out of respect, and being completely in the dark about what she was thinking in those long moments of contemplative silence was glaring.

Finally she spoke. "I think this is a subject we can't really address without more information and a lot more time. I would love to try experimenting with it... introduce you to as many Evos and Inquisitors as we can until we can find a pattern, but our need for secrecy outweighs that desire. More than that, we don't know what parameters this Mantle needs to exert its influence, so it is entirely possible that we could parade people in front of you and none of them meet its requirements, making the experiment useless."

I nodded. My thoughts had been leaning in a similar direction. There were just too many unknowns at the moment to be able to make sense of things, and we weren't in the position to test things until other, more pressing matters, had been dealt with.

"With that being said, I would like you to meet someone," she continued, reaching out and pressing a button on something that looked like a TV remote next to her. A few seconds later, the door to our left opened and in she stepped.

It was her.

The yoga girl.

And she was just as gloriously stunning as she had appeared to me when I first caught sight of her exercising in the castle grounds, though up close, she was even more breathtaking than I could have imagined. Her long, silky blonde hair cascaded down her back, reaching all the way to the arch of her spine, catching the light in a way that made each strand shimmer like spun gold. It framed a gorgeous face, perfectly sculpted with high cheekbones and a cute button nose, lending her an air of youthful charm. But it was her eyes that captivated me most--deep, pure sapphire blue, they seemed to pierce right into the deepest recesses of my soul, as if she could see every thought and feeling swirling within me.

Her body was a masterpiece of contrast and grace. A generous chest stood proudly on her curvaceous frame, drawing the eye effortlessly. Her waist narrowed in beautifully, creating a delicate silhouette that flared out into a pair of womanly hips, embodying the essence of femininity. She was a study in curves and definition, her physique a testament to the dedication she had put into her years of yoga practice. The tone of her muscles was evident, showcasing the strength hidden beneath her stunning exterior and revealing an undeniable allure.

She wore a simple yet elegant ensemble--faded blue jeans that hugged her curves in all the right places, accentuating the shape of her legs and the graceful lines of her body. Her top, an equally unpretentious black, high-necked design, complemented her figure while exuding an effortlessly chic vibe. It was as though she had mastered the art of casual elegance, drawing attention not through extravagance but through the sheer magnetism of her presence.

As I took her in, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe. Every element came together in a way that seemed almost ethereal. She radiated confidence and poise, a magnetic energy that drew gazes from those around yet seemed entirely oblivious to the effect she had on others. It was a delicate balance; she was grounded yet ethereal, powerful yet approachable, embodying a spirit that simultaneously put me at ease and left my heart racing.

In that moment, standing before her, I was struck not only by her beauty but by the strength of character that shone behind her stunning exterior. There was a depth to her presence, a quiet assurance that hinted at a story just waiting to be told. I found myself captivated, eager to uncover the layers that lay beneath the surface. I stood quickly, with the awe in my chest doubtlessly showing clearly on my face, and I proffered my hand to the mystery woman as Isabelle spoke again.

"This is Emma," she said with a smile. "She is our leading expert on Inquisitor and Evo biology. It is my hope that she may be able to shed some light on what separates those influenced by the Mantle, and those who weren't. She is also my daughter."

Isabelle smiled wider at my shocked glance at her, before I turned my attention to the newest arrival. "It's very nice to..."

"So this is him..." her disdainful remark came before I had a chance to finish my sentence. In all my gawking appreciation of her undeniable beauty, I had completely missed the look of pure, utter contempt on her face. She looked at me the same way one would look at a disease-ridden rodent. There wasn't quite a snarl on her lips, but they were certainly twisted into a look of immediate and inexplicable hostility.

"I'm sorry, have we met?" I asked, already knowing that we hadn't, but the question was almost automatic. "I apologize if I have offended you in some way but..."

She snorted. "No, we haven't met. I don't spend much time associating with murderers, and how quick you are to kill our kind is precisely what has offended me." she looked me up and down, no attempt being made to hide the disgust on her face, before turning back to her mother. "Why are you making me interact with this... person?" She asked.

"Emma, Pete is a friend, and we've been through this," The smile was gone from the Princess's face. "I would appreciate some of the decorum I've spent the last twenty years drilling into you when interacting with him."

The usual warmth and brevity in her voice was gone. I had never heard Isabelle use her authority voice before, but even I understood that she was leaving no room for misunderstanding: this was not a request and she was speaking, not as a parent, but as a superior in their order. This was an order not to be disobeyed. Emma held her eyes for a moment before her shoulders slumped a little and she turned back to me. An obviously fake smile instantly spread itself onto her face, as condescending as it was insincere, before she offered a hand to replace the one I had let fall back to my side. "It's a pleasure and the highest honor to finally meet the savior of our people. My name is Emma and I understand we will be working closely together." There was no shortage of sarcasm in every muttered syllable.

I looked down at her hand. Isabelle's words were still ringing in my ears and I was under no illusions that the sentiment to play nice applied to me as much as it did to her. As stunningly beautiful as this woman was, as much as her sheer presence had captivated me, I was in no mood to dick around with that sort of unwarranted hostility. Not after everything that had happened in the Conclave; not after everything the Dragon had forced me to feel and all the guilt I had been made to confront, not after the days and weeks of dealing with my own demons even before that. Emma had already made up her mind about me. without having any concept of the reasons why I had been forced to do the things I had done. The things I needed to do to survive, and no matter how close of an ally her mother was; I had no desire to deal with that level of disdain from a person I had never even met before. I had been ready to cut Charlotte, one of my closest friends, out of my life for fearing me for doing things I needed to do to protect her, and she had actually seen the corner I had been backed into. I hated myself enough already for what I had become, what I had been forced to become. But to be so needlessly attacked by a perfect stranger was more than I was willing to tolerate.

I left her hand hanging there for a few seconds longer than necessary, just long enough to make my point, before I took it and shook. "Pete," I gave my name. "I'm interested to hear about your work." I left the obvious 'nice to meet you' lie out of my response to her, the curl of contempt on her lips showing me that she hadn't missed it.

She didn't like me. And I instantly didn't care. I didn't have to be everyone's friend, and if she hated me and what I had done so much, then I was sure she would make every excuse to be around me as little as possible. She rolled her eyes as she released my hand then turned back to her mother.

"What are your orders, your highness?" she asked, the venom in her voice clear to even me. Isalbelle didn't answer, she just arched one of her eyebrows in a way perfected by parents the world over. A look that translated perfectly into "rethink that tone, then speak to me properly."

The two women-mother and daughter, leader and subordinate-stared at each other for a few agonizingly long seconds before Emma sighed. "I'm sorry, mother," she finally said, "I will do as you ask, and try to put my own feelings aside. What do you need from me?"

"That's better." Isabelle nodded. "As much as you may disagree with his methods, Pete has been at war for the better part of a year, fighting against threats you have no understanding of..." the look on Emma's face told me everything I needed to know about how she felt about not knowing things. Let alone the thought that there may be a justification to my actions that her own mother agreed with. "...in doing so, he has come into possession of information that may help your research. More than that, the work you have already done may prove invaluable to his efforts to end this conflict. This is information he urgently needs."

"I will not be handing over my work to..."

"Your work?" Isablelle cut her off. "I was under the impression that the work you have been doing is for the entire Inquisition, funded and endorsed by the highest levels of our leadership, carried out for the sole purpose of benefitting all of our kind, and, therefore, the property of all of us. Was it not you who first theorized that Inquisitors and Evos are part of the same branch of humanity? Was it not you who first stood before the high council to explain your hypothesis about us once having been a single species? Were you not the one that suggested that humans are an offshoot of our branch of evolution, not the other way around?" Isabelle went on. "And when your theories were suddenly proven right, where do you think that new information came from?" She nodded to me. "I do not care if your delicate sensibilities are offended by working with Pete. I do not care if you have some high moral objections to the things he has done. I do not care if you think that this is, in any way, a request. You will share your findings, or you will be removed from the project and replaced with someone who understands when something is not a request. Am I making myself clear?"

Even I gulped.

There was another pause, before Emma nodded. "I will do as you ask, mother. Is there anything else?"

It was Isabelle's turn to sigh. "I know what you think of the history between our people and the Evos. You have spent your entire career being very outspoken about your opinions on the conflict that once raged between us, and how disgusting it was that we allowed ourselves to be used by the church to kill our own kind. I agree with you, the entire council does. That is a dark stain on our history. But despite what you have heard, or what you think you know, the reason Pete is fighting this war is because he agrees with you too. There are other forces at work here, forces that would see the old wars reignited and the streets filled with Inquisitor and Evo blood. That is who he is fighting... not us, not innocent members of our people. Traitors, real murders, our enemy, Your enemy - if your convictions are as strong as you profess. I will let him decide how much he wants to tell you, but, if you are willing to listen and keep the open mind of a scientist, you may find you have a lot in common. The only difference is that Pete was thrown into the middle of a war none of us knew we were fighting, and you have only read about it from the safety of your office, which is something I think Pete would insist on, because unlike the murderer you accuse him of being, he is doing this so the rest of us don't have to. So when you ask if there is anything else, the answer is yes. Keep an open mind, and try not to let your personal feelings get in the way of our people's future, because that is what is at stake here."

Emma looked thoughtfully at her mother for almost a full minute before finally turning to me. "If you would follow me please," she said. The hostility in her voice and in her expression, although not gone completely, was significantly more muted than it had been before now. I couldn't tell if she had taken on board what Isabelle had said, and I didn't know if she believed her, but, at least for now, she seemed willing to swallow her pride and her moral high ground to carry out the orders she had been given. With a nod to her mother and to Bob, Emma spun on her heels and walked toward the door.

I gave the two Inquisitors a look, one that said "Jesus fucking Christ, this is gonna be painful," earning a smirk from Isabelle and a silent chuckle from Bob, before I turned and followed after Emma.