The Calm Before The Storm

A farmhouse on the outskirts.

Torches burned brightly in its living room.

Christoph, Morten, and Fynel, already there, greeted Münhart and Father Thomas warmly as they entered.

“Oh, you three came out here yourselves!”

Startled, Thomas collected himself and bowed to Christoph and the others.

“Peace in the Lord be with you…”

“And peace in the Lord with you, Father Thomas. You’ve had a hard journey.”

Münhart reported that his men had dealt with the cathedral’s watcher and would handle the cleanup. Everyone nodded in satisfaction.

“For me, it was only to pass the letter to Sir Münhart. Why did you all come out instead of meeting in the castle?”

At Thomas’s question, Christoph smiled and replied:

“If the three of us of the Ducal Council kept gathering every night inside the castle, word would surely leak. The Cathedral’s reach extends there too. Better to take in the night air—meeting out here suits us fine.”

Thomas drew the letter bound for Grandelvald from his chest and handed it to Morten. With a dagger from Münhart, Morten broke the wax seal and opened it.

It contained exactly what Kraf had said the day before, and also asked Grandelvald Cathedral to pass the message on to Bjoern and Fjorland, since crossing the border themselves was difficult.

“Imagine—a cathedral of this Duchy, yet with no shred of pride left. And here, look—he even names who to enthrone if I fall. Friedrich! My cousin, Count Mannheim’s son. A fine ‘little brother,’ indeed.”

Christoph glared at Kraf’s handwriting as if flames dripped from his eyes.

Morten and Fynel, finding themselves described in the document as “brainless brutes, long observed,” could only give bitter laughs.

Though he hadn’t written it, Thomas shrank under their expressions.

All eyes fell to the signatures of Kraf and Prioress Cecilia beneath the treacherous words.

It was exactly what they needed.

Fynel calmed his excitement and spoke carefully.

“My Lord, Sir Morten—with this, the sword’s hilt rests firmly in our grasp.”

“Indeed. On coronation day, it shall be a mighty hammer, declared before all.”

On the day of coronation, with nobles, soldiers, priests, nuns, great houses, merchants, and common folk all gathered—they would unveil this document of treason!

The vast picture, the immense shockwaves it would send, Thomas could hardly even imagine.

“Therefore, Father Thomas, remain here about six days—the time it would take to and from Estderin’s old castle. Guards and Münhart will keep you safe. Then, back at the cathedral, on the day before the coronation, we’ll bring you inside and give your task.”

Recalling Father Hans’s empty eyes, Thomas nodded eagerly, then paused and asked:

“But at the Cathedral, they’ll be anxiously waiting to hear what I learned from Grandelvald’s envoy. What should I tell them?”

Morten, prepared for this, instructed Thomas slowly.

“Say this: Grandelvald trusts Nastrand Cathedral fully. They are sharing information closely with the other cathedrals, and ask you to send all possible details quickly so they can respond as the war begins. Truly, nothing more can be done.”

“Understood. That is quite believable from an envoy.”

Thus ended that night’s meeting.

After all had left, guards emerged from nowhere, surrounding the farmhouse.

Münhart approached Thomas on a cot, carrying a large jug and a basket.

“Isn’t it a waste to sleep now, Father? Share mead and goose with me. You’ll be here five nights—best we get acquainted.”

At the genial knight’s ease, Thomas relaxed.

After all, what came next was beyond his control.

Though Thomas, the ceremonial priest, was absent on his mission, under Kraf and the senior clergy, preparations for coronation and coming-of-age went well.

There had long been those in the castle feeding information to the Cathedral, but nothing of real worth came.

Reports said drills were strict, with rations and arms piled high, as if for immediate march. But for a state on the brink of war, excess drills and supplies were no surprise.

‘It will proceed as is. We wrote from the council that the campaign would begin a month after coronation; Grandelvald will ready its reply…’

Then came word: Hans, whom he had sent to watch Thomas, was dead.

“What!? Hans!?”

Hans, as cherished as Joachim once was—son of a wealthy merchant family, slender body, fluttering silver hair, and virile youth—had been Kraf’s late blessing.

Kraf had agonized over it; sending one so trusted to such a task—and this was the result.

“How could this be! O Lord!”

Half dressed, eyes glazed, Kraf stumbled down the hall to the consultation room. Priests passing were so shocked they forgot even to cross themselves.

Bang!

“What… what happened!!!”

Kraf burst in, crying out.

The room stank of rot.

The corpse was already decaying—head roughly torn (Ballakson had worsened the wound), and only two-thirds of the body remained.

The torn, blood-soaked robe, Hans’s signature on the sleeve, the swollen but recognizable face—they plunged Kraf into a pit of grief.

“Ooooh, Hans… Father Hans!”

The High Priest wept bitterly.

His lament for the young priest moved even the examining clerics to tears.

At length, composed, Kraf grabbed the chief medical priest and asked:

“Father Wilhelm, how did this befall Father Hans?”

“Th-the lay brother there found him first.”

Kraf looked then to a shabby man in the corner and beckoned him closer.

“Peace in the Lord! It is an honor to meet you, High Priest.”

“And peace with you. Who are you, brother, and how did you find poor Father Hans?”

“I am Ballakson, a hunter from Havaldal Forest outside the keep.”

“Hm, Brother Ballakson…”

“Yes. Havaldal Forest is rife with wolves and bears these days. I set snares there. When I went to check them, I found this horror… torn cloth that was a priest’s robe. Fool that I am, I gathered what I could and brought it to the cathedral.”

“Ah… such a sorrow! The Lord has called Father Hans too soon!”

Kraf lifted his gaze heavenward, eyes closed, murmured the prayer of rest. All bowed their heads.

When the prayer ended, Kraf looked to Wilhelm, who said:

“Yes. As this brother says, Father Hans fell to the forest beasts. These marks prove it. Why he went there, though…”

“Hm. He appeared thus at the Lord’s call—that is all that matters.”

Kraf waved his hand as if to hear no more, and asked Ballakson again:

“Any other bodies or signs of men nearby?”

“I searched the paths in shock, but found nothing else.”

‘Perhaps I was rash. All I can hope is for Father Thomas to deliver the letter and return safely.’

Kraf ordered another priest: “Go to the treasury, give this brother ten silver coins, and send him home.”

In the end, his doubt of Thomas had cost him the priest he loved.

“Leave me. I wish to pray alone for his rest.”

When they left, Kraf beat his chest and wept anew.

Days later, Thomas returned, and before Kraf, the prioress, and Joachim, he reported the letter safely delivered, and repeated Morten’s prepared words about Grandelvald’s response.

“But on my way here, I heard… something happened to Father Hans?”

“Yes. Perhaps he sought prayer or deep meditation… he entered the forest, and fell to wolves and bears. He went to the Lord before us.”

“Heavens, Lord! Grant his soul rest and peace.”

Thomas’s reaction stirred Kraf’s grief anew.

Nothing more came from Grandelvald. Gathering intelligence here remained their priority.

They would fight to block the campaign on the date given.

“Well done. Go now. I will summon you again later.”

Kraf, unable to master his grief, dismissed the meeting. The prioress and Joachim exchanged puzzled looks, as if wondering if more should be decided.

“This evening is Father Hans’s requiem mass. Let us see it done well. He was a priest long by my side, a most dear companion.”

The High Priest covered his face with both hands and began to sob.

Startled, the others scrambled to their feet, half-bowing as they hurried out.