The bells of Vireloch rang at dawn—not for war or famine, but for welcome.
Cloaked figures in silver-white robes crossed the eastern bridge in solemn procession. At their head rode a tall man with stark white hair and eyes the color of burnished steel, bearing a staff crowned with a sunburst emblem. Behind him came carts of grain, wagons of salves, and banners stitched with golden flame.
The Sanctum of the Eternal Flame had arrived.
Zareena watched from the balcony of the fortress, arms folded, face unreadable. Her advisors stood behind her—Doren murmuring wards beneath his breath, Nasir with a hand on his sword, and Seredin... still, watchful, unreadable.
"Religious aid is still aid," Doren said cautiously.
"They don't send food without expecting something in return," Zareena replied. "Let's greet them. But not on our knees."
In the town square, the people gathered.
Refugees knelt. Local citizens stood warily. The head cleric stepped forward.
"I am Prelate Arvain, Servant of the Flame, emissary of the Sanctum. We bring grain from the southern granaries, medicine for the sick, and light for the soul."
There was a strange hush in the air, the kind that followed thunder.
Zareena descended the steps of the keep, cloaked in black and silver, the mark of Vireloch stitched into her collar. Her garrison flanked her like shadows.
"You are welcome, Prelate," she said coolly. "So long as your mission is aid, not dominion. The people of Vireloch already have a light to guide them."
Arvain smiled, eyes cold. "Of course. But what is light without faith?"
In the days that followed, the Sanctum worked fast.
Temples were reopened, their banners unfurled across rooftops. Preaching began in alleyways and markets. Sermons spoke of purity, devotion—and the danger of arcane corruption. Some of Zareena's refugee mages quietly stopped showing up to the training grounds.
Clerics took confession from the poor and displaced. One healer—a girl barely thirteen—was seized in the night for "unnatural talents" and sent to the Sanctum's inner cloister.
Zareena responded quietly. She ordered her own patrols doubled. Every refugee house had food, but also a garrison shield stationed at the door. She met each citizen's gaze with calm certainty.
The Sanctum grew, but so did her people's loyalty.
Late one evening, Zareena met with Nasir and Seredin in the solar.
"They're not just here to pray," Nasir said. "They ask questions about our archives. About Seredin. About the tomb."
"They want the old magics suppressed," Seredin added. "To control faith is to control fear."
Zareena stood before the hearth, watching firelight flicker.
"Let them spread their light," she said. "But make sure our shadows are deeper. Keep our mages safe. And Nasir…"
He straightened.
"Send someone to the south cloisters. Quietly. I want to know what they really believe in."
By the week's end, Vireloch had changed.
Chapel bells rang every morning. Bread lines were shorter. But so were tempers.
A storm brewed—not of snow, but ideology.
Zareena knew this was only the beginning.
And the game of faith and power had just begun