Carmack sat beside Managra on stone-carved thrones as the surviving advisors, guild officials, and important Lydrusians filled the chamber to plead their cases in the first court since their city's downfall.

  Clearing his throat, a gaunt, pale man dressed in fine satins addressed them with several scrolls held beneath his arm. “We have completed our census on the survivors of Lydrus. We count 97 members of the College of Warlocks and 203 Priestesses of Lydria. There are 82 qualified spell scribes and 26 apprentices. 304 guardsmen, counting all ranks. 1611 craftsmen of all crafts, including the following crafts outlined as vital by the crown: 112 blacksmiths, 92 carpenters, 74 masons, 64 tailors, and 57 alchemists and herbalists.

  Clearing his throat, the man continued.

  “There are 834 laborers, 345 fishermen, 207 merchants, and 187 landowners and nobility. We have 192 professionals, including clerks, doctors, lawyers, and teachers. And 234 miscellaneous, of which most are woodsmen, hunters, beggars, prostitutes, and a few others. For a grand total of 4322 survivors, down from an estimated over fifty thousand inhabitants of Lydrus before the storm. Not including the population of the surrounding regions, though most of those failed to make it back to the city, let alone escape into the caverns with us.”

  “Thank you,” Managra said, waving the senior clerk off to the side. The man bowed before shuffling off. “Next.”

  Bowing with a thin, insincere grin, Madrix stepped up. “Lord High Priest,” he bowed. “Other-worlder,” he added with a glare toward Carmack.

  Straightening and pulling on the collar tightly wrapped around his thin neck, Madrix turned to the side so that he could address those in attendance as well. “People of Lydrus, hear me. Why is it that a foreigner with no ties to our great city sits before us on a throne? Are we to believe he is our leader now? The High Priest has been a fine steward of our people in the wake of our dearly departed prince and the royal family at the hands of the demons. But who is he to look down upon us as royalty might? How does a new ruler without lineage or connection to the throne sit upon it without first consulting with us, the fine people of Lydrus? Are the people in this room today not worthy of having their fair say?”

  Hushed voices echoed throughout the room, but no one spoke up.

  “I have done nothing of the sort, First Warlock,” High Priest Managra said. “As you say, emergency powers placed me as steward, and I invited our hero here to sit beside me and witness a session of our much-diminished court. I believe it is important that he learns how business and politics are conducted in Lydrus, as he has been charged as our savior.”

  Whispers were once again passed back and forth among the spectators.

  “Sit here beside you? On a throne? Beg my pardon, lord priest, but who invites a guest to sit on a throne before his own citizens?”

  “He is no ordinary guest; you know that as well as any of us, First Warlock. The hero has already saved us once, freeing us from that underground prison. It is a small honor to let him sit here beside me, an honor I'm sure those in attendance would agree with.”

  “Aye, aye!” A man called from the crowd, and applause broke free. Some in attendance went so far as to whistle.

  “It seems the people have spoken, First Warlock.” Managra laced his fingers and rested his chin upon them, a smug grin curling its way across his dry lips.

  Brow twitching, Madrix gritted his teeth as the applause for the High Priest grew louder and exhaled through his nostrils.

  “My apologies, Lord Priest. Perhaps I have spoken out of turn. It appears I have misread this situation.”

  “That it does,” Managra said, nodding approvingly. “Was there something else you wished to bring up in this session of court whilst you have the stand, First Warlock?”

  “No, nothing,” Madrix hissed and bowed his head low as he crept back into the audience.

  “Then we shall continue. Next!”

  Moving in response to the High Priest, a woman of unmeasured beauty took to the stand. Strawberry blonde hair fell perfectly straight just past her ears, at which point it was spun into braids. Her delicate silver robes were made of fine silk and loosely hung over her figure, causing the gazes of the men in attendance to shy away out of respect.

  “Please speak, Head Maiden Octavia of Lydria.”

  “Thank you, Lord Priest,” Octavia curtseyed. “And thank you, great hero, for all you've done for our people. I know this may sound selfish. Everyone has needs, and I do not dare put mine or any other priestess before those of the people. And yet here I am, to beg you that a new place of worship be constructed for our sisterhood. If it were only we who were in need of this, I would gladly go without. But the people are burdened with countless sorrows. I fear for their souls if they go without prayer or consultation from our sisterhood and the solace it brings. Yet conducting such activities in the streets softens the weight of our words and weakens the benefits prayer can bring to a troubled soul. So please, consider my plea with open ears.”

  Octavia fell to the stone floor the moment she finished speaking, prostrating before them.

  “A noble cause indeed,” Managra said, running his fingers through his white beard. “But we must ask the hero, for it is he who hollows out these rooms of solid rock.”

  “Yes, I shall see it done,” Carmack said. “Though, would it be acceptable if I finished the greenhouses first?”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Octavia pried her head from the floor, sneaking a glance at both the hero and high priest in confusion about who he was addressing.

  “That sounds acceptable to me,” Managra nodded. “And you, maiden?”

  “Me? I am humbled, Great Hero. I beg this task of you, but of course, it is for you to say when the work shall be completed. I will respect any decision you make.”

  “Okay, well, after the greenhouses, then. I believe it is important that food production gets kick-started as soon as possible. But after that, spiritual needs are important. Say, sister Octavia, would it be possible for people to sleep within your temple until more accommodation can be built?”

  “Yes, of course. That won't be an issue. The sisterhood of Lydria has always provided shelter to the needy.”

  “Grand,” Carmack clapped. “We need more accommodation anyway. If we can kill two rats with one stone, so to speak, then why not?”

  “Thank you, thank you,” Octavia said, bowing to both men as she spoke and then returning to the crowd.

  Next, a man in fine, silken robes and a little feathered hat stepped forward. His head seemed permanently bent back as if to look down his hawkish nose at people. He was followed by a bulbous man of jelly-like rolls and a man of strange facial proportions with a pointed chin and tiny, beaded eyes.

  “Lord Priest,” the man bowed. “Hero of Lyrdus. I am Cecil Jalaxidus, and I have been appointed to head a special interest group for Lydrus’ landowners and nobility. As you are no doubt aware, we lost a lot in our flight from our great city. Many of us possessed great capital and untold wealth in Lydrus and its real estate. But now, many of us have little more than the gemstones and coins we held as insurance under our beds and in our lock boxes. Grabbing treasures, we could hold in our hands and on our backs as we desperately fled. As you can see, our tidings are grave. We ask that the crown, or rather the steward, as the legal representation of the crown, compensate Lydrus’ loyal nobles and landowners for all they have lost.”

  That’s a new one. So, these nobles want the state to pay them for losing their property?

  “I hear you,” Managra nodded soberly. “We have all lost much in the fall of Lydrus. And we will endeavor to help you as we will all citizens of our great city. Our hero here, Carmack, assures me that there will be more than enough space to provide rooms for all of our citizenry.”

  “What? I mean, beg my pardon, Lord Priest, but I’m not talking about squalored shacks dug from cold stone. I alone owned businesses and vineyards all around Lydrus, and there are many like me. You plan to repay us with rooms you dig out of this place? This rock? I can’t even see the sky anymore. I can’t even enjoy a fine wine and a thick, juicy sausage from my balcony anymore! And you suggest that my repayment for everything I have done for Lydrus is a prison dug from rock?”

  “I understand it is difficult. But I do not recall Lydrus owing you anything. If debts are owed, they will be recorded within the treasury and repaid as soon as possible. Lydrus has always been true to its word; none will go without their debts settled. But if no debt exists, how is the state to reimburse?”

  “Old ma–” Cecil caught the words in his throat before finishing them and swallowed. “Lord priest, that is not what I meant. Our involvement in Lydrus fueled the great city’s economy and made it what it was. Do we not deserve compensation for our charity?”

  “Charity? I did not realize that was what you were doing, growing so wealthy as you were. I will have the treasury look into charitable donations and how we can compensate those who made them during Lydrus’ reign. Now then, with that sorted, do you have any other requests for this court?”

  Cecil’s face reddened with anger, but he held his retort back. Religion was all many of the citizens had left, and insulting the high priest in court might end with a street shanking.

  “That is all,” Cecil managed to hiss through gritted teeth.

  After that, a representative of the people came and offered both the High Priest and Carmack wreaths of thanks that the people had woven in celebration of their survival. Yet they asked for nothing.

  As the court continued, a fierce-looking woman dressed in fine plate armor with short hair and a steely gaze stood amongst the crowd, caught Carmack's attention. She hadn’t spoken, but something drew him to her. He could feel her power; it was among the strongest in Lydrus. Gauged by level alone, he knew she was considerably more powerful than he was, though his archgeomancer trait probably evened the scales.

  I will have to learn more about that woman.

  His gaze subtly lingered on the imposing woman as the last interest groups made their pleas, most of which were mundane requests for rations or supplies. Once completed, the chamber began to clear out, and the guardsmen closed the stone doors behind them.

  Managra turned to Carmack at his side. “Now you see what politics truly simmer beneath the surface of our broken city. And this is during a time of desperation when people put aside their differences and work together. You can imagine how strained things could get during better days.”

  “I can imagine,” Carmack nodded.

  “So, do you still wish to lead my people?”

  “What’s the alternative? Bow to that Madrix fellow or Cecil?” Carmack grimaced. “Yeah, I’ll pass on that.”

  “Ha, that’s one way to look at it. We’ll have to get to work. For now, just keep doing what you’re doing; the people are noticing. In the meantime, I’ll pull political strings where I can. The reality is I won’t be around forever, and Lydrus needs a strong leader. I fear the leadership of someone like Madrix or Cecil would be the final nail in the coffin for our once-great city. But our task won’t be easy. Many will resist a foreign leader, while others will see themselves as rightful inheritors. So, we must build your base strong to resist those factions that might appear when the time comes.”

  “Hmph, if you say so. I must admit politics is not my strength. I was but a minor lord in Avalock, and yet somehow I managed to have a military and political alliance formed against me.”

  “Worry not. As I said, just keep doing what you’re doing. Most already know these other fools would lead them to their deaths. We just have to turn those foundations of trust into loyalty. Remember, a leader does not need to master every discipline. Your strengths speak for themselves. Others can handle the political scheming.”

  Returning to the humble quarters he had dug for himself, Carmack just about collapsed. The days had been long and exhausting, not just because of the mana he used but because they were both physically and mentally straining.

  But he would not rest yet. Taking a stone seat at a table he had made in the room’s corner, he rolled out several scrolls he had asked the scribes for and began to draw.

  As ink took to paper, and Carmack’s imagination sprawled out across an outstretched scroll, a scene came together, piece by piece. It was that of a short, rotund stick figure man who was taking a beating from a much larger, more handsome man.

  *Signed Carmack. P.S. I haven’t forgotten about you, Gertheim, you treacherous little gnome.*

  “That feels better,” Carmack stretched his shoulders. He needed some relaxation, and that hit the spot.

  “I should decorate this place when I get a chance,” he murmured as he rose and walked to his bed. “But first, I need to gain some more levels. Building is growing tedious with insufficient mana.”