Chapter 31: By Their Fruits

The title of High Vicar is not granted lightly, for to bear it is to speak with the authority of the church itself. These figures serve as the highest representatives of the Pantheonic Church within a given province, empowered to interpret doctrine, issue decrees, and administer divine law. Though their vestments differ by region and rite, all High Vicars bear the sigil of sanction: a consecrated seal bestowed by the Septate, binding them to their station for life. Their words carry the weight of dogma, and their judgments are often final.

Within Bellacia, a High Vicar may wield more influence than even the lesser nobility. While dukes and barons squabble over land and trade, the High Vicars preside over the moral and spiritual health of the realm. They dictate the calendar of holy observances, ratify the legitimacy of clerical appointments, and—in times of crisis—may even issue celestial edicts that alter the course of political affairs. 

More than figureheads, High Vicars serve as arbiters of justice within the church's domain. When heresy, corruption, or dissent is suspected—whether among the clergy or the laity—they are empowered to investigate and uncover the truth. They are authorized to convene tribunals, assign penance, and impose sentences ranging from excommunication to confinement—or even ritual cleansing. To defy a High Vicar is to risk exile from the grace of the gods, a fate feared by Warden and Noble alike.

The Concordium chamber was colder this time.

Daylight filtered weakly through the high stained glass windows, casting fractured hues across the long marble floor. The silence was heavier than before—less contemplative, more suffocating. 

On one side of the chamber, the nobles sat draped in layers of silk, fur, and regal authority. Lady Cassandra Apford watched from her seat with her usual glacial calm, lips tight, eyes sharp behind a veil of civility. Beside her, Lord Percival Oster shifted uncomfortably, his usual bluster frayed at the edges—shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, as though trying to will himself smaller. At the end of the row sat Steward Elias Whitlock, and unlike the first day of the summit, the mask was cracking. His leg bounced rhythmically beneath his chair, fingers fidgeting at the cuff of his sleeve.

Opposite them, the clergy sat in a dignified silence. High Vicar Thomond Northgate with the quiet pride of the exalted, expression impassive beneath layers of ritualistic restraint. Reverend Sestor Eldrun sat straight-backed, hands clasped before him, while Reverend Harland Wesmere leaned slightly over the table, forearms resting lightly on the polished wood, fingers loosely interlaced. 

Mia and Siegfried stood at the center once more—unadorned, armed only with truth and the weight of what they'd uncovered. Only the two of them and the evidence they had uncovered stood between the two powerful factions, each itching to shift the blame.

No formalities were observed. It was clear to everyone what had brought them here.

Mia stepped forward to the podium. Her voice cut through the silence.

"This is the final day of the Concordium Summit," she said, her gaze sweeping across both sides of the chamber. "We will present the evidence we've gathered—openly, with nothing withheld and no accusations left unchallenged. The truth has long been buried beneath lies and deceptions, but we've dug deep enough to glimpse its hidden face."

She paused, letting the silence stretch a heartbeat longer.

"The Wardens are not here to serve noble interests or clerical pride. We serve Bellacia. And today, we will lay bare who bears responsibility for the bombings, who sought to mislead this council, and who still attempts to hide from justice."

Mia motioned for the proctor to present the first pieces of evidence. He produced two worn ledgers—one slim, the other thick with its cover marred by smudged ink—and set them both on the table at the chamber's center.

"We begin with these," she said. "Two ledgers. One was submitted anonymously to the summit—thin, vague, and clearly forged to implicate a single party. The other"—she tapped the thicker tome—"was obtained directly from Lord Oster during the investigation."

Oster winced at the mention of his name. Lady Apford's brows drew together in silent disapproval. Elias sat straighter, the nervous tap of his foot paused.

Mia continued. "The first ledger points to a straightforward smuggling operation—contraband routed through Wesmere by Lord Oster, allegedly on behalf of Lady Apford. That claim alone was cause for concern."

Lady Apford spoke cooly. "A baseless accusation—conjured by a rival desperate to tarnish my name before this council and divert blame from any quarter but his own."

Mia shook her head. "The first ledger alone wasn't enough to substantiate that claim. However, Lord Oster, after some encouragement, provided us with this—his personal record of clandestine transactions."

She opened the book, flipping a few pages before stepping back and allowing Siegfried to read.

"It details a multitude of transactions," he said aloud. "We cross-referenced the timing and delivery schedules between the two ledgers—over half align with previously recorded movement orders and corroborate what was found in the first ledger. Notably, however, there are numerous entries absent from that initial record."

Oster shifted again, sweat rising at his collar.

Mia folded her arms. "Lord Oster, would you care to clarify?"

A long pause.

Then Oster cleared his throat, voice thick with defeat. "I... I moved shipments. For both of them—Elias and Cassandra. Contraband, yes, but nothing hazardous. Nothing I ever believed was tied to this madness."

Lady Apford's eyes twitched. "You imbecile," she hissed through clenched teeth. "I paid you handsomely to keep that fat mouth of yours shut—and you swore I was your only client."

"I kept your goods separate, as promised—but you both paid for discretion, not exclusivity." Oster shot back.

Before either could continue, a voice from the clergy side drifted into the space—measured, almost mournful.

Reverend Harland folded his hands neatly before him. "It is… disheartening," he said, with a slow shake of his head, "to witness not one, but three noble houses of Wesmere stooping to such corruption. Smuggling? Deceit? And now, public disgrace in the Concordium chamber?" He sighed deeply. "The people look to their leaders for virtue, not vice. What a disappointing mirror we hold to them today."

His sight drifted lazily between Apford, Oster, and Elias. A look like that of a parent, disappointed in their child.

Elias leaned forward, frowning. "That is a lie. I have not employed your services in months."

Oster turned to him, color rising to his cheeks. "Do not insult our intelligence, Steward. I conducted business with your man—Harwick. Pale, grey-haired, always the one to deliver your orders and pay me in advance. He never ceased arranging shipments."

Elias blinked. "Harwick has not been in my service for some time—he vanished without a word."

Siegfried exchanged a glance with Mia.

"Disappeared when?" she asked.

"A few months ago," Elias said slowly. "I assumed he had defected. You may ask the other servants, if you wish—Harwick has not been seen in quite some time. As for the goods we entrusted to Oster, they were medicinal in nature. Shipments from Shinhana, brought in to save our lord... though in the end, it was all for naught."

A beat of silence followed.

The kind that lingered, as everyone in the chamber realized a piece of the puzzle no longer fit.

Mia didn't move at first. She simply let the tension settle, letting the room absorb the implication of Harwick's vanishing act. Then she turned slightly toward the proctor standing at the edge of the chamber.

"Bring forth the second item," she said.

The proctor nodded and stepped forward. From a lacquered box resting beside the dais, he retrieved a single folded letter with a wax seal that had already been broken. He carried it reverently, two hands beneath it, and set it gently upon the table between the two factions.

"This letter," Mia said, addressing the room, "was handed to us during the course of our investigation. It is brief, encoded, and bears the seal of House Whitlock. The instructions it contained led us directly to an active smuggling tunnel beneath the Angry Hog Inn."

Elias leaned forward, gaze narrowing as he caught sight of the familiar emblem. "May I examine it?"

The proctor gave a short nod. Elias stood, stepped forward, and lifted the letter with care. He unfolded it, eyes tracking the script quickly before pausing on the seal. His brow furrowed.

"This is... without question the Whitlock crest," he admitted, holding the broken seal aloft for all to see. "A rearing stag, its forelegs raised before a sunburst. But this is not the seal I employ."

He looked around the chamber, his voice composed and clear. "As many of you are aware, I do not hold the title of Lord Whitlock. I serve merely as steward, until such time as a formal successor is named. The seal granted for my use is a simplified variant—no sunburst behind the stag, and absent the antler-shaped border seen here. This"—he raised the seal slightly—"is the lord's mark. A seal that has not been in my possession, nor in active use, for over a year."

He lowered the parchment slightly, shaking his head.

"Whoever sent this wanted it to look official. But anyone familiar with our house would know this version hasn't been used since my lord fell ill."

Elias lowered the parchment, but before he could return to his seat, Lady Apford's voice rang across the chamber.

"Oh, spare us the theatrics," she snapped, rising to her feet, her chair scraping the floor. "You speak as though your word carries the weight of law, Steward, yet neither of your claims withstand scrutiny. What proof is there that you did not simply hide away the lord's seal, waiting for the opportune moment to make use of it for your own ends?"

Elias turned to her with a scowl.

"And this conveniently absent servant of yours—Harwick, was it? How fortunate that the only man who might corroborate your account has disappeared without a trace. A vanishing act, timed perfectly to spare you from inquiry. It is, at best, deeply suspicious."

A murmur rippled through the chamber.

Across the room, High Vicar Thomond raised one hand, his voice calm but firm. "Enough."

Both nobles stilled, though Apford's eyes still burned.

The High Vicar shifted slightly in his seat, gaze turning toward Mia and Siegfried. "Thus far, the evidence is compelling—but not definitive. One forged seal and an absent servant do not yet amount to exoneration, nor do they conclusively condemn."

He folded his hands. "Continue."

"For the next item," Mia said, "we will hear spoken testimony—directly from one of the smugglers involved in the operation."

The chamber doors opened, and two Wardens entered with a third man between them. He was middle-aged, hair thinning and uneven, face sun-leathered and unshaven. His wrists were shackled, but his gait was steady as he was escorted to the center of the room. He said nothing, though his eyes darted warily between the nobles and clergy alike. His sight also lingered on Siegfried for a few hateful moments before looking away. 

The proctor stepped beside him. "State your name for the record."

"Calvus," the man muttered, voice gravelly. "Calvus Eldrun."

Mia stepped forward, hands behind her back. "Calvus. Tell us how your involvement began."

He hesitated, glancing toward Lord Oster. Upon seeing the man's slumped posture, he pressed on.

"About a year ago. Springtime it was," Calvus said. "Got word through mutual contacts—folk who knew we don't ask questions. Was hired by Lord Oster's people. Movin' cargo between drop points along the eastern road. Paid up front, always." he said, licking his lips nervously. 

"And the contents?" Mia asked. "Were you ever told what they were?"

Calvus shook his head. "No. Didn't ask, neither. Got paid extra not to. Instructions were clear—sealed boxes, marked crates. I only ever took them from stash spots or Oster's own men."

At the noble table, Lord Oster's face had gone a deep, blotchy red. He slouched in his seat, eyes fixed on the table before him, lips pressed in a thin line. Like there was nothing left of him—only shameful defeat.

Siegfried stepped forward, his boots echoing softly against the marble as he came to stand beside Mia.

His eyes fixed on Calvus as he held up the unsealed letter. "This letter—the one bearing the Whitlock seal. Who placed it in your hands?"

Calvus looked up, brow creasing. "No one I met face-to-face."

"Then how did it come into your possession?"

The smuggler shifted his weight. "Letters like that were sometimes attached to crates or barrels when they arrived. Instructions for the next leg of the journey. Nothing more. Could've been placed there by Oster's folk or someone upstream. I never saw who. By the time we picked up the cargo, it was already sealed and waiting."

Siegfried was quiet for a moment.

"So you never saw who wrote them. Or who sealed them."

Calvus shook his head. "Could've been anyone."

A murmur of unease rippled through the chamber.

Siegfried took a half-step closer, his tone low. "Where were the goods coming from, Calvus?"

The smuggler scratched at his wrist chain. "Used to get shipments from Shinhana. That was early on. Soft, packed real careful like." He sniffed. "Haven't run those routes in a while, though. Lately it's been cargo from the Badlands. And more recently…"

He hesitated.

Mia picked up the thread. "More recently?"

Calvus shrugged. "Right here. Bellacia proper. No border runs in months."

The chamber stirred again, soft murmurs fluttering across both sides once more.

A flicker passed through Mia's eyes. Without another word to Calvus, she turned—locking eyes with Lady Apford across the chamber.

"Lady Cassandra," she said, her tone crisp, "what, exactly, were you requesting from the Badlands?"

Apford stiffened, chin lifting in that practiced way only nobles mastered. "That is no business of the Wardens."

Mia motioned to the gathered officials. "It is the business of this chamber."

Apford's lips thinned. She glanced at the High Vicar—no response. Elias remained silent. Not even Oster spared her a look.

She sniffed. "Very well. If you must know, I hold a passing academic interest in the cultures of the Badlands. Their... brutality has long served as a source of grim fascination among those who collect and study martial history."

Silence.

She pressed on, voice clipped. "I acquired a modest collection of weapons and artifacts—swords, vases, bone carvings. Historical curiosities, nothing more."

"A modest collection," Mia echoed.

"Hardly weapons of war," Apford said. "Nothing more dangerous than bellacian steel."

Mia turned back to Calvus, her voice steady. "You stated that you've been smuggling goods within Bellacia. Where, precisely, have those shipments originated?"

The smuggler scratched at his stubble, clearly weighing how much to say. "There's a forest—real big one—way up northwest, between the mountain ridges. Barely on any maps. Not what you'd call a lively place."

"Who's there?" Mia asked.

"Don't know names," Calvus muttered. "There's a group out there—real quiet, real tidy. Met 'em at the edge of the woods. No camps. No smoke. Just sealed crates ready to go."

"And you brought them to Wesmere," Mia said, her voice hard. "Then what?"

"Dropped them at the usual spots—storage sheds, waypoints. After that…" He hesitated. "They got moved. Not by me. I never asked where."

"Who picked them up?" Mia pressed.

Calvus shifted uneasily.

"Didn't give names. Didn't talk much, either. Just wore green bands—bit of cloth tied to an arm or leg. That's how we knew. Gave 'em the crates, took our coin, and that was it."

A hush spread through the chamber. 

Mia gave a short nod to the Wardens flanking Calvus. "That will be all."

The smuggler was escorted away, his chains clinking faintly as the chamber doors closed behind him.

She turned to the proctor. "Bring the final item forward."

The proctor bowed and retrieved a thin, folded sheet encased in glass for preservation—creased but intact, the ink still fresh. He placed it carefully at the center of the table.

"This," she began, "is a contract—recovered from the bodies of the mercenaries who ambushed us during our investigation. The very same mercenaries who died shortly thereafter of poisoning. Whether it was taken to avoid interrogation, or whether they even knew they'd been poisoned, remains unclear."

She paused for a moment, scanning the room. 

"The contract bore a name. Steward Elias Whitlock. However, when confronted about it, he denied involvement."

Lady Apford scoffed. "Of course he would deny it—"

Mia raised a hand without looking her way, silencing her with a gesture.

"We thought the same," she said. "So we pursued verification."

She turned slightly, her voice firm as she addressed the room. "We requested handwriting samples from each noble house—previously signed correspondence, estate orders, manifest logs. These were then compared against the contract in question."

She stopped, allowing the moment to linger.

"None of them matched."

Apford opened her mouth to speak, but stopped. A strange quiet overtook the nobles' bench. 

"But we didn't stop there," Mia continued. "While our search was underway, our coachman Geoffrey was tasked with gathering civilian records—receipts, logs, letters—anything bearing a verified signature from the local populace. Taverns, mercantile guilds, legal offices… and the church."

She stepped back just slightly, letting her voice echo throughout the room. 

"It's strange. Of all the signatures we reviewed, the one most closely resembling the mercenary contract did not come from a noble's hand—but from the Wesmere parish."

Mia moved aside as Siegfried stepped up to the center, eyes fixed across the room towards the church's seating.

"More specifically," he said, "a letter of correspondence… bearing the signature of Reverend Harland of Wesmere."

The silence stretched, and in it, Harland sat utterly still—arms still resting on the table, expression unreadable. His gaze did not drop. But neither did he speak.

The chamber erupted.

Voices clashed from both sides—some rising in outrage, others in disbelief. Nobles leaned forward, barking questions. The Clergy quietly spoke oaths under their breath. Even Lady Apford, usually poised, was halfway to her feet, eyes flashing with alarm. The accusation had fractured the delicate balance of the Concordium, and for a moment, it seemed the room might spiral into chaos.

Reverend Sestor Eldrun fixed Harland with a furious gaze, his lips curling in disgust. "Tell me it isn't true," he demanded. 

But Harland did not respond, as he stared into the distance.

He remained exactly where he'd been, arms folded comfortably on the table, head slightly tilted. Then, slowly, a smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth—thin, crooked, and devoid of remorse. It settled upon him like a secret finally freed—serene, certain, and laced with satisfaction.

"So tell me, Reverend," Mia said, staring him down. "Why ambush a Warden? Why bring mercenaries into this?"

Harland's grin widened. But he said nothing.

Not a word.

The silence was louder than any confession.

High Vicar Thomond rose from his seat at last, his expression carved from stone. The room quieted as he stepped forward, robes rustling faintly with each motion. He regarded Harland first, then turned his solemn attention to Mia and Siegfried.

"This summit was convened in the name of truth," he said, voice cold like iron. "And though many have spoken falsehoods, you two have proven that the Wardens remain the last neutral pillar within Bellacia's affairs."

He looked to Mia.

"The punishment for this betrayal falls under your jurisdiction—as it was you who were attacked, and you who brought the truth to light."

He turned at last to Harland.

"But I ask, with the authority of the Church, that the Reverend be placed in our custody. That his soul might be judged not only by man's law, but by divine will."

Harland did not flinch, but his eyes flicked toward the High Vicar, a glint of madness dancing within them.

Mia gave a slow nod. "Then I ask for one condition."

"Any information extracted from Reverend Harland—whether through interrogation or… divine repentance—is to be documented and submitted to the Wardens," she said. "We are to be kept informed should any further revelations come to light."

The High Vicar dipped his head. "You have my word. The Wardens will be the first to know."

Mia turned towards the noble bench with an icy glare. .

"Unfortunately, Harland is not the only criminal in this chamber."

Gasps and murmurs broke out at once, but she raised her voice over them.

"Lady Apford. Lord Oster. Steward Whitlock. Each of you has engaged in unlawful conduct—smuggling, deceit, conspiracy to obstruct a formal investigation. You will not be taken into custody today, in light of the greater threat now revealed. But make no mistake—your actions have not been forgotten."

"Effective immediately, a Warden presence will be established in Wesmere. Our oversight will be continuous—and unannounced. Furthermore…" Her gaze fixed on Apford and Oster, boring into the two. "The two of you are expected to step down from your respective positions."

"What?" Apford shot to her feet.

Oster looked as though he might collapse.

Mia ignored them both. "Elias Whitlock may remain as steward until House Whitlock names a proper successor. But your movements will be monitored."

The noble side of the chamber erupted—cries of protest, demands, red-faced outrage echoing off the high stone walls. The Concordium had become a battlefield again.

Mia turned to Siegfried and gave a simple nod toward the door. Their role in the Concordium now complete. 

They walked together, quiet amid the storm, the sound of raised voices and rustling robes trailing behind them like the final notes of a funeral hymn.

As they passed beneath the tall archway and into the corridor beyond, Siegfried glanced sideways at her.

"What now?" he asked. "Or do you plan on leaving me in the dark still?"

Mia didn't slow. "Didn't you hear that smuggler back there?"

She allowed herself the faintest smile.

"We're headed northwest."