Vega and Armalind—Ronald Montour—returned to the Ironhold headquarters.
The ride back was a familiar experience for most; like an upset parent with an ashamed child, both sitting in smoldering silence.
Within the Holy City of Olym sat the bright, golden beacon of hope for humanity; the Church of the Father—the dominant religious force within the Human Realm.
Everything around the Church was disgustingly lavish, as were most things high-class in this divided world.
The Father's Church was the epitome of all things aristocratic. Their core tenets were strength, leading by example, and enduring hardship. They even had the aristocrats—the Raymonds—as devout members of their Church.
These values were fine and dandy at face value, and with the Mother's Church making up for the Father's severe lack of compassion using her own tenets, the power dynamic seemed to do miracles for Humanity.
That was until peacetime when hardships were few and far between—at least for the nobility, who spent their time adding more layers of gold onto their Church. Even that was a mere drop in the bucket, simply the overflow of their bountiful coffers.
Man corrupted. Without the intervention of the Father himself, the Church was set on a path of self-destruction.
But the conflict was on the horizon. Conflict would weed out the fat and corrupt, and make way for the true strongmen of the future.
It was funny; the dichotomy of conflict and Humanity. One might think that conflict would only serve destructive means. That assumption didn't account for the Human propensity for violence.
They were born in it, and they would unite through it. That was what Ronald believed.
Though his view was relatively narrow. He had been born into a devout Barony—the Father's tenets were his shining beacon for his entire upbringing.
As much as he tried to act diligent, stoic, and strong, there was always a person who threw him for a loop.
It was Ranni Luikots.
He didn't know why. He couldn't know why. Ronald was enthralled with her at an intrinsic level, so much so that it nearly controlled him subconsciously.
At least, that was the theory he had come up with during his solemn self-reflection back to headquarters.
Inside the Church of the Father, Vega and Ronald entered the large and lush prayer hall. The marble underfoot was black and gold in a pattern as sporadic and naturally connected as the stars.
The two had since ditched their masks and robes, now donning traditional Catholic-inspired nun and priest attire—though of course lined with subtle gold trim.
Vega was now Merle di Abbott, an Archbishop of the Father—one of the few Lieutenants to the Cardinal within the Ironhold.
Merle was an older woman, her once pristine face now worn and wrinkled with age—though underneath that, her beauty remained quite evident.
Her features were sharp and mean. Long black hair striped with tinges of platinum-grey—completely covered by her veil.
The two respectfully greeted the few odd nobles or Priests who were in the Church with a respectful bow.
With a hurried pace, they entered a side room which led to a lone set of stairs. Shutting the door left the transitory staircase entirely pitch black.
Merle led the way. Each step she took down the dark cobbled stairs was slow, smooth, and methodical. Vibrations wrung out from each one of her steps.
It was a code, a password. An intricate process of delicate manipulation of Mana and mastery of Metal magic.
Upon reaching the final step, light flooded the staircase as a wall slid open. The Ironhold headquarters.
Ronald, observing from the top of the stairs, began to walk down now that the way opened. As he was more intermediate in his skill with magic, it would take him much longer to perform the same feat—whereas Merle could perform the passcode with trained ease.
The Ironhold headquarters. A plethora of magic projections lined the walls of the stone cellar-like open space. A few Deacons—low-ranked individuals such as himself—manned the observation tools.
As Merle entered, the Deacons sitting in their chairs who dozed off snapped awake and looked busy, her presence alone informing them of their jobs, as if it had been engraved into them for many moons.
They spied on political and religious targets, informants, money moguls, politicians, and even mundane people adjacent to anti-Church activity.
Trackers, wiretaps, and video surveillance. They had it all.
The Ironhold quite literally held an iron grip on internal Human affairs, at least in the major cities. Such a secretive and delicate operation demanded a headcount only consisting of a few hundred.
Merle and Ronald proceeded on by, a collective sigh of relief spreading among the Deacons. However, they still felt anxious after seeing Ronald's grave expression.
The pair entered a silent meeting room. When Ronald entered, Merle slammed the door shut.
An intense glare commenced, with Ronald cracking as each moment passed.
He dropped to a knee.
"My deepest apologies, Archbishop," Ronald spewed as he pleaded. "I… I'm unsure of what came over me."
"You managed to be so woefully incompetent… to the point where I can't even muster the energy TO BE MAD AT YOU!"
Merle kicked a nearby wooden chair and snapped it like a twig as her mean face sneered.
Ronald's head lowered in response, though his obnoxious side couldn't help but note the contradiction between her words and actions.
"In all my decades in the Ironhold, NEVER have I seen such a colossal failure from a Field Operator," Merle derided. "You wanted the Luikots connection this badly? And this is what you show for it? Wearing the fucking Ironhold symbol openly, in public? Being so conspicuous to the point where a normal student can recognize you? Throwing a childish tantrum during the interrogation? Un-fucking-believable."
Ronald closed his eyes, lowering his head even further as he took each word like a gut punch. He would've liked nothing more than to defend himself.
He knew Mark di Abbott was abnormal. He has listened in on his conversation with Professor Everett—bits and pieces that sounded strange, outside of any normal conversation between a Vice-Principal and student, especially right after a crisis.
Not only that, but the tracker had been specially designed to get passed Everett's eyes. Without knowledge of the tracker's existence, she would've never noticed it.
The only unknown pointed to Mark. Strange occurrences appeared all around him.
Information of his past was barebones at best. His travel logs, legal troubles, his connection with Everett—and perhaps even the Principal himself—all signaled something deeper and malicious.
Worst of all was his connection to Ranni Luikots.
In a month, Mark had managed to become a close friend to Ranni Luikots. What took Ronald years to accomplish, completed in the blink of an eye.
Ronald's teeth gritted—his fists tightened in fury.
"Have something to say, boy?" Merle further belittled.
"No, Archbishop."
"Good," Merle changed gears. "I needn't remind you of the potential importance of this mission?"
"No, Archbishop."
"Hmph. You are lucky the Cardinal vouched for your track record," Merle scoffed. "And I needn't remind you that should you perform exceptionally, the Cardinal may benevolently allow you to be her suitor?"
"No, Archbishop," Ronald said, his confidence returning as he rose back up to his feet, staring into the eyes of his superior with an impassioned and determined gaze.
"Then get a fucking grip," Merle scowled. "Because that future is slipping out of your grasp. Now get the fuck out of my sight."