Chapter 53: The Weight of Words

Tension clung to the air like frost in the dead of winter. The street had grown deathly quiet, with only the labored breaths of the frightened mother and her two children filling the silence. Tache stood firm, his blades resting casually on his shoulders, but his stance radiated coiled aggression. Selyse’s grip on her lance was taut, her jaw clenched. Even Ralnor, usually an immovable wall, shifted slightly, ready for any sign of violence.

Dorian, sensing the fragile edge of the moment, stepped forward, lute slung across his back like an afterthought. His voice was soft but carried a persuasive weight.

“Let’s not spill blood over misunderstanding,” Dorian began, his charm tempered with sincerity. Turning to the disarmed apprentice paladin, he asked gently, “Why must the boy lose his hand? Surely, there’s a reason beyond… tradition?”

The young paladin, his face flushed with humiliation and indoctrination, barked, “It is Lord Devon’s command!” His voice cracked slightly, betraying the rigid confidence he tried to maintain.

Tache snorted with disdain. “No point talking to someone who’s been brainwashed since they could crawl.”

But Dorian wasn’t ready to give up. He took a calming breath, his usual playful smirk replaced by genuine curiosity. He shifted his gaze to the bishop—Devon—whose smug expression seemed carved from stone.

“Your Excellency,” Dorian said smoothly, with an exaggerated bow, “forgive my ignorance. But I must ask—what grave sin did this child commit to warrant such… righteous fury?”

Bishop Devon sneered, his face twisted with disgust. “This filthy child ripped my holy robe with his disease-ridden heretic hands!”

For a moment, Dorian was stunned speechless. Blinking slowly, he finally managed to mutter, “Wow.”

But he recovered quickly, flashing his signature grin. “If you’d allow, perhaps we can clarify things before resorting to… amputations?”

Without waiting for permission, Dorian knelt beside the sniffling boy, placing a comforting hand on his small shoulder.

“Hey there, little knight,” Dorian whispered softly. “Can you tell me what happened? No rush—I’m here to help, okay?”

The boy’s tear-filled eyes darted around nervously, too shaken to respond. But then, a small tug at Dorian’s sleeve drew his attention downward.

The boy’s younger sister, her face still innocent and untroubled by the severity of the situation, piped up sweetly, “My brother didn’t mean it. We were playing knights, and he tripped with his stick. It wasn’t on purpose.”

Her honesty was disarming. Dorian gave her a gentle pat on the head. “Thank you, brave squire.”

Standing, Dorian walked to the middle of the standoff, inspecting the so-called ‘damage.’ The tear in the bishop’s robe was barely noticeable—less than a centimeter long, barely more than a thread’s width.

“It’s… not even that big,” Dorian said, squinting at it. He meant it as an observation, but the words came out too candidly.

Bishop Devon’s face turned an alarming shade of red. “HOW DARE YOU?!” he roared, spittle flying.

Dorian winced. “Ah, poor choice of words…” He tried to smooth things over, but every polite phrase he attempted only seemed to stoke Devon’s fury further.

The bishop’s rant escalated into a tirade of divine retribution and self-important bluster. The crowd watched in growing discomfort, whispers spreading like wildfire.

Just as the situation teetered on the brink of violence, a calm, authoritative voice sliced through the chaos.

“Excuse me.”

The crowd parted, revealing the old man Dorian had met earlier. His demeanor had shifted entirely—gone was the gentle, amiable guide. In his place stood someone with an air of undeniable authority. His posture was regal, his eyes sharp with command.

Striding confidently into the center of the conflict, he smiled at Dorian and casually handed him Regis’ reins.

“Hold this, newcomer,” he said with an amused glint in his eye.

Then, turning to the bishop, his voice boomed with practiced authority. “What is the Church of the Twelve doing in my territory?”

Dorian blinked, caught completely off guard. “Wait… old man, what’s your name?”

The man smiled faintly. “Halrik. Halrik Vareth.”

A ripple of recognition swept through the crowd. Some townsfolk sighed in relief, others straightened their posture with newfound respect.

Selyse chuckled under her breath. “Took you long enough, old man.”

Tache smirked. “Still owe me a drink, Halrik.”

Meanwhile, Dorian’s expression remained frozen—a mixture of shock and disbelief.

“You’re the viscount?” he muttered incredulously.

Viscount Halrik turned back to the bishop, his tone now cold and razor-sharp. “Now, Bishop Devon, as I recall, the only reason you’re here is because of my agreement with the Church to oversee the construction of your temple. A formality, really.”

Devon, his earlier confidence faltering, stammered, “Y-yes, of course. But this child—”

Halrik raised a hand, silencing him effortlessly. “I see now that I was mistaken in allowing the Church a foothold here.” His gaze hardened. “Perhaps my mind has grown old, but I had forgotten—” He glanced at the crowd. “—that the Twelve are not gods of the north. The old gods were enough for our ancestors, and they’re enough for us.”

The bishop sputtered, but Halrik wasn’t finished.

“As of today, our agreement is void. The Church of the Twelve will have no authority here. You will pack your belongings and leave by sundown.”

The priests behind Devon began to panic, whispering urgently. One of them leaned close, urging the bishop to reconsider.

But Halrik’s next words left no room for negotiation.

“Take whatever compensation you feel owed from my treasury. But if I see even one priest wearing white and gold after sundown…” His hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword. “…I’ll assume the old gods require a sacrifice.”

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Bishop Devon, his face pale and twisted with rage, had no choice but to retreat, his entourage scurrying after him.

As the crowd dispersed, Tache clapped Halrik on the back. “Now that’s how you de-escalate a situation.”

Dorian grin. “You know, for an old man, you’ve got excellent timing.”

Halrik chuckled. “I do my best, bard. Now, how about that drink?”