On the first tier, an elder matriarch came forward. Silver coiled at her crown. Hands that had counted votes at every Council assembly for three centuries. She was already on her knees by the time she lifted her face.

"Holy Son. The Council that did this to our Queen and to the people you cherish, we chose them. House by house. Matron by matron. Seal by seal. When they asked for our votes, we gave them."

Her forehead found the wood.

"The blood is on our hands as much as theirs. Forgive us, son of the First Elf. Let us wash it off the way your mother would want it washed, for this cannot stand."

Across the way, Saelrin Ther’vaen sank to her knees where she stood. The sword had come free of its sheath before she’d decided to draw it.

"Holy Son. Name the hour and we march."

An elder of the shrines: "Let Luminara’s son lead us, and we will tear the Council out of its hall by the roots!"

A younger matron, tears running unchecked: "Sever their bloodlines for this heresy! Let every daughter born of a Council matron carry the mark of her mother’s shame until the end of the Eternal Forest."

"WE MARCH!"

"CAST THEM TO THE SOIL!"

"FORGIVE US, HOLY SON!"

The cries overlapped across the tiers.

Aewyn’s forehead had gone to the wood of her railing before she understood she’d moved.

"Forgive us..."

She heard her voice among the thousand others.

"...forgive us."

He held the silence a moment.

Then he began to descend.

The air around him let him down slowly, past the third tier. He spoke as he came.

"You ask for my forgiveness, yet I know nothing that needs forgiving. People are prone to corruption, especially when they live such long lives as your councilwomen. You’ve done nothing wrong."

The chanting did not stop.

"Forgive us, Holy Son..."

"Forgive us..."

He descended past the second tier, then the first. The birds on his pauldrons did not stir.

His boots touched the wood of the root-plaza.

He sighed.

"Fine. I ask that you help me rescue Queen Myrasyn and my cherished ally, and to take revenge for the betrayal. Then we can forget all this nonsense and start anew."

Hearing those words, the plaza surged.

Grief broke into song. Praises for his benevolence rang from the upper tiers; war cries swearing their blades to him rose from the lower.

He let it go on for a while. Then he raised his gauntlet.

"Before any marching..."

The tiers quieted.

"...we should notify the other cities, should we not?"

The answer came back from a hundred directions at once.

"Yes!"

"Our sisters deserve to know!"

"They cannot live in the lie!"

"My daughter is in Aelmarith! She must see the Holy Son with her own eyes!"

"Velastrinne must hear!"

"Send runners to every shrine!"

A young maiden near Aewyn was tugging at her mother’s sleeve and demanding to be sent as a messenger. Her mother was shushing her and weeping simultaneously.

Aewyn found her voice at last.

"Holy Son. The magistrates’ terrace stands ready. Give me the hour and I will have every ranking house in Sylvaenor dispatched to the other cities. Every city will know."

He looked at her. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

The warmth reaching her deepened. She felt it on her skin.

"That would be appreciated, Magistrate."

Aewyn bowed.

Behind her, Sylvaenor was already moving.

...

Quinlan let the root-plaza’s noise wash past him.

Every tier of Sylvaenor was churning. Young girls clung to their mothers’ hands and shouted to be sent as messengers. Old grannies were on their knees still weeping into their sleeves. Warriors drew blades and looked for directions.

He kept his helm pointed forward.

’Yeah, I may have slightly finessed that one.’

The "wanting to help my Mother’s people" opening had been generous. To put it politely. He’d entered the Elvardian deal because he needed them to help him farm the cities, back then he was too weak to break through the barriers Alexios and his nobles kept erecting.

The dwarves became his siege engineers, the undead his sacrificial footsoldiers, and the elves his scouts.

It was the perfect deal and he signed up with a giant smirk on his lips.

The "sought out her descendants" framing made it sound like a pilgrimage. It had been a business decision with a side of curiosity.

’Lumi is going to find out about this, isn’t she.’

He could picture it already. His mother would get about one look at him, and pinch both his cheeks hard enough to stretch them. Then the pout would come out. Full arsenal. Lower lip out, eyes shiny, arms crossed under her bust.

’Ten seconds of that and I cave. Maybe twelve if I brace for it.’

A big hug would fix it. It always fixed it. He’d apologize, she’d sigh, she’d call him her troublesome boy, he’d promise to be better, and they’d move on.

’Problem solved.’

’Lilyanna, on the other hand...’

The Goddess of Thalorind was going to snitch for sure. She was probably already drafting a formal complaint to his mother about the Evil Boy manipulating her descendants through selective autobiography. He needed airtight reasoning before he saw Lumi again.

He considered the angles.

Was it manipulation, technically? Sure. Had anyone been hurt? No. Had the outcome served the greater good, including the rescue of their own Queen from a coup led by traitors? Absolutely. And was embellishment a real crime when every word out of his mouth had been factually accurate, just... flattered in the framing?

’That one might actually hold.’

He filed it away. If Lilyanna ran to his mother with the full accusation, he’d at least have a counter-defense ready.

Then a soft chime rang behind his eyes.

[New class unlocked: Cultist]

’...Seriously? This makes my case a bit harder to defend, doesn’t it...?’

A window opened at the edge of his vision.

[Name: Cultist]

[Class Tier: Common]

[A class granted to those who have inspired fervent devotion in a mass of followers. The Cultist fights through the fervor of their flock, sustaining themselves on the faith of their believers.]

[Key Traits:]

[〉 Channel Faith — Buff and empower your devout followers through shared conviction.]

[〉 Exalted Presence — Your presence strengthens believers within a wide radius.]

[〉 Sustain the Faithful — Heal and fortify your congregation through prayer.]

[Class Restriction: The Cultist’s personal power stems not from the self, but from the faith of others. All personal stats are locked to 10.]

’Fuck no.’

He dismissed the prompt without a second thought.

Then Quinlan froze.

The notification had used the word "unlocked." The class was already his.

’Oh shit.’

Did that mean...?

He yanked his status screen into view.

[Name: Quinlan Elysiar]

[Race: Primordial]

[Level: 52. XP: 50,147,823 / 64,730,799]

[Health Points: 3300]

[Mana Points: 3919]

[Vitality: 220]

[Strength: 164]

[Agility: 174]

[Magic: 262]

He read the numbers.

He read them again.

’...thank the Goddess’s sexy lacy panties.’

A low, delighted purr unspooled in his skull.

<Those panties most certainly deserve every syllable of praise, my adorable Ruin~> Nyxara purred. <Yet I do believe I am owed a little adoration myself, don’t you think?>

<...did you do something?>

<Mm. The moment that nasty class came to you, I blocked its passive effect. As long as you refrain from casting a single Cultist spell, the restriction stays contained, much as our cute little Mimi keeps the Seed of Corruption from erupting.>

A pause.

<So... are you still dissatisfied with my recent contributions, my love?>

Quinlan exhaled slowly into his helm.

<You’re the best.>

<Hehehe~>

The purr melted back into whatever corner of his soul realm she currently occupied.

...

Runners left Sylvaenor in every direction. Shrine maidens sprinted down root-paths only elves could walk, low-level girls rode mounts that had not been saddled in a century, and warrior-captains shouted the names of distant cities at their sisters before watching them move out.

The news spread.

And at that same hour, scattered across the continent, a select few of Quinlan’s allies were arriving at their destinations.