Chapter 13: The Shield of Cannor
“Daddy!” the little boy I hardly even know shouts, running up to me.
I stand there, trying to remember the last time I saw Vincen.
And my knees feel shaky as he grabs another boy and drags him with him.
“Adie, Adie!” he says, grabbing my legs. “This is Daddy!”
The other boy, a few years younger, looks up with a more hesitant, confused expression. And I realize I haven’t seen either of my boys since one could barely talk, and the other couldn’t even walk.
He grew up so big while I was away.
Vincen pulls his brother Adénn in, and I just stand there unsure what to do, what to say. I missed so much of their childhood.
But finally, hesitantly, almost skeptical of me, Adénn tries to hug me too.
I don’t so much as kneel down to hug them back as I do
collapse to my knees, wrapping them both up. “Heya, buddies. Been a while. I—” My voice cracks.
Someone laughs. The throaty, almost husky laugh I grew to love what feels like a lifetime ago. I look up and see Margery, as gorgeous as the day I met her, wearing that silly little crown I’d had made for her, and holding a daughter in her arms.
“Took you long enough, you big oaf,” she says.
I have… a daughter. A third child I never even knew about. Born during the war, and no one knew or told me.
I hug my boys until they’re squirming, and then rush over to hold my wife. I bring her tightly in my arms and kiss her.
The little girl she’s holding looks up at me, almost
offended. “Aaah!” she protests.
“What’s her name?” I ask softly.
Margery smiles and flicks me on the forehead. “Auci.”
“That’s a good, classic Damerian name.”
She sighs. “I know, and that’s my mistake. I
thought the only good thing finding out I was with child after you’d left was I’d be able to come up with a good name all on my own.”
I laugh, until it ends with almost a sniffle. “No, it’s perfect. She’s perfect. Our boys are perfect.
You are perfect.”
Margery looks away, trying not to blush. “I missed you.”
“You too, Margery.”
And as I hold her, my boys come back up to hug us both.
For a moment, there is nothing. Just me, my family, those I love—and no memories of war, death, my father, or anything.
A single island of calm content in the storm of death and despair I have brought into this world.
And holding them is all I can do to stop myself from bawling.
And Black Castanor collapses in our wake.
I lay in bed, somewhere I haven’t been in years, it feels like. Somewhere soft and warm with the woman I love in my arms. She rests her head on my chest as I run my fingers over her, tracing the outline of her body.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” Margery whispers.
I don’t interrupt her.
“Whiskeyjack and Bad-Hand returned, broken and bloodied. They helped hold the frontier. But they said you vanished. Took your army into the heart of darkness. No one had heard from you since you left.” She grabs my hand, nails digging into the flesh.
“I tried to stay strong. Wear this
stupid crown and be the
queen while you were gone,” she says. “But I thought you wouldn’t. I thought I was just faking it. Lying to our children that their Daddy was still out there.”
All I can do is wrap my arms around her.
“Promise me you won’t do that again.”
“I—” But words fail me.
She gives a sad, bitter little laugh. “Of course. Why am—why am I even surprised? I knew the risks when I married you. You don’t stop, Rogier. You can’t, can you?”
“No,” I breathe.
“Can’t you pretend, just for me?” she asks. “Just for a little while. Pretend like you’re happy. You’re satisfied. That the world is finally yours, and that you can relax and be my husband and
their father?”
“I can try.” And wonder if I’m lying.
Margery buries her face into my chest.
I broke the balance of power, and now Rogieria stands as the New Colossus.
I lie to my wife and family for only so many days. It feels like forever. Feels like I can’t sit still when I don’t know about the world outside, sticking to a happy, domestic life. I take my family out through the parks of Rogieria. On a carriage trip to Lake Silvermere. We sample the foods of Newshire and its halfling minority.
I teach Vincen how to fish, at least. I’m rusty, but I remember how to do it. Little Auci just stares wide-eyed at the world and clutches to her mother. Slightly bigger Erlas gets lost trying to climb trees.
It lasts entirely too long for me.
Entirely too short for everyone else.
Before I know it, the crown is back on my head and I’m sitting in the Rogieran throne room, with Margery beside me. The blue military uniform that’s become my outfit of choice since the war feels like the only thing I can wear anymore.
“Welcome back, your grace,” Finn says with a smile, adjusting his glasses.
Sina Necropolis sits back, hand over his mouth. He meets my eyes and we exchange a nod.
There’s others in the privy council I don’t recognize. New blood since the war, or replacements for those like Laurenne who died to the undead.
The post-war situation of the world.
I shattered Black Castanor. Its armies evaporated as the dead collapsed and their forces retreated. The Witch-Emperor died. And the oppressed people under its rule rose up with our help.
It’s a New Escann. And in it, we are its mightiest nation.
Of the new lands we annexed, they are mostly a wasteland. Empty forests the Gerudians cleared of people, rich in sources, but depopulated. Not an orc, half-orc, or even a goblin anywhere north of our pre-war borders.
The Gerudians remaining in our borders were mostly freemen farmers and lumberjacks, with no love for the Ebonfrost kings. And while the Ebonfrost dynasty still rules the rump state of Olavlund, these people are willing to swear loyalty to the Rogieran crown.
That’s priority one. Establish control over the north, consolidate our gains, and cement Rogieria's power over Escann now and forever.
We slaughtered scores of them, but like the orcs, if they serve the crown, we have no problem with them in theory. We enable them to stay, though make no efforts to hide we’ll be settling empty lands with Damerian settlers and working to convert the “Black Castanorians” away from their heathen faith.
Then, it’s simply a matter of building up local infrastructure and fortifications. To restore the legendary Castanorian citadel of Bal Mire.
And with that, our meeting concludes. I retire with Margery.
Tomorrow we get up early to go north, to see the land now cleared of the undead, and lay the groundwork for a stronger Rogieria.
It’s just business. It’s that cold certainty of progress and expansion I feel so at home with.
Margery gives me a look before we go.
And I suggest we take our children. She smiles at the suggestion, as we take the princes and princess around the country.
As we build a new bulwark in the north, it seems the post-war borders were not enough to bring peace. We need defenses more than ever.
In ages past, Bal Mire was one of the wonders of the most ancient Cannor. Bal Vroren, Bal Dostan, Bal Mire, the White Walls of Castanor, and the North Citadel. The dwarf, Balgar the Builder, had built them to assist the humans of Castanor, acts of such architectural brilliance that he ascended to godhood after his death.
The dwarves still revere him. Those who hold to the Cannorian pantheon, at least.
Nowadays, however?
I had been there and ordered the cannons that
destroyed the North Citadel, reducing it to ruin and rubble. Bal Dostan is in the hands of Corvuria to the south, marking the borders between themselves and our Estaire. Bal Vroren was held by orcs, Black Castanor, and now by whatever rebels took it.
Bal Mire is half-sunk into the mud after millennia. Empires holding it have built and rebuilt upon its sturdy foundations.
Vincen plays on the stones as Margery chases after him to get him to stop risking his life on the old ruins.
I work with the royal engineers to study Bal Mire’s designs, and then improve it with modern technology. To turn this place into the new shield of Cannor.
We restore the fortress. And then take its lesson north, to build our own Castanorian Citadel all our own.
I name it Adennthíl, a good elven term. “The Tower of Adénn,” after my great grandfather. It is proof Rogieria can learn from the past, improve upon it, and make our own future.
Absolute control over Escann. This is Rogieria’s destiny.
Strange sensation. The war is over, but I still feel like all I’m doing is preparing for the next one. Rebuilding broken Escann and settling it with loyalists. Restore the army to what it once was.
We lost so many men in the war. So many who came back to kill their brothers.
Sometimes, even when I’m with Margery and our children, I close my eyes and think back to that soldier screaming, crying, and laughing as he asked me why. I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t know how to
feel about it.
Words feel… somehow inadequate. It’s like the only thing I can do is double-down
Throw myself harder than ever into repairing the damage of our war against evil. To prepare for some future war, defend against it, and ready the offensive.
Sina Necropolis and the others are there to help. We learned many lessons from the war. The value of gunfire and cannons.
Our most elite army of Rogieria, the pride of all Cannor.
I take Margery and Vincen with me. Sometimes our other children, when I feel it appropriate. As if showing them off to the nation, the new Silmunas our nation serves, will help somehow.
But I think, as I attend parades, as I oversee expansion of barracks and regimental towns, the reformation of the army and its engineers, it’s just because I don’t want to leave those I love alone for too long.
I’m in my forties now. I don’t feel like a “Young Owl” anymore. Sometimes Margery talks to me, and I just phase out, lost in thought about what I’m going to do tomorrow. I smile, I nod, I take my tea, and I just think of tomorrow.
It’s like time is running out on me. A looming sense of
something I should be doing, but am not.
I don’t know what it is.
I bury myself in my work to keep those thoughts at bay.
Inspire the troops by leading from the front.
Some of that work is not just my soldiers. It is tending to my people. My Sons of Dameria. I have rebuilt this nation as best I can. We are a New Dameria, and this shall be my legacy.
It feels hollow to say. More platitudes than anything of substance and meaning.
So much of what I do either feels cold and gray, or like I’m not doing
enough.
There’s hardly a middle ground. And I think I’d go insane if not for Margery by my side, and the way our children play and learn and grow up around us.
What
is Rogieria?
There’s probably something philosophical in it. But I feel more like I’m just going down a checklist. Settling questions I don’t care to answer anymore.
Slotting the puzzle together to fit what Rogieria must be for the Silmuna legacy. For my children. For those ones who died along the way, like Roger the Exile or Adénn Skylance.
I had a dream once, many years ago. Maybe it was just from the stress of my new crown. But I recall thinking I was able to speak to my namesake, and he told me a phrase that kept sticking with me. It was something he was, apparently, fond of saying in his more grim moments.
A new world will be born from the graves and charnel pits.
But I’ve seen the graves. I’ve dug the charnel pits. And then I killed whatever miserable abomination of flesh, bone, and black magic had crawled out from them.
In the end, I suppose, Rogieria is whatever I make of it. Whatever I set my mind to it being. A home for Damerians, Adenner, elves, half-elves, civilized orcs, my half-orc kin, Black Castanorians who swear to serve, and even a token few halflings in Newshire.
L’Escann c’est moi.
“The army is back up to snuff,” sina Necropolis says, idly twirling a pen in his hands as today’s meeting comes to a close. “Losses recouped. Garrisons and control points established over the North. I think on that front, we’ve rebuilt and gotten even stronger.”
“And the north is firmly under our control,” Finn says. He takes a sip of his tea.
Other members of the privy council talk of our successful domestic policy. Trade routes are a big thing, since our domination of the region means all trade in and out of Escann must come through Rogieria or her subjects. Diplomatic relations with our Escanni neighbors are surprisingly high, with many still seeing us as liberators, the heroes who single-handedly defeated the New Black Castanor.
Doesn’t really feel heroic to me. Just—it was something I had to do.
“I believe with this all squared away,” Finn adds, “we can call an early close of today’s affairs. Unless anyone has anything else they wish to bring up?”
I sit there and lean forwards, trying to think. My mind runs empty. Hits a walls. My eyes go this way and that, trying to dig through the scattered garments of my head to assemble some kind of reasonable attire from them. Something
more to do.
Margery reaches and puts her hand over mine. “Yes, actually,” she says, smiling at me. “We’ve seen to the North, but I’d like to bring our attention back to Farraneán.”
“Your grace?” Finn asks.
I hold her hand.
“In Anbennar, there’s an Esmari custom along one of its rivers. They take barges down the river, from duchy to duchy, celebrating trade and fashion. I’ve always admired it. With the other half of this kingdom properly restored, I believe we should establish our own version of it. Along the Cogaulúis River, to properly celebrate the rebirth of my own as an integral part of this new Dameria. What do you say, Rogier?”
I nod. “I’ll—Finn, we should get to work on that. Food, wine, barges, a river schedule.” I put my hands together. “To remind the people of why our rule is just and have fun doing it.”
Between the East Damerians of Rogieria and Núrcestir, Damerians have become the largest ethnic group in Escann, followed by our loyal Farrani.
The largest barge of the Cogaulúis fleet finally kicks off, joining the others down the largest river running through Farraneán. It had been good, solid work to get there. But now as music plays from the boats, and fireworks light up the sky above us, I get that itching feeling in my skin and behind my eyes. Like the jitters from drinking far,
far too much tea.
It stopped feeling like work to get here, and back to just… relaxing. Resting on my laurels when I could be doing
something.
I close my eyes and think of nearly puking from exhaustion in Inner Castanor. Men forced to kill their undead brothers. The desperate massacre of the Gerudians to search for the phylactery.
“Grandpa!” Vincen shouts, and my eyes snap open.
Martin síl na Eán looks so much older than last I saw him, his brown hair and beard have turned mostly gray. But his face seems so young as it lights up, as he falls to one knee to grab Vincen and Adénn in his arms. “There you are!” he says, bringing them both into his arms. “I’ve missed you both. How have you been?”
“They’ve
mostly been behaving,” Margery says, still holding little Auci. No longer an infant, the little princess still demands to be carried everywhere if possible.
“Well, how do you do, your grace?” Martin says with a laugh, reaching out to touch Auci’s hand.
Auci scowls at him and buries her face in her mother. Everyone laughs, and the excited conversations between doting grandfather and grandchildren start up. If you didn’t know I was their father, you’d think it was just a perfectly normal human family.
I don’t know why that thought hits me now of all times. Maybe because last time I’d really seen Martin, that old sense of being an
other marrying his daughter had been on my mind.
Martin looks up to see me. His expression is curious at first, before he smiles. Too slow to be
genuinely happy to see me. “Your grace, my son-in-law!” he says.
“That’s Daddy!” Vincen says proudly, as if Martin doesn’t know.
“Yes, yes,” Martin says warmly, walking up to me as my sons tug at his pants for attention and more of the little pieces of candy he has. “Please, your grace, how are you finding Farrani foods? That is good Farrani wine in your cup. I brought out the best and oldest in Valefort’s cellars for you!”
I look down at my goblet. It’s not wine. It’s sour grape juice, not that anyone knows. I just… I’m still wearing that military uniform. I can’t ignore the weight of the brace of pistols I’m hiding under my coat, as if I came here to murder my father-in-law. I could probably even do it, right here and now, says an intrusive voice as I look into his smiling face. Gun him down in front of everyone and claim I had a reason. My rule is strong enough it’d only be a minor scandal. Margery would hate me, but if I wanted to I could have everyone here killed. Probably do it myself.
Intrusive, intrusive!
What was I thinking before? Oh, right. The alcohol. My problem is, the idea of dulling my senses when someone could
need me for any reason—it makes my skin itch.
“I
thought there was something special in this, Martin,” I say through a fake smile.
“Ah,” he says, holding up a finger and winker, “it must be your Silmuna’s famous sense of taste.”
“Sure, let’s go with that.”
Margery takes her father by the arm. “Dad, c’mon. Let’s mingle with the rest of our esteemed guests. Let my husband enjoy our restored kingdom together.”
I watch them leave. I watch my wife mingling with the guests from Esmaria, old Dameria, the borderlands. Showing off her dress, products of her home, and most proudly our children to diplomats, distinguished nobility, merchants, generals—just everyone.
When no one is looking, I pour my grape juice overboard and just…
Feel like I’m not doing enough.
An integral part of Rogieria, our spear against the traitors of Anbennar, and our economic highway to the rest of the world!
[These big story events apply to so, so many provinces I can’t bother to share. But, they’re big, powerful, and important.]
I’m almost grateful, in the end. The people cheer. It starts at our barge, and then spreads to the others. I can even hear people who couldn’t have heard me on the sides of the river, whooping and hollering just to be part of this
whatever I’ve declared.
It’s over. I don’t have any more needed role here.
I sit down in the gauche little throne at the stern of the barge. My fingers twitch each time a firework goes over, and there’s so many of them. I think back to blowing the Throne of the Sorcerer-King. To the spell-muffled cannons of Castan Ebonfront. I think about a lot of things, until I realize I’m fingering the weapons under my coat.
Margery sits down on the arm of my chair. She gives me a long, skeptical look, until it hits me she wants me to wrap my arm around her waist and pull her in.
It doesn’t seem to make her happy. “What are you doing here, Rogier?”
“Enjoying the show,” I say mildly.
“No, I mean—
here,” she says, gesturing at the little pavilion. “All alone. I can’t do all of this socializing myself before I burn out. Dad’s helping, and the kids are a riot enough to distract people. But you’re the
king; introducing yourself and rubbing elbows with our guests is probably the biggest reason why anyone came here tonight. Why don’t you go make that silver tongue of yours useful and network with those who came to see you?”
“And here I thought that was your second favorite thing I could do with my tongue,” I say.
Margery question. “You’re trying to avoid the question.”
“Maybe.”
She sighs, resting her head on my shoulder. “What’s wrong, Rogier?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Rogier, you
promised. You
promised you wouldn’t do this kind of thing alone again. That you’d
tell me whatever was wrong, so we could work through it together. Look around us.” She points at this, at that, at nothing. Until she grabs my head, head still resting on me. Almost nuzzling in her own way.“This was a wasteland when we married. Now it’s a bustling, thriving heartland. It’s all I ever wanted, and you helped me build it. Now let me be your
partner and help you in return.”
“I…” …have nothing to say. I open my mouth, feel a cold sense of indignation, and realize it’s directed at the woman who loves me. The feeling washes away into a dark pit somewhere inside. I feel the weight of the weapons I’m carrying. The warmth of her body. “…okay.”
“Okay?” she asks, head perking up.
“Yeah. Okay,” I say quietly. “Just—not here. Not right now. In the open where anyone could hear us.”
Margery sucks on her lip, almost disapprovingly. “I’ll allow it—on one condition.”
“That being?”
She gets to her feet, pulling me up by the hand. “That you make an
effort tonight to help me with all of these diplomats. I met some interesting people I want you to meet later. But right now, I
need your help with all of them.”
“It’s a deal.”
Art and news from explorers who’ve crossed the sea to the lost elven homeland of Aelantir.
We speak with artists and diplomats. We learn of news from across the sea, something I’d only half-paid attention to in years prior. Sailors and explorers who used the latest ships to cross the great sea to rediscover the ancient elven homeland, and to plunder and explore the ruins of the Precursor Elf civilization.
They say this old land, this Aelantir, is inhabited by entirely mortal “elves who are not quite elves.” Strange mutant creatures and horrors. Forests that bleed. Things with the faces of leeches guiding horrors in forbidden swamps. Plants that grow into people to control their bodies and minds.
So some interesting art about Castellos, King of the Regent Court, probably doesn’t mean too much.
Adopting the newest ideas from the guests along our river barges.
It’s all very interesting stuff, I suppose. I smile. I talk. I grease elbows.
But none of it is really applicable to Rogieria in any way besides fascinating trivia and a few new methods of trade and transportation. It does help us stay on top of the technological curve over all of Cannor, at least.
And meanwhile, our own impressive court personnel assist Margery and me.
“What about those special guests you wanted me to meet?” I ask.
Margery stays on my arm. “Later, Rogier. Later. Not on this barge.”
Our administrators and leaders do their own work, impressing the guests.
And like that, it’s over. It ends. The barges get to the end of our section of the Cogaulúis and we disembark. Martin is practically in tears as having to leave his grandchildren behind. It’s almost endearing, in a weird kind of way.
For a moment, I wonder if my own grandmother, Eilís the Blue would have loved me if she met me. I doubt the man who
took her would have cared.
It’s whatever. I gather my family up, ensure the guests are sufficiently partied out, and make arrangements to return home to the city of Rogieria. We arrive late at night and put the children to bed.
And then it’s just me, and it’s just Margery. She changes into nightwear and just sits at the edge of the bed, head propped up on her elbows, looking at me. I sit beside her and sigh. She gives me space. She gives me time. And I love her all the more for it, and search for the right words.
“It’s not enough,” I say at length. “It will never be enough, I think. Everything I have done. Everything we have done. I went from some second son in Corintar to the most powerful man probably in the world. But…” I shake my head, sucking on my lips. “I still feel
terrible when I’m not doing something. The idea that a man like me, after all I’ve done, can just
rest.”
I swallow. “I feel the past looming closer than ever. The reaper on my heels. It is a feeling like… descending into a mouth, y’know? This hot, slavering mouth smelling of meat and the corpses of those who died for me along the way. Sometimes I close my eyes and see them. I see this soldier whose name I never learned, sobbing and asking me why he had to kill his own little brother in my war. I see the excited faces of our children, as I realize they’ve grown up practically without me. I see what you and I have done, and can only think of a monument to my failures.”
Margery takes my head and leans against me. Neither of us say anything for the longest time.
“It’s like when we met. You remember that?” she asks. “This nervous-looking half-orc king. I remember the first time I saw you, you were speaking to an orcish servant in his own language. You were angry at his bondage. You said if you could have the power to change the world, you’d do it. You’d use it to change the world. To make it a better place. And then you
did it. But it’s not enough for you, is it?”
I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “Because when I look in the mirror, I still see the kid whose father ignored him all day because his older brother was better with a bow. And I feel so
selfish and
greedy and
pathetic, because I know the great deeds we’ve done, and I don’t feel like I have the right to feel sorry for myself.”
“Because you see a way out.”
Again, I shake my head. “I don’t see a way out, Margery. I see a way
through. The same as that young king planning late in the throne room, studying books and maps, making war plans, writing letters to your father, building armies and destroying nations. I have spent so much of my life as
Rogier Silmuna, the Young Owl, that I don’t know how to be anyone else. Sometimes I feel as though the
Young Owl is chasing someone else’s dream, but it’s all I know anymore. All I can do. The only time I feel I have a purpose.”
“And it’s like the moment you stop, the moment you allow yourself to be human and relax, it’ll all come crashing down.”
“Yeah,” I breathe.
Margery squeezes my hand. “Just my luck, to fall in love with the greatest workaholic in all Halann.”
“Mhm.”
She sighs. “You promised to talk to me when you felt this way. Just like I promised to always be there for you, Rogier. Whatever you feel you have to do, I’ll be there with you, making sure it works, goes off without a hitch. Your dream is my dream.”
“And what if my dreams were never mine to begin with?”
Margery kisses my check. “Then once we fulfill that dream, I’m dragging your ass on a real vacation and we can figure out what your own original dreams are, Rogier.”
Whose dreams am I even following anymore?
It’s the next night, and I am alone in the throne room. Myself, the map of Rogieria, and the candlelight.
Before me is my legacy. The one people like Finn had put upon me since I was a boy, since I tried to leave Lothane’s shadow.
I wonder what Father’s up to these days. He’s still alive, I know for a fact. He stepped down as the leader of the Corintar, and I chose not to follow that up.
I take a deep breath.
Rogieria. From the Vrorenmarch to Ibevar to Estaire. This is my legacy. This is what my choices have given birth to. The mightiest nation in the world, its most veteran army, its richest lands, its most prestigious crown. The legacy of the Silmunas.
I’ve done more in my life than some kid from Corintar had any right to.
I am the King of Rogiera, of Adenica and Farraneán, of the New Dameria, of the West. But, that’s just the West of Escann.
These are my works.
And I don’t believe it will ever be enough.
I’ve lived out someone’s fantasy. I’ve accomplished someone’s dream.
Just—sometimes I wonder whose it is.
And I go to bed with that question unanswered.
But at least I have Margery and my family to help me see whatever dream
I have to the end.
[Thus ends the first part of the Rogieran mission tree, and we get our first Silmuna Legacy bonus]
Two men stand before the Rogieran throne in the morning. Well, a man and a dwarf.
“Rogier,” Margery says with an almost wicked grin. “I wanted to introduce you to two very important people I met during our time on the Cogaulúis River: Alain síl Crowne and Thorin Forgehammer, from Damescrown and Silverforge respectively.”
Both men get down on a knee to greet me in an official capacity.
Finn finally enters the throne room for our morning business, and just pauses there. He looks like he’s not sure if he should be here or not.
I give Margery a confused look, before raising my hand. “Please, gentlemen, stand. We are all friends here. Why, however, do you come all this way to Rogieria?”
“Begging His Majesty’s pardon this morning, King Rogier Silmuna,” the Forgehammer says, his voice so overly formal I need to struggle not to wince.
I click my tongue. “Dispense with the formalities and titles. If you have business, get to it.”
“Right, your grace,” síl Crowne says, one hand behind his back. “Anbennar is a mess, and we can no longer tolerate the abuses of the Wexonard emperor.”
“Weren’t your nations members of the Rose Party?” I ask. “Friends and allies of Wex.”
“Fifty, sixty years ago maybe,” the dwarf says, running his hand through his beard. “I can remember it. Not many else can. And certainly not the emperor himself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
Standing behind the men to present them, Margery’s expression is so downright
malicious I actually feel uncomfortable.
“It’s like this, your grace,” síl Crowne says. “Síl Wex must go. They’re bad for business, and subpar at pretty much everything they touch.”
“So…?”
Forgehammer scoffs. “Balgar’s Blood—we need your help to get rid of the Wexonards bastards. Who else to replace him but the rightful Silmunas once again?”
Margery, you gorgeous bitch, you’ve done it again!
