The Primate entered the room and gazed around him, finally looking out of the large window, where at Melovar's request the panes could be opened. Living in a mountain as he did, the Primate had always had a head for heights, and he took pleasure in the small amount of discomfort it brought visitors when he opened the glass wide, exposing the void. He walked over now and opened the latch, pinning the window open. Instantly the howling wind hit his face with a blast. Down below, he could see the town of Salvation, and imagined the little people, squabbling and scraping together whatever existence they could.

This view always made him think about the people below. Melovar knew within his soul that the system of houses was wrong. What real advances had been made in the centuries of the Tingaran Empire's existence? Was lore a tool, or a crutch?

The Assembly had no lore, no Lexicon, no market house in Seranthia. The templars were the best placed to lead the world in this brave, new direction, and with no more essence, change would be inevitable. But would it be a uniting of peoples, or would it be the change that came through squabbling, fighting and rebellion? The Tingaran Empire was dead, the Emperor was gone, and what came next could either be a hundred years of chaos, or an eternity of unity.

The Primate turned away from the window. A templar and a priest stood silently just inside the entrance to his work room. The anger returned.

"Why are there two of you?"

The templar, a tall man with a sword at his side, spoke first. "Your Grace, we weren't sure what you would ask. Father Pristin here was closer to the refinery. I'm in charge of the Pinnacle and I was one of the first on the scene there."

"You," the Primate said, looking at the templar. "What did you see when you arrived at the Pinnacle?"

"It was as you see it now, Your Grace," the templar said evenly.

"No different? So you saw nothing."

"The pilgrims who were there had fled, most likely when they heard the first explosions. One old pilgrim was crushed beneath some stones."

"If only he had survived to talk," Melovar muttered.

The templar opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Your… Your Grace. The pilgrim. He did survive."

Primate Melovar's eyebrows shot up. "Why am I only hearing this now?"

"He's old, and he was injured, but he survived." The templar began to sweat. Even the priest looked fearful. "But… Your Grace. He's mad. You know how they can be. He speaks no sense. At any rate, I can take you to him. I didn't let him go, I sent him to one of the dungeons in Salvation."

Melovar felt the elixir flowing through his veins, and the blood throbbing in his head. He reached out and took the templar by the neck in his right hand.