The inn was a palace masquerading as a business. From the polished obsidian steps at the entrance to the faint lavender scent laced into the wall sconces, it declared itself clearly: "You don't belong here unless someone paid a great deal for you to."

Trulda walked straight in anyway.

She'd been here before, twice, maybe three times. The concierge didn't stop her. They recognized her by now. The girl in the form of a teenager who had the walk of someone used to handling property disputes that were older than most adventurers.

Suite Twelve was at the far end of the top floor. She knocked once. The door clicked open on its own. A subtle enchantment. Nothing showy, but just enough to signal prestige.

Inside, the lighting was low and warm, mimicking late afternoon sun. Long curtains framed arched windows. A small fire danced in a cozy hearth.

Franziskus Karlsberg, the arcane bard reclined near the balcony, his ornate wheelchair positioned so the sunlight fell across his pale hands and glittered in his rings. He wore what could best be described as aristocratic stage wear: soft silks, a half-cape draped across one shoulder, and a peacock feather tucked into his hairband. His hurdy-gurdy rested nearby, nestled in a velvet-lined case.

Opposite him, in a high-backed chair, sat William. As always, he wore a long, dark coat that didn't quite fit any fashion trend. His age remained anyone's guess. He looked like someone cast in a mystery play.

William looked up from his drink. "You're earlier than expected."

"I would've been here an hour ago, if I hadn't had to argue with a quartermaster about a miscounted crate of enchanted boar tusks," Trulda said, brushing nonexistent dust from her sleeves as she entered. "But I suppose bureaucracy must never be rushed, lest it lose its fangs."

Karlsberg chuckled softly. "Ah, Trulda. The only person I know who can insult an entire profession while sounding like she's giving a compliment."

Trulda took the open seat without waiting to be offered. She wasn't in the mood for ceremony.

"Let's skip the pleasantries," she said. "I've been watching the Brotherhood."

William sat forward slightly. "Which part?"

"The western barony. Specifically, the regions near the Saltroad ruins, the part the maps like to call 'glade country,' though there's not much left of the trees."

Karlsberg tilted his head, listening with more focus now.

Trulda continued. "For three weeks straight, they've been taking every monster bounty in that region. Any village that reports a nesting site, a den, or even the hint of a spawner? The Brotherhood sends a team. They show up, kill whatever's active, collect the loot, and then they leave."

William frowned. "And they don't destroy the nest?"

"Not once," she said. "I checked the guild records. Every time they operate in this area, they only get partial completion rewards for removing the monsters, but not the final reward for removing the nest."

Karlsberg sat up more fully in his chair, a frown forming at the corners of his mouth.

"That's not incompetence," he said slowly. "It's policy."

"Exactly," Trulda said. "They're leaving the spawners intact on purpose. And since no other guild can get those contracts before them, no one else realizes what's happening. Villages breathe a sigh of relief when the monsters die down, not knowing the nest is still there. Not knowing it's growing."

William's eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "Leveling up. Evolving. Every broodmother, every dungeon heart, every nest node. They don't go dormant, they get stronger. Stronger and more evolved. Some even spread."

Trulda nodded grimly. "Which means in a few weeks, we'll start seeing entire adventuring parties get wiped out walking into what they think is just another goblin hole. Except now it's full of flame-casting berserker goblins riding cave drakes."

Karlsberg exhaled sharply through his nose. "They're building a tithe loop. Monsters terrorize the land, the Brotherhood shows up to 'deal' with them, and the villagers pay them in silver and gratitude, never realizing they're being bled dry."

"And the real joke," Trulda added, "is that the more those spawners mutate, the harder they are to remove. The whole region slowly becomes dependent on the Brotherhood just to survive. They also get a perfect setting to farm experience and level up. And if the monster's level gets too high for them to handle, they are numerous enough to just send several teams to get the job done. Or they send one of their elite teams."

There was a long silence.

William spoke first. "And if someone else does try to clear one of those enhanced spawners without knowing what they're walking into…"

"They die," Trulda finished. "Or come back maimed and cursing NEMESIS. Either way, it reinforces the narrative that the Brotherhood are the only ones strong enough to handle these threats. The system won't warn adventurers of an increased quest level if it's something players caused on purpose."

Karlsberg tapped one long finger against the side of his chair. "There's something insidiously clever about it. They're not doing anything illegal. Not even bending the rules. Just… choosing which parts of the job to do."

Trulda leaned forward. "And we're not going to let them get away with it."

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William nodded slowly. "What do you have in mind?"

She turned toward Karlsberg. "Your ballerinas. I want to borrow them."

Karlsberg raised an eyebrow. "They're not assassins. They're heroines. Performers. Each one has a public following. They're grace and strength and power in motion. You don't borrow them like swords from a wall rack."

"I'm not asking them to kill Brotherhood agents," Trulda said. "I want them to take a contract. A Brotherhood-cleared bounty. One of the ones with a 'handled' spawner."

William understood instantly. "Ah. You want them to walk into one of the nests. Find out what's really left behind."

"And walk out again," Trulda said. "With the evidence. With the story."

Karlsberg was silent for a long moment. Then he asked, softly, "Are you sure it's safe?"

"No," Trulda replied. "But I trust they're good enough to survive it. You wouldn't keep them in your company if they weren't."

A flicker of something passed through Karlsberg's eyes. Not pride. Something more protective. But he nodded.

"They're performing at the Sunspire Festival tomorrow morning. I'll speak with them in the evening. If they agree… we'll take a contract in the glade region."

"Don't tell them everything," William said. "Not yet. Let them see it with fresh eyes."

Trulda nodded. "I'll compile a list of the known nests the Brotherhood left 'clean.' Take your pick."

Karlsberg offered her a smile, wry and almost weary. "You know, you're surprisingly good at leading revolutions for someone who insists she hates meetings."

"I don't hate meetings," Trulda said. "I just think most of them are for people who want to seem like they're doing something. I prefer people who actually do something. I have a meeting with Jago, the baron's steward, next. We're planning to change some of the city building and trade rules to exclude certain areas from building warehouses or crafting shops. For fire safety reasons of course. Incidentally that's all areas where the brotherhood has heavily invested into buildings. What a pity they forgot to file building and trade permits with the necessary guilds. That would have excluded them from any later zoning regulation changes."

She stood and left. After the door closed behind her, Franziskus let show a slight shiver. "Using bureaucracy and zoning laws… That's vicious. Remind me not to cross her."

* * *

After spending the rest of the day researching potential brotherhood activities, William decided to spend the rest of the evening with one of his pet projects. Getting locals to support his theories about the revenants' true goals. There were some he was almost sure could be trusted, but he of course never would. The stakes were too high. Whatever the immortals were planning, it could not be good for the hapless citizens of this world.

The Scholar's Lantern was a respectable tavern, if one could ignore the dust and the constant smell of old parchment. Lanterns hung from copper hooks, their soft golden light reflecting on polished tables scarred by the elbows of centuries. Conversation flowed as freely as the wine, but quieter than in most taverns. The Lantern's clientele preferred arguments to songs.

William hunched over a cup of mulled mead, his cloak pushed back from his shoulders. A thick leather-bound tome rested at his side, annotated with bookmarks of differently colored fabric strips. His goblin assistant, Grrg, lurked in the shadows outside, nibbling on a sausage in a bun and keeping one eye on the door.

William's eyes were bright and restless, his words precise and strangely accented. The scholars had welcomed him with the indulgent tolerance reserved for well-meaning eccentrics. He paid for drinks, after all, and his theories were at least entertaining.

Across the table, Magister Halbrunn stroked his beard thoughtfully. "You are saying the burial laws of the Cathurian Empire were corrupted and intentionally rewritten to hide the lack of necromantic activity?"

William nodded, earnest and intense. "Yes, exactly. The records from the tenth to thirteenth regency cycles are inconsistently worded. And it is during that very period that the 'heroic arrival' of the revenants is first described as divine intervention. Before that, there's no mention of necromancy."

The other scholars sipped their wine, bemused. They had heard stranger theories from students of conspiracy, but few spoken with such fiery conviction.

"I believe," William said, "that the revenants came not to save this world, but to conquer it. Quietly. They are somehow altering history, replacing truths with legends. Maybe there never was a war against the necromancers. Or maybe the revenants were the necromancers."

Halbrunn chuckled. "Then what of the monster nests, the dungeons, the scourges? Are those not threats the revenants have helped contain?"

"They are all symptoms," William answered, lowering his voice. "They invited these disasters, so they could seem like saviors when they responded. While some problems started shortly before the documented first arrival of the newest group of revenants, most appeared shortly after. The more revenants appear, the more quest-worthy problems appear."

He drained his cup. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, though the tavern was cool.

"A bold claim," said another scholar, a bespectacled woman named Ylare. "But where is your proof?"

"In patterns. Language. Motive. But also…" William leaned forward. "In stories passed down from my homeland. In my world, we studied hidden wars too. Disguised as noble crusades."

Halbrunn looked up, interested. "Your homeland?"

"The one I was summoned from," William said softly. "A world of great cities and cold reason. No magic. No monsters. Just science. Harnessed lightning powering machines of unimaginable complexity. Microchips with inscriptions so small, the wavelength of light becomes a problem."

He was tired of people not believing him, and he had had too much wine already. It loosened his tongue, and he continued with examples from history. False flag operations, instances of propaganda during several wars. He knew he went too far. He explained too much of the necessary background of science and history. He was just tired of holding back all the time.

The scholars followed his words with rapt attention. He was too engaged, his stories too complex to be mere fabrications. They started to believe! It worked!

Then… a sound. Not a loud one. Just a click, quiet as a falling pin. Then… all fell silent.

Halbrunn blinked. "Forgive me, we were discussing… the Cathurian burial codes?"

The second scholar furrowed his brow. "It seems unbelievable that all our history from only two hundred years ago might be fabricated."

William froze.

Their eyes held no trace of the questions they'd asked moments before. The beginnings of doubt, wiped away like chalk in rain.

William's pulse surged. He stood so fast his chair clattered behind him.

"Who did this?" he whispered. "We're under mental attack! Defend yourselves!"

He reached into his satchel with trembling fingers. The flashbang potion was warm to the touch. He smashed it to the floor.

A burst of silver light and thunder cracked through the tavern. Screams erupted, chairs overturned. Blinded, reeling, William leapt through the window beside his table. A glass pane he had subtly weakened with a special salve days ago, in case of an ambush.

Glass shattered around him as he rolled into the alley outside.

"Grrg!" he hissed.

The goblin was already scampering from the shadows, the sausage in a bun he'd been eating falling to the floor.

"They struck at the minds of the scholars," William said breathlessly, grabbing the goblin's clawed hand. "Something erased their memory mid-thought. Like a blade cutting at the soul."

"Big magic," Grrg croaked, eyes wide.

"The revenant leaders must have noticed me. We have to go undercover. We'll use contingency plan three."

They vanished into the twisting alleys of Mulnirsheim, shadows swallowing their retreat.

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