July 13th, 1011
1643 hours
Great Temple of Boreas
Imperial District, Griffenheim

Most of the rest of the day, the Great Temple was packed to bursting with worshippers. Those who had assembled for morning mass and pilgrims who had made the journey from all over to visit the holy site. Griffenheim was one of three of the most visited places in Griffonia, next to the city of Romau and the almost ruined city of Griffonstone. Thanks to its center on the Griffking River and the connection to Feathisian ports, worshippers of Boreas, Arcturius and Eyr came the world over from even as far as distant Zebrica. Boer griffs and Imperial zebras who traveled this far would be greeted to the massive holy structure alongside the more mundane crowds who flocked from the surrounding countryside, such as Strawberry, Feathisia, Katerin, Bronzehill and Yale. Even those territories newly restored in the Grenzwald Frontier such as Lushi, Hellquill and Brodfeld were returning in massive numbers now the Imperial garrisons and newly restored roads assured safe travel. They flew, they drove, they walked, by wing, machine or leg. Still, they came.

Now, this late in the day, the Temple was much more empty. Most of the crowd thinned out by noontime, and then the afternoon worshippers came in for a short while. But on this lazy day, the Archon had already retired home, and the priests remaining were mostly content with their duties and taking care of the few worshippers who came in. As such, when the massive, open double doors were graced by two more figures, not many raised their eyes. It was almost evening, after all. They’d come in small pockets, but never more than a clawful.

Margot Duskwing swallowed, glancing around as she tugged at her collar, smoothing the pleats in her dress. Clad in her finest clothes for worship, (admittedly still rather plain) she had come here with a purpose in mind. While the district of Industrie had its own temple to Arcturius, the prayer she was going to ask felt much, much heavier with recent events. And she felt it only fitting to finally come to the grandest place of worship in the Imperial City. She hadn’t been here since she was a chick, so many years ago. She had married Stefan in Strawberry, at his father’s vineyard. And her entire life, she had been content with the local temple, as had her own parents. But now, her only son was so often at risk, and lost in his own soul and misery. No, if anything, this felt long overdue.

Sophie was quiet at her side as the two paced into the depths of the temple. Dressed in her own temple clothes, her wings twitched in agitation, mirroring her mother. She understood why they were here. Margot felt it only appropriate to explain to her before they arrived, so they spoke as few words as needed in the presence of the gods. They approached the front, where the three great altars stood. While the Great Temple was proclaimed in Boreas’ name, king of the gods and greatest of the three, as the Empire had grown it had taken altars of the other gods, and now stood as a united place of the three Archons of the Gods. Only two other places in the Empire were more holy; the temple city of Romau and the holy land of Griffonstone, now unfortunately left to decay and ruin. Blessings for the nation were proclaimed here, Emperors crowned, crusades declared. She felt almost like an intruder, treading where she was unwelcome. The long, empty pews almost echoed, the shadows almost hiding them. The Great Temple had electric lights, but the pews themselves were lit by candles from massive chandeliers overhead. This late in the day, with such sluggish activity, the very back pews hadn’t been lit by the acolytes for some time, though they would be reignited for evening worship. The few creatures here, at present, were closer up.

Sophie looked up, and up, and up high above her head. Above the altars was the Great Seal of Boreas, an ancient stained glass window centuries old, through which the dying light gently filtered in, orange, red, blue and green. This was possibly the largest structure she’d ever been inside in her life. It could fit their apartment, her school, her temple and the corner shop she liked to frequent with her friends all at once inside its cavernous depths. To the eleven year old formel, it was both awe-inspiring and rather terrifying. She moved closer to her mother unconsciously, her wings almost extending fully as she beheld how high up the ceiling was, stretching away on massive pillars. Above them, empty for now, were the elevated pews for the nobility, where aristocrats could worship on their own level, literally looking down on the commoner crowd. At the moment, acolytes quietly cleaned the noble seats, preparing for tonight’s prayers. Something appeared to stir in the shadows behind one of the columns, and her feathers bristled, eyes wide as she swore she spotted a figure, black on black moving in the gloom. She blinked, trying to focus, but whatever it had been, whoever it had been, was gone.

“Sophie,” Margot quietly chided, but the rebuke had no heat, and Sophie quietly folded her wings back up again without a word, the shadow forgotten.

The other worshippers were a motley collection. Maybe a dozen or so, scattered through the pews. A dog, a soldier by the look of his uniform, sat quietly off to the side, muttering litanies under his breath as he held his cap in his lap. Two griffs on the other side quietly held a photograph, the female silently sobbing. Margot had seen enough grieving parents to recognize the sight. At the front, a priest quietly talked with a young couple, explaining that no, they couldn’t arrange their wedding here at the Great Temple as aristocrats had reserved the rest of the open time between worship and holidays for the next five years. While the formel seemed disappointed but accepting, the drake was extremely unpleasant, almost as if he would start fuming in the next second. But before he could, an imposing shape stepped out of the shadows behind the priest, saying nothing but quietly conveying his presence. Clad in ornate, gold-trimmed black plate armor, the Temple Guard silently said the message; if you cause a disturbance, you will be thrown out. The drake wilted upon seeing the blank and emotionless visor, quietly saying something to his fiancee and both turning and leaving as fast as politeness would allow. Sophie glanced back in time to see both griffons take wing and fly away as soon as they were out the double doors.

The priest turned back, looking tired and exasperated. He glanced Margot and Sophie up and down, appearing to consider something before he held up a claw, gesturing them forward. Almost embarrassed after seeing that display, the two females approached.

“You remind me of somegriff, Frau. Have we met before?”

“Er, no Pfaffer,” Margot admitted. “I only came here once about thirty years ago.”

“Ah,” the priest replied, realizing his mistake. “My apologies. I see so many in a day, I mix up beaks and crests.” He smiled over at Sophie before returning his attention to her mother. “So, is there anything I can do for you today then, mein kinde?”

“Well, Pfaffer…” Margot paused, suddenly feeling rather foolish and having to resist the urge to simply walk out of this great, grand holy place with her issue, but she forged on. “My son is in the 41st Panzergrenadier. He came back after the end of the Herzland War a bit, well...broken. He was drinking, brawling, arguing. He seemed lost in his life, and miserable. And then he was activated over the New Year to go east with the Grenzwald Expeditionary Force. He writes to me all the time, but I can’t help to worry. I lost his father when he was but a youth and Sophie just a hatchling. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my son too.”

“I’m so sorry,” the priest responded almost instantly, and unlike other platitudes she had heard, Margot could see the honesty behind his eyes. “I was with the 41st myself. I was supposed to shepherd the souls of the soldiers in Griefenmarsch. But when the Herzland War happened I…” He paused, considering. How much had the son told the mother? And the child there too? But after a moment, he pressed on. “The things I saw on campaign...I followed behind the troops of course. But the devastation left in their wake. And the things I heard in confession and in the aide stations. Believe me, I completely understand your worry. But Boreas watches over all his children. If he has decided it is not yet your son’s time, Boreas will not let Maar take him.”

“I understand, Pfaffer. But I didn’t come all this way to hear that again. Please, can you...can you give my son a blessing? To watch over him?”

The priest looked taken aback, glancing between mother and daughter. Margot Duskclaw looked, if not desperate, certainly very agitated, wings twitching and her expression both determined and strained. Sophie reached out, gently setting her own claw on her mother’s shoulder, a gesture she was clearly used to carrying out. Remarkable, for a formel so young. She was, perhaps, eleven years old? In any case, she was far too young to be the supporting one in the family.

“Well...I understand your need to keep your son safe, mein kinde. But I cannot bless him if he is not here.” He paused, a realization coming to his mind. No, a revelation. “What is your son’s name, exactly?”

The mother slowly blinked, as if the thought had never occurred to tell the priest. As if working through the reasons she shouldn’t she seemed to slowly come around to accepting the fact that, no she hadn’t said it and yes she probably should. He could see the resolve in her eyes. She hadn’t come all the way to the holiest place in Griffenheim just to admit defeat and leave.

“Vise-Korporal Cyril Duskwing, Pfaffer.”

At that moment, Andreas Bronzeclaw realized this was no simple coincidence to bring her here to his temple, at this time and place. This kind of meeting could only have been steered by the gods themselves.

“Frau Duskwing...I think I -can- do something after all.”

It took a few minutes and the coordination of two other priests there with him, but Andreas grouped all the current worshippers into the same two pews. For a moment, Margot Duskclaw and her daughter were confused, even a little embarrassed. But only a few introductions cleared things up.

Sergeant Dober had returned from the Northern Front short of several squadmates. After a term in hospital and a nervous breakdown, he was attempting to find his confidence through faith before he rotated back to the Legion.

The Greyfeathers had lost both daughter and son during the Herzland War.

Anna Dawntalon was praying for her husband, newly wed only for him to ship out with the Gebirgsjager to the Grenzwald. He and several squadmates had gone missing two weeks ago.

Helga Grimwing, a Vollstrecker returned from the east, had come to confess her burdens and alleviate her worries. It was the only way she could continue to carry out her duty with a clear conscience.

Three more griffs and a pony were Kaiserliche Marine sailors, those who had taken the time on shore leave to journey this far, fearing for the war all in the west could see coming on the horizon, especially for the naval forces.

A few assorted civilians, not associated with the military but still sympathetic to the griffs in arms, clustered in as well. And with the first two pews full around Margot and Sophie, they all bowed their heads as Andreas stood at the front, claws in the air.

“Gods above, we beg your ear this day.”

“Respice in servos tuos nos orare,” the two other priests with him and the assorted worshippers muttered, claws and paws clasped in front of their chests. “Boreas alium, hoc oro maiestatem tuam.”

“We gather to ask for your grace, might and benevolence as we pray on behalf of our brothers, sisters, sons, daughters and friends in danger. We who are unworthy of your favor, yet you grant it to us anyway.”

“Respice in servos tuos nos orare,” the group repeated. “Arcturius nos obsecro te sapientiam.”

“We pray for Kalvin Hund, Hans Dawntalon, Gunter and Idris Greyfeather, Cyril Duskwing and so many more taken up arms to keep up safe and spread your glory. For the ones who have been lost to Maar, we ask your protection for their souls. For those only missing from our sight, we ask your deliverance to safety. And for those still doing their duty, in danger or about to be, we beg thee to extend your wings and shield them from misfortune. Spare them their suffering and end, they who shelter us here at home. And bring them home to us, so they may join us in praising your glory.”

“Respice in servos tuos nos orare,” the group said one last time. “Eyr, et postulantes gratiam tui.”

Andreas brought his claws down, making the sign across his chest of the almighty Boreas, then Arcturus, then Eyr, his movements mirrored by the priests. A silent minute followed, in which the assorted prayed for their loved ones lost, still in the field or even their own souls. A prayer for the lost, for them to finally be found.

Finally, Andreas Bronzeclaw raised his head, quietly addressing his assembly.

“Respice in servos tuos nos orare. Te rogamus audi nos hodie nobis de fide tres orationes nostrae. Amen.”

She went off by herself, afterwards. The rest of the worshippers talked amongst themselves after the prayer. But in her case, it was time to go. She took her greatcoat from the rack by the door, tugging it on over shoulders and wings. The Great Temple would likely be filled with worshippers for evening service soon, singing hymns and muttering litanies. But she wasn’t one for the large services, preferring to get her business with the gods done quickly and alone, more personally. She didn’t need priests shouting blessings, choirs in the wings and an organ. Better to make it a one on one conversation, in her opinion.

Griffenheim was quiet beyond the temple fence. Even here, early evening meant griffs were about to get off work in the factories and offices, go home to eat dinner, and plenty would come here after. The scene along the boulevards was gentle right now, strange in this city. Shop windows spilling the glow from their inner lights onto the avenues outside. Traffic on the street was sparse, the occasional automobile passing by the Temple gates. Some of the vehicles were trucks, carrying cargo towards Industrie or away from it to the rest of the city, and even beyond. Occasionally, one of the more elaborate and expensive models passed, all shiny metals and bright filigree with tinted glass displaying status to all around that an aristocrat or Industrierat business griff sat inside. Sometimes, it was a staff car belonging to an officer in the Imperial Guard or the Reichswehr. Airplanes, both commercial and military flew above the laborious cargo airships along the skyline, interspersed by small clusters of flying creatures. In the distance, she could hear one of the great trains leaving Industrie, to begin the laborious process of taking cargo across the Empire from one of the largest trainyards in Griffonia. The Imperial City’s heartbeat, forever clanking and clattering at the heart of the glorious Kaiserreich, fuelled by its Marches and vassals, and oiled by the blood and sweat of its citizens.

She plucked a cigarette from her coat as soon as she was clear of the temple, about to flick open the lighter and enjoy the nicotine before she flew back to the barracks, when a voice, slick as oil and quiet as a whisper, sounded directly behind her. Saying she expected him was a stretch, but she certainly wasn’t surprised he was there.

“Fraulein Grimwing. How was the service?”

She turned back to find none other than the Grand Inquisitor himself had seemingly materialized from the shadows, red eyes focused on her, black uniform perfectly adorned, high-peaked cap pulled down tight on his white feathered head. The officers’ hat was smaller than her own, but her own Vollstrecker uniform was meant to be visible, with scarlet sash, gold embroidery, the symbol of her office around her neck and her gleaming enchanted breastplate with the heraldry of the Empire across her chest. Compared to her, his uniform was both subdued and sinister, meant for one in the shadows rather than visible in battle, blacks and silvers betraying the slightest whisper of his knowledge. By being the leader of the Geheimstaat, Erlinger was just as much her superior as her mother was, his presence and undivided attention a clear sign of something important in the making that involved herself. As a Vollstrecker Helga could only wonder at his intentions.

“Herr Erlinger,” she greeted, plucking her cigarette and tucking it away. Looks like she wouldn’t be enjoying it for a few minutes.

“I thought the service rather nice,” Erlinger continued, glancing back at the Great Temple. “Though mass was never to my taste. Too large and conspicuous. I thought you were the same, but you joined in with no hesitation.”

Figures he’d been inside, watching her. Probably keeping to the shadows. Plenty of them in a giant half-lit stone structure. This was certainly not a conversation she wanted to have. Helga tugged the cigarette out again, deciding to have it after all.

“It was small enough to be comfortable,” she replied, taking a pause to strike the flint, allowing the tiny flame to light the end and purposefully stretching out the time before she replied. “And besides, they were praying for soldiers of the Reich. Killed, missing or still out there. How could a decorated Vollstrecker in regalia ignore that?”

“You sound a lot like your mother,” Erlinger replied, smiling mirthlessly. It wasn’t that he was being particularly cruel, Helga simply doubted he knew how to put warmth into his face. “She gets passionate when she talks as well.”

“What are you, her liebhaber?” Helga scoffed, taking another drag and blowing it out to the side. While she took issue with the wingless griffon, she wasn’t petty enough to blow literal smoke at him. Besides, insulting the Grand Inquisitor was a bad idea. She resigned in her attitude with a second drag. “What business can I do for you tonight, Herr Inquisitor?”

“You know your mother would love for you to come work with us,” was Erlinger’s reply, to which Helga was unsurprised. “You’ve done remarkable things as a Vollstrecker. You’re a brilliant investigator. A wonderful...combatant.”

“You mean executioner?” she retorted, though her tone was light. She was in no mood to tempt fate. “I’m happy to enforce the law of the Kaiser on His Majesty’s soldiers. It’s an honor. But I’m no spy. And I’d rather not work for an organization that doesn’t let their citizens learn about the outside world.”

“We still do,” Erlinger corrected her. “But it is our duty to ensure slander and propaganda do not enter their minds. We cannot have ideas like communism or republicanism take root in any self respecting citizens of the Reich. We suffered one revolution already.”

He tugged his own smoke out, this one fatter than her own cigarette. From the smell, she could tell it was cannabis. More popular in the Frontier than the Herzland, it was said to possess properties to calm the mind. Everygriff she knew smoked cigarettes of tobacco and nicotine. To Helga personally, the smell was strange. Out of habit, she pulled her lighter out, striking a flame for him, to which he nodded and lit his own stogie, taking a puff or two, blowing out acrid air.

“Don’t tell me that justifies making griffs disappear because they read the wrong pamphlet.”

Erlinger raised an eyebrow as he blew another cloud of smoke out, a pulse of purple energy around his eyes giving Helga the idea that she needed to stop skirting the line.

“What do you think your mother and the MfÖS do to revolutionary agents? Terrorists? We are not the Pentarchy. We do not sweep up a town because it suits or entertains us. Our process has turned out a superior society. Happiness. Loyalty. One of the most skilled fighting forces on Griffonia.”

“At the cost of what? Thought control? State intimidation?”

“I could have sworn I heard a few -small- inaccuracies on the radio this morning. You cannot pretend the Empire does not lie to its citizens to manipulate them through a narrative.” Erlinger examined Helga closely, inspecting her face. “Independent thought is permissible. It allows growth. But the mind is like a plant. It must be fed correctly. Or it will start to turn...sickening.”

Helga, done with her cigarette, tucked the butt away in a pocket, determined not to let it fall on hallowed ground.

“I’m happy with my work, Herr Inquisitor.”

“Grand Inquisitor,” Erlinger replied airily. “And if you recall, your work would not exist if not for the Geheimstaat.”

“Is -that- why no Hellsword unit has a Vollstrecker attachment?”

“Be careful who you accuse, Helga,” Erlinger’s tone had hardened, like steel on the rasp. “I thought it was because formations with the Black Knights were far more disciplined than Reichsarmee conscripts. I might have to start rethinking how I judge my peers.”

Helga felt the retort in her beak, but bit it back. She had already skirted the line enough. As Vollstrecker, it was her job to enforce discipline. Her time in the Sturmtruppen had tempered her aggression, but from the stint she worked as a drill instructor in Krona she knew her self-control required work. Erlinger puffed out again, apparently considering his words carefully. That struck her as strange. He hadn’t hesitated in his answers since he had shown up.

“We have work for you.”

“Work?” she raised an eyebrow, unsure of the term. It was unfamiliar, shorthand. Erlinger was a master dissembler, able to read and manipulate his targets with ease. A shift in personality was not only something her mother had told her to expect, it was purposeful. What was his goal here? “Why not just issue me an assignment?”

“Because of who might see it before it passes through your claws,” Erlinger shot back, reaching under his coat and returning with a plain manila envelope, which he held out to her. “You are in the unique position of being one of the few we can trust above all others, even other Vollstrecker. But officers, handlers, support staff we are less sure of.”

She took the envelope, opening it to pull out a few papers. They were profiles of various noble families, well known aristocrats and business griffs who had made their fortunes with the rise of the Industrierat. House Goldfeather, House Schwarzplume, House Stahlkralle, and many others. She raised an eyebrow at the names, lists of business assets and photographs.

“What am I looking at?”

“Those nobles who have taken advantage of the Grand Duke and Duchess Regents’ economic reforms and our recent military successes to skirt the law, and more importantly grow rich off it. The Grenzwald coming back into the fold has opened up a gold mine for merchants and businesses seeking to strike a fortune off the bounty of resources and griffpower. Steel, chromium, precious metals, crystal, factories, agriculture, the list goes on and is ultimately unimportant. But I am not speaking of the activities of Morgend Longpaw or the Kompanie. Nor of the legitimate businessgriffs who have the approval of both the Reformisten and the Imperial Industrierat. These are exploiters, who cheat at labor laws, taxes, bribery, sabotage, extortion, other despicable means. In years past, they got away with it because of their family ties and wealth. But today, the MfÖS and Geheimstaat fight back. Already, we have brought down many of the corruptive worms who seek to escape one jurisdiction or another, fleeing from one corner of the Empire to seek shelter on the other side. Your mother has been ingenious in orchestrating that plan. But Operation Nachtungnebel is multi-headed, like a hydra. We stamp out corruption in the aristocracy in the way only we can, and we dig out the wretches of the terrible enemy underneath it all.”

“The Republic?” she asked. It would make sense. Some nobles who had sided with the Revolution in its early days had managed to avoid the axe through one loophole or another. A few were probably still acting as informants and suppliers, despite Kemerskai’s promise to bring down the nobility. Likely they were hoping to buy their way into a good position after the second rising everygriff knew was coming, sooner or later.

But Erlinger shook his head. “They are but a symptom of the cancer that grips Griffonia. It is not safe to speak of them out loud in public like we are. But suffice to say that this organization has managed to successfully subvert both myself and Ela. They have agents and informants everywhere this side of the world and will stop at nothing to gain their goal. They brought down the Empire once already with the Revolution, their agents guiding Kemerskai and his turncoats. Now, with the continent so divided, it is the perfect time to try again. They guided Beakolini to overtake Falcor and Sicameon, to reengage in colonialism in Abyssinia. They planted the means for Verany to overthrow the king in Aquileia. And even now, they work to weaken the Herzland with insider agents, sabotage and, as you shall soon see, war.”

Helga glanced up, frowning at the implication. The idea that the Empire’s demise was being plotted by some shadowy organization capable of besting both her mother and the most sinister, intimidating drake she knew was beyond her own scope of comprehension. Two of the most powerful spy organizations in the Empire and beyond, and they were unable to fight this menace.

“So why me?” she asked, holding up the folder. “I get busting corrupt aristocracy. But fighting some shadow war? What can I do that you can’t?”

“Your mother admires your directness,” Erlinger said, stubbing out his stogie and also tucking the stub away. “But I admire your visibility. You have the unique ability to both be informed of this operation, and not incur any suspicion by carrying it out. Nogriff would think twice about you investigating targets, and your reliability is above doubt. If you smash down a warehouse door, there will be no questions asked. If you execute deserting soldiers or renegade mercenaries, there will be no secondary operations at risk. You are not an agent, or an informant. You are Vollstrecker. And that means you can operate without our enemy knowing what you are doing. Because it will just be your job. And by the time he realizes what you -are- doing...it will be too late for him to do anything about it.”

The Grand Inquisitor had something Helga hadn’t seen before; a gleam of excitement in his red eye. That purple aura pulsed again, and she realized he was ecstatic, his normal mask cracking on accident. She waited for him to continue, but he seemed finished.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Deadly.”

“But, my duties to my unit-”

“Will of course continue. No sense having you out visibly doing your job if you are no longer carrying out normal functions. But unit transfers are a thing, of course.”

“I suppose that makes sense...you’ve gone to a lot of trouble to prepare this for me.”

Erlinger chuckled, and this time he actually seemed amused.

“Not just me. Your mother truly wants this to be important to you too. We may have stumbled on a lead that says your father’s own gruesome and dishonorable end might have been their work. Has their claw marks all over it.”

She felt a chill roll down her spine, to be replaced by the boiling of hot metal anger. In all her time as a Stormtrooper, instructor and now Vollstrecker, she had never hoped or thought to try and find her father’s murderer, knifed brutally practically in public on the steps of the Krona Akadamie and left with hardly any identifying features. Anygriff that could get away with assassinating a high ranking military officer and then disappearing would simply vanish from existence. But with this new information, she suddenly had a new interest in this affair.

“Are they now?”

“If you do not trust my word, inspect your mother’s notes. Ela was thorough in her research.”

“So you literally want me on because I’m so talented at breaking down doors?”

“The best there is, really.”

Helga smirked, closing up the current profile and tucking it away, shaking her head as she considered what she was about to do. Finally, she folded the envelope up and tucked it under her coat.

“I like the way you think, Herr Inquisitor.”

This time, Erlinger did not correct her.

“Most creatures do. Those who do not tend not to live for long.”

“When do I start?”

“At your own leisure. Skeiron Goldfeather is one of the few to completely outfox us...for now. Moving his operations to Nova Griffonia was a stroke of brilliance. But an investigation of his practices here will give our enemies the same impression you first had; that we are merely cleaning house. When you begin, we can get the wheels moving.”

“And I start kicking down doors?” Helga grinned again, rummaging for another cigarette.

“Might makes right, Fraulein Grimwing. You are Vollstrecker. Authorized to do anything that is required to accomplish your mission.”

Finally working the cigarette out, she clamped her beak around it, fidgeting with her lighter as she glanced up at the albino griff, striking the flint a few times.

“If we can’t talk about them directly, can you at least give me a name? Other than ‘the enemy’?”

After a pause, during which she finally lit the flame, he answered in a careful, quiet whisper which, under any other circumstance would seem melodramatic “They call themselves the Black Claw.”

When she looked up, he was gone.

The flight back home was silent.

Margot hadn’t realized a blessing couldn’t be done without the object or individual in person. Or, at least, it had slipped her mind. She had found her attention slipping quite a bit lately, between trying to look out for Sophie, keeping the apartment clean and working her job. She’d been stretched all over the place, and relying more and more on her daughter to keep her grounded and help shoulder the burden. It wasn’t right to ask the eleven year old, of course. But Margot had no choice. Still, the service the priest Bronzeclaw had put on her son had been amazing, far beyond what she herself would have been comfortable asking. When Cyril had left for the Herzland War, she had become a nervous wreck. When he’d returned, she found all she had for him was scolding and sternness. Now he was gone again, she was back to her neurotic self. She hadn’t remembered worrying this much back when Stefan would deploy to various corners of the Empire. But then, she hadn’t lost any family yet back then.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the shadows below extended across the city, from the high towers and the narrow street. Even with daylight left, half of Griffenheim was already doused in darkness, electric and oil streetlamps replacing the sun. Ponies, griffons, dogs and changelings went about their business in the city streets, newly expanded, rebuilt and modernized to accommodate the new flows of automobile traffic, the canals of the Griffking humming with barges and motorboats. Plenty of griffs and the occasional pegasi flew through the sky, flitting past the high smokestacks of factories and the high roofs of apartments and office buildings. Griffenheim was changing, and Margot wondered if it would be recognizable in another decade. She glanced in the direction of the Imperial Palace, and found her thoughts wondering what the Imperial family was doing. Grover VI was so young, too young. Eight wasn’t nearly old enough to govern an empire, but it was difficult to imagine the Kaiser as ‘just’ a child. The position was supposed to demand respect and obedience. It was a good thing, then, that the Grand Duke and Duchess-Regent were heading the Regency Council. She’d heard of the attempted coup, everygriff had. Things were changing in government, and the fact the attempt had only slightly halted Imperial functions said that the change was impossible to stop.

Her thoughts turned back to Cyril as they flew in over Industrie. His letters were constant, coming to her every other week or so. They tended to ramble a bit, between small hints of what he was doing in the field, conversations with his fellow truppen, his letters with Paige, his own thoughts. When she’d last seen him in person, Cyril had been disappearing into his cups nightly, miserable and barely able to function. The strange, magical apparition of Paige had done much to lift his spirits, but before she even could take the time to enjoy his better mood, he was gone just after Mondstille, off to conquer some corner of Griffonia for the Empire. But this prayer, this service she had just witnessed, lifted her spirits as they coasted towards their apartment. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. Cyril was a panzertrupper. The southeast was notorious for its lack of developed industry. What were the odds that something could damage his steel beast?

Of course, this positivity only lasted until she landed, checking Sophie had set down with her, before she glanced up at the awkward visage of a Reichsarmee leutnant, sitting on her front porch, clearly waiting for her return. She took him in, noticing the downcast, braced expression on his beak, the tensing of claws on the stone step. The fact he had waited for her to return, clad in dress greys with medals and pins.

She took this all in. Just a moment was all she needed.

And then, overcome with a wave of grief and panic, Margot Duskwing sat down on the cobblestone of the sidewalk, placed one claw over her face and lost the rest of her strength and composure as she wept. She did not hear Sophie trying to speak to her. Nor did she see the leutnant slowly approaching her down the stairs. She was blind, and deaf, to the world as she spiralled down.

Author's Note

A huge shoutout to my beta readers and advisors, Mariner Wingfried, Theortheo and Nagerleral! Thanks to you guys for being my idea soundboards and development helpers!

This quick chapter came to me in a burst of inspiration, but rest assured that more story moving narrative involving our main characters is incoming soon! And letters! And battle scenes! Lots of them!