Today's story takes place far away from dusty crypts, and troll caves.

  The ballroom of Faraway Manor was a vision of restrained opulence: crystal chandeliers casting warm light over polished marble floors, and long tables draped in velvet.

  Crowds of servants roamed the hall with trays of drinks and appetisers, searching for hungry and thirsty guests like a pack of hyenas hunting for carrion.

  Banners above bore the symbols of the Church and House Faraway.

  Soft string music drifted from a discreet alcove.

  Gathered within were most prominent members of local communities of Torvyn.

  Nobles in silk and velvets.

  Diocese members in their finest robes.

  Wealthy merchants whose hands glittered with precious rings.

  Bishop Jorvia Elina Sancta stood in place of honor, near the high table, serene and watchful.

  Her presence was lending the evening the weight of official sanction.

  A handful of refugees - carefully selected, dressed in clean clothes, but made up to look poor - moved among the guests.

  Their scripted smiles never wavered.

  The party had been seated at a far table near the wall.

  Gorzod tugged uncomfortably at the stiff collar of his borrowed tunic.

  Thrain’s beard had been neatly trimmed, and his boots were all shiny.

  Liora wore a simple dark-green gown that somehow still looked like armor.

  Erian kept smoothing some imaginary wrinkles on his sleeves.

  His eyes wide at the grandeur of the party.

  Fanática sat among them in her plain nun’s robe, without her usual armor and maul.

  She looked almost ordinary, save for the quiet radiance that made nearby nobles glance twice.

  Clemont Faraway ascended the small dais at the head of the hall.

  He was the heir to the Faraway family.

  Tall, handsome, raven-haired and immaculate in his black velvet with silver trim, he raised both hands to ask for silence.

  The music slowly faded.

  “My lords, my ladies, honored clergy,” he began.

  His voice was smooth and carried effortlessly,

  “Tonight we gather not for revelry, but for remembrance.

  The storm that ravaged our border villages left thousands homeless.

  They flood our cities, sleep in alleys, beg at gates.

  Their children go hungry, and elders freeze.

  Yet even in darkness, Goddess mercy still finds a path.”

  He gestured toward the refugees, who stepped forward one by one on cue.

  A middle-aged woman curtsied. "Lord Faraway gave us shelter when our roof fell, his kindness saved my family."

  An elderly man bowed. “House Faraway fed us when we had nothing. May our Lady bless him.”

  A young girl clutched a small pendant. “He promised we would not be forgotten.”

  Polite applause rippled through the hall.

  Clemont inclined his head modestly.

  “These words humble me. But words alone are not enough."

  He paused with dramatic tension.

  "I propose the creation of a Permanent Storm Relief Council - a joint body of nobility and clergy,

  working together to provide these poor souls shelter through winter, to rebuild their homes, and distribute aid with efficiency and care.

  House Faraway will pledge the first generous donation the moment the council is formed.”

  More applause, warmer now.

  Bishop Jorvia stepped forward, smiling.

  “Lord Faraway’s vision honors the Goddess’s call to mercy. The diocese stands ready to support such a worthy endeavor.”

  One of the middle-aged noblemen stood up.

  Once everyone's attention turned to him, he cleared his throat and spoke in a loud voice.

  “This is a great and noble undertaking, and as such it would need a strong leader.

  I think we all know that this responsibility should fall to a man whose honor and nobility no one would question.”

  He said this while looking at Clemont.

  As soon as he sat down, an elderly man in neat but worn clothes, the village elder, jumped up.

  "Um... Dear noble guests, if I may say something.

  We also believe that only someone with, um... a generous heart... can be elected chairman.

  Lord Clemont was very good to us." He bowed low and sat down.

  A few older nobles and church officials murmured among themselves.

  “He's too young to bear such responsibility,” “And ambitious, perhaps even overly ambitious.”

  Anticipating this turn of events, Clemont smoothly turned toward a side table.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “But let us not decide alone. Among us tonight is one whose devotion to the needy is unmatched - Sister Fanática, the golden light of the borderlands.”

  Heads turned to the side table.

  Erian nearly choked on his bite.

  Gorzod somehow missed his mouth with his wine glass and spilled it on his borrowed tunic.

  Thrain frowned.

  Only Liora looked impeccable as usual.

  The two magicians responsible for lighting the stage deftly moved the spotlight from the young nobleman to a small table.

  Clemont walked gracefully toward them, and extended his hand to Faná.

  “Sister, would you bless this endeavor? Would you lend your voice to our cause?”

  Faná rose, surprised but delighted.

  “Oh, my lord, how beautiful! A council born of mercy for the poor - yes, of course I shall bless it!”

  She clasped her hands, her eyes shining.

  “Then let us bind it in Holy Oath, so the Goddess Herself may bear witness to your oaths!”

  The room stilled.

  Clemont’s smile remained fixed.

  Faná continued, her voice was clear and earnest.

  “Repeat after me:

  That no decision of this council shall place convenience above compassion,

  nor order above mercy,

  nor coin above the needy.”

  A hush fell like snow.

  Holy Oaths were not spoken lightly.

  To swear before the Goddess - especially in front of a Bishop - was binding in a way that mortal contracts could never be.

  And as the oath was proposed by Goddess favored, refusal would also be seen as doubt in the Goddess’s will.

  As for acceptance… merchants, nobles and councilmen exchanged glances.

  It was an unrealistic and vague oath, one that could ruin even the wealthy.

  For one heartbeat Clemont’s eyes flickered.

  Then the perfect mask snapped back into place.

  He bowed deeply.

  “With joy, Sister. The Goddess’s will is clear.”

  He repeated the oath - word for word, his voice steady and resonant.

  The hall erupted in grand applause, much louder than before.

  Bishop Jorvia inclined her head in approval.

  And Faná beamed as radiant as sunrise.

  The young noble bowed to her with perfect courtesy.

  “Thank you, Sister. Your faith… does inspire us all.”

  Faná curtsied happily.

  “The Goddess is pleased, Sir Lord.”

  Later - much later - when the last guests had departed and the manor fell silent, Clemont entered his private study.

  He closed the door with exquisite softness.

  Then he crossed to the desk in three strides and swept his arm across it.

  Ledgers crashed to the floor, an inkwell shattered, spilling ink over an expensive rug. The chair fell down with a loud thud.

  He stood breathing hard with fists clenched at his sides.

  “She dared,” he whispered.

  “She dared bind me - ME - with am absurd Holy Oath. Publicly.”

  He looked at his reflection in the mirror, and forced his breathing to slow.

  His rage smoothed away, and his mask returned. He was back: calm, composed, and handsome.

  He righted the chair.

  And sat.

  “I cannot let my father see hesitation…”

  He took fresh parchment and an ink bottle.

  His quill moved with surgical precision.

  A letter to certain friends in low places.

  A quiet word to a certain magistrate.

  A carefully worded missive to the diocese council, which while praising the Sister’s zeal will also gently question her… stability.

  He sealed the letters one by one.

  Then he leaned back, fingers steepled.

  “Enjoy your little victory, Sister,” he murmured to the empty room.

  Outside, under a clear winter sky, the party walked the long road back to town.

  Faná hummed a gentle hymn.

  Gorzod glanced over his shoulder at the lit manor windows, and muttered, “He’s not done with us.”

  Thrain added, “Aye, men like him. They see the board, but not the pieces.”

  Erian, shivering, glanced between them. “Wait… what are you talking about?”

  Liora’s eyes flicked to the distant manor. “That man? Clemont Faraway? People like him are clever. And calculating. Don’t doubt he’s still plotting even when he appears extremely polite.”

  Erian swallowed. “I… I see.”

  A gust of wind cut across the road, rattling the bare branches above like an ill-omen.