Cardinal Usd’s regal robes have hints of quilted silver and gold, and hover above the marbled floor in the mausoleum of the meisters with a haunting quality. To think a man this frail wanders the streets of the Silver city without a single escort startles The Ordinal.
“You misunderstand, Cardinal. I’m only proposing that two of my best men escort you outside of the inner ring. Merely a formality, to address the circumstances that — ”
“You forget your place, Ordinal,” he says looking out the window that faces the inner garden of the Silver city. “I will not be followed around like a youngling by a convoy of Sparks.” He pauses to take a hollow breath, finally betraying the years behind the man.
“Why? Because a group of ragtag metalheads decided to throw a tantrum?” Usd turns to face him. “This building, Ordinal, how many years do you think it’s been standing?”
The Ordinal takes a customary bow, pausing to take in his surroundings. Like the Cardinal’s face, the mausoleum is ageless, walls of stone blend with layers of alloy in ways that make it impossible to tell where nature ends and manmade structures begin. The ornate glyphs of the Fyat adorn the dome above them, they tell the story of the fall as the decree had taught the Ordinal when he was a child.
“I don’t, Grandmeister,” he lies.
“Thousands of years, Ordinal. Perhaps even hundreds of thousands.” He leans in closer, almost close enough to tarnish the titanium alloy of his Ch’talla with his breath.
“I will not cower at the mercy of animals. If you feel compelled to help, I suggest you fulfill your duty as an extinguisher and flux up some Sparks. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Cardinal.”
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