The meeting had already begun by the time Thorne the Cruel arrived. His cloak, lined in black fox fur, brushed the edges of the stone threshold as he slipped into the dim chapel-turned-meeting hall. Candles flickered in their sconces, and the faint smell of damp stone mingled with the sharper tang of ink and parchment. A circle of chairs—each uneven, each clearly borrowed—sat at the room’s center, where six former viceroys of the realm sat in varying degrees of discomfort and self-restraint.

Thorne took his seat silently, nodding to the others with the solemnity expected of their kind. He pinned his name tag to his chest without looking.

“Hello, my name is: Thorne the Cruel.”

They all bore them. In script as elegant as the bearer’s past station: Merida the Unrelenting, Bannick of the Ash Caste, Lord Evenhart (Retired), Zaldrith the No-Longer-Malevolent, and Grunfold (Just Grunfold now). A fresh parchment lay atop each lap, and many had scribbled small words of encouragement in the margins. Mercy is not weakness, read Bannick’s. Ask, don’t command, was Evenhart’s.

The chair at the head of the circle creaked as Zaldrith leaned forward, hands steepled, voice gentle but marked by the distinct rasp of a man who once pronounced judgment from balconies.

“Now that Brother Thorne has joined us, let us begin,” he said. “As always, speak truthfully, listen fully, and should any shadow of dominion rise in thy chest, name it, that we may share the bearing of it.”

Evenhart gave a polite clap, just one, and the group exhaled together like monks after a hymn.

“Who would speak first?” Zaldrith asked.

Merida cleared her throat. “I have not raised my voice in four days,” she began, pride and trembling held tight in her chest. “I… caught myself correcting a baker’s inventory list. I nearly seized the ledger. But I did not. I walked away. My squire says it was growth.”

“Well done,” murmured Grunfold.

A small round of approval followed.

Bannick raised a tentative hand. “I… considered reorganizing the town’s militia. Just the formations. Not the chain of command. Just… their marching formations.”

A pause.

Then Zaldrith said, “That is within the gray, I think. Was it requested of thee?”

Bannick looked down. “No. But they were out of step.”

Zaldrith nodded slowly. “Remember, comrades, order imposed without invitation becomes the root of tyranny.”

Then came the voice from Thorne’s right. Low. Ashamed.

“I have… relapsed,” said Evenhart.

A hush spread. A candle guttered.

Zaldrith closed his eyes. “Speak, Brother. You are among those who understand.”

Evenhart’s hands gripped the arms of his chair. “It began with… a simple suggestion. A village had no road steward, and so I offered a plan. I drew it out. Just a suggestion.”

He swallowed.

“Then the villagers began asking me what should be built next. I merely answered them. Then I placed a few guards at the gate. For structure, you see. Structure. And yesterday, they crowned me.”

A collective intake of breath. Bannick looked scandalized. Grunfold looked wistful.

“I did not ask them to do it!” Evenhart added, as if the words might absolve him. “I merely suggested their allegiance might… clarify jurisdictional ambiguity.”

Merida leaned forward. “Didst thou… issue proclamations?”

“Only one,” Evenhart whispered. “That they should henceforth bow before entering the square. Not to me, but to the concept of civil order.”

Zaldrith pinched the bridge of his nose. “And the crown?”

“It was mostly symbolic,” Evenhart muttered. “But it did fit.”

Silence again.

Grunfold raised a tentative hand. “I… have a question. Hypothetically. Is… is a dungeon, in theory, a red flag?”

Zaldrith opened one eye. “Doth this relate to thee, Grunfold?”

“No, no,” said Grunfold quickly. “Purely speculative. Say, if one were to have already drawn up blueprints.”

“Then yes,” said Zaldrith firmly. “A dungeon—be it imagined or actual—is a threshold most dire.”

Grunfold nodded solemnly. “Then I shall burn the blueprints.”

Merida clapped for him. Zaldrith offered a small smile.

The rest of the hour passed with similar confessions: a craving to assign a title, a brief temptation to levy a tax for road repairs. But each was met with grace and measured counsel.

When the candles burned low and the clock struck nine, they all stood together, placing their hands on the old stone column in the center of the room—the same pillar where monarchs had once signed pacts of war.

“We are not what we were,” Zaldrith intoned.

“We are not what we were,” the group echoed.

“And we shall not be again.”

They nodded.

And with that, the Viceroys Anonymous Support Group dispersed into the night. Their cloaks vanished into fog, and their shadows stretched long behind them—but none dared walk in front of another.