Expansion The Fealty of Adala | Expansion into Adala

[The Night Court]

The council chamber of Adala’s Great Basilica was a sanctified place, where decisions were made under the gaze of their pantheon, represented in vivid stained glass that caught the sunlight streaming through the high windows. Bartholomew stood at the center, the long shadows of the depictions dancing across his finely tailored robes. The leaders of Adala sat in a semi-circle before him, their ceremonial attire emphasizing their deep commitment to their gods and their people.

Adala was a theocracy to its core, and Bartholomew knew this negotiation would not be about land, coin, or armies. It would hinge on faith—and the acceptance of Marcus Aumont, the ruler of Espada, as their destined leader under their divine principles.

With a deep bow, Bartholomew began. “Honored councilors and esteemed high priests, I come to you bearing a message of partnership and unity. Espada recognizes the strength of Adala, not only in its people and traditions but in its unwavering faith. It is for this reason that King Marcus Aumont, the chosen of the divine, seeks to bring your great city under the protective mantle of Espada. Not as conquerors, but as brothers and sisters united in purpose.”

The High Speaker of the council, an elderly man with sharp eyes and a weathered face, leaned forward. “Bartholomew of Espada, Adala has endured for centuries, guided by the light of our gods. To submit to a mortal king, no matter how noble, is to forsake the divine order that has sustained us. Tell me, why should we believe your Marcus Aumont is more than a man? What proof do you offer of his divine mandate?”

Bartholomew clasped his hands behind his back, his voice steady and reverent. “King Marcus Aumont is no ordinary king. He is the chosen instrument of the God-Machine, the force that turns the wheels of destiny and guides us toward enlightenment and order. He does not seek to replace your gods but to fulfill their purpose through his rule. It is not submission we ask for, but partnership—a sacred bond that will see Adala flourish.”

A murmur spread through the council. Some of the priests exchanged wary glances, while others appeared intrigued. The High Speaker raised a hand to silence them. “You speak of fulfillment, yet your words echo ambition. Faith cannot be bartered, envoy. If Marcus truly carries the blessing of the divine, then let him prove it here, before us.”

Bartholomew nodded, as if expecting the challenge. From within his robes, he produced a relic—a shimmering crystal, its surface etched with intricate runes that glowed faintly in the ambient light. He held it aloft, his voice resonant with authority.

“This crystal carries the blessing of Marcus Aumont, the manifestation of his divine will. Through it, his voice speaks to those who would hear, his truth revealed to those with the faith to accept it.”

As the chamber fell into hushed anticipation, Bartholomew closed his eyes and focused on the relic. A low hum filled the air, and the light from the stained glass seemed to refract unnaturally, casting swirling patterns around the room. A deep, commanding voice echoed through the chamber—not from Bartholomew, but from the relic itself.

“I am Marcus Aumont, the one chosen to guide this age to its ordained glory. Through my rule, your gods shall know completion, their will aligned with the great design. Stand with Espada, and your faith will stand eternal. Reject me, and you reject their divine plan.”

The leaders froze, their faces a mix of awe and fear. Even the High Speaker seemed shaken, his voice faltering as he spoke. “This… power. Is it truly of the divine?”

Bartholomew lowered the relic, his voice softening. “The God-Machine does not demand blind obedience, but faith tested and proven. What you have heard is but a fragment of Marcus Aumont’s divinity. Under his leadership, Adala will remain a beacon of faith, its traditions honored and strengthened. The temples will stand, the priesthood will flourish, and your gods will guide your people through him.”

One of the younger priests, her eyes wide with wonder, rose to her feet. “If we accept, what does Adala gain from this alliance?”

Bartholomew smiled gently. “You gain the strength of Espada, a kingdom unified in faith and purpose. Your lands will be protected, your people enriched, and your faith elevated to heights unimaginable. In Marcus Aumont, you will find not just a king, but the hand of the divine working through a mortal vessel.”

The High Speaker nodded slowly, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. “We will deliberate. But know this, envoy—if what you say is true, and Marcus Aumont is indeed the instrument of the divine, Adala will not merely follow. We will devote ourselves to him.”

Bartholomew bowed deeply. “May your deliberations be guided by wisdom and faith, honorable councilors. I await your answer.”

As he turned to leave the chamber, the light of the stained glass reflected off the relic in his hands, casting a faint but unmistakable image of a great wheel turning—a symbol that did not go unnoticed by the councilors. The seeds of belief had been sown, and Bartholomew knew that soon, Adala would embrace their place in Espada’s divine design.

 

[The Night Court]

Bartholomew stood in the vestibule of the Great Basilica, his hands clasped before him as he gazed at the intricate carvings of Adala’s gods on the temple walls. The faint murmur of the council’s deliberation echoed from the chamber beyond, their voices low but tense. They debated whether to accept the mantle of vassalship under Espada and recognize Marcus Aumont as the God-Machine incarnate—a decision that would shape their city’s future.

But Bartholomew was patient. He knew that the council’s decision, though important, was not the only key to securing Adala’s allegiance. For weeks, his agents had been at work, seeding belief in Marcus among the people.

In the crowded marketplaces, whispers spread like wildfire. Merchants spoke of miraculous victories attributed to Marcus’ divine favor. In the alleys, sermons were given in secret, drawing curious listeners eager to hear of a God-Machine who promised both order and prosperity. In Adala’s lower districts, where the grip of the clergy was weaker, gatherings had already begun—small congregations where Espadian missionaries preached Marcus’ gospel, weaving his teachings into the city’s deeply ingrained faith.

Bartholomew had even sent emissaries to key figures within the temple, appealing to their personal ambitions. A young priestess who sought to rise above her station. An elder frustrated with the council’s stagnation. Seeds of doubt and desire had been planted carefully, nurturing a belief that Marcus Aumont was not a rival to their gods, but a fulfillment of their divine vision.

One such emissary approached him now—a man cloaked in simple garb, his demeanor unassuming but his purpose sharp. “The sermons in the South Quarter draw more each night,” the man said quietly, bowing his head. “They speak of Marcus as the destined guide, chosen by the heavens to unite our people under a single faith. Even some of the city guard have begun attending.”

Bartholomew nodded, a faint smile gracing his lips. “Good. The council debates their gods, but the people already feel the truth of Marcus’ divinity. When the time comes, they will follow, even if their leaders hesitate.”

The man hesitated. “What if the council rejects the proposal? The High Speaker is stubborn, and some of the elders fear losing their authority.”

Bartholomew’s eyes gleamed with quiet confidence. “If the council rejects Marcus, they will find themselves ruling a city that no longer follows their decrees. Faith is a flame, my friend, and it spreads faster than fear. Let them cling to their seats of power for now. When the people call for Marcus as their God-Machine, the council will have no choice but to kneel.”

As the emissary disappeared back into the shadows, the council chamber doors creaked open, and the High Speaker emerged, his face weary but composed. The other councilors followed, their expressions a mix of doubt and reluctant intrigue.

Bartholomew stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Honored High Speaker. Have you reached a decision?”

The High Speaker’s voice was measured. “We have heard your words, envoy, and they carry weight. Yet the matter of faith is not one to be decided lightly. The council requires time to seek divine guidance. Until then, no agreement can be reached.”

Bartholomew inclined his head, his tone calm and respectful. “Of course, High Speaker. Faith must never be rushed. Take all the time you need to find the truth.”

As the councilors filed past him, Bartholomew turned back toward the carved gods on the walls, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He knew that while the council sought divine guidance, the people of Adala would already be shaping their own faith—a faith that would soon leave the council with little choice but to accept Marcus Aumont as their divine king.

For Bartholomew, victory was not forged in a single meeting but cultivated in the hearts of the people. And in Adala, that faith was already taking root.

 

[Kingdom Of Espada]

The chamber was heavy with incense and tension as the councilors of Adala debated late into the evening. The High Speaker sat at the head of the crescent-shaped table, his gnarled hands clasped tightly around his ceremonial staff. Around him, the other members of the council—priests, elders, and scholars—spoke in heated tones, their voices echoing in the stone hall.

“We cannot ignore what we witnessed today,” said Elder Roshan, his voice grave but steady. “The relic spoke, and its power was undeniable. Whether we like it or not, Marcus Aumont may truly be chosen by the divine.”

Lady Deyra, a younger priestess and the most fervent traditionalist, shook her head vehemently. “Chosen by the divine? Or by forces we do not understand? It is folly to accept him without question! Adala has thrived for centuries under the guidance of our gods. To bow to Marcus as the God-Machine is to renounce the very foundation of our faith.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through some of the council, but others remained silent, their expressions conflicted.

“The people seem to think otherwise,” said High Scholar Ellan, his tone weary but firm. “Have you not heard the whispers in the streets? Already, our citizens speak of Marcus as a savior. His followers grow bolder by the day, spreading their sermons in every corner of the city. If we reject him outright, we risk alienating our own flock.”

“Alienating them?” Deyra snapped, her eyes blazing. “It is our duty to protect them! To guard their faith from corruption! If the people falter, it is because they have been led astray by Bartholomew and his clever lies.”

Elder Roshan frowned. “Are they lies, though? That voice… that power. It was no simple trick.”

“And yet, we cannot ignore the danger of rushing into submission,” said another councilor, a stoic elder named Ashem. “If Marcus is indeed divine, then time will reveal the truth. But if he is not, we risk surrendering Adala to a mortal king’s ambitions disguised as faith.”

The High Speaker finally raised his hand, silencing the room. His voice was deep, resonant, and carried the weight of decades of leadership.

“We face a delicate balance. On one side, we risk betraying the faith that has guided us for centuries. On the other, we risk isolating ourselves from a growing tide of belief. If the people’s faith in Marcus grows stronger than their faith in us, this council will lose its authority, and chaos will follow.”

He paused, looking around the room, his gaze piercing. “What we must decide is not simply whether Marcus is divine. We must decide how to preserve Adala’s unity—its people, its traditions, and its future.”

Lady Deyra scowled but held her tongue, while Elder Roshan leaned forward. “Then what do you propose, High Speaker?”

The High Speaker exhaled slowly. “We will not reject Marcus outright, but neither will we embrace him without question. We will demand more proof of his divinity—proof that goes beyond relics and sermons. Until then, we will allow the sermons to continue but under our supervision. If Marcus is truly chosen by the divine, his faith will withstand scrutiny. If it is not…”

He let the words hang, their meaning clear.

The councilors exchanged glances, some nodding in agreement, others visibly reluctant.

“And if the people reject our guidance and turn to Marcus regardless?” asked High Scholar Ellan.

The High Speaker’s gaze darkened. “Then we will face that battle when it comes. For now, we must tread carefully. The people must believe that this council still holds their best interests at heart.”

He stood, signaling the end of the deliberations. “We will summon Bartholomew tomorrow and deliver our decision. Until then, let no one speak of this debate outside these walls.”

As the councilors rose and filed out of the chamber, the High Speaker lingered, his eyes fixed on the altar at the far end of the room. He whispered a prayer to the gods of Adala, his voice low and trembling.

“Grant me wisdom, oh holy ones. For I fear our faith is at a crossroads, and the path ahead is shrouded in shadow.”

 

[The Night Court]

Bartholomew sat alone in the dim light of a flickering candle, his mind racing with the intricate plans that would soon take shape across the city of Adala. The council’s indecision was no surprise to him; their faith was too deeply rooted in tradition, their skepticism too entrenched to yield so quickly to the idea of Marcus Aumont as the God-Machine. But Bartholomew had not placed his trust in the council alone. The true power in Adala lay in its streets, its marketplaces, and its alleys. Faith was a seed, and he had spent months quietly planting it among the people.

His network of acolytes worked tirelessly, though they bore no robes or outward signs of allegiance. They were merchants and laborers, beggars and minor priests, their loyalty sworn not to Bartholomew but to the vision of Marcus he had carefully crafted for them. These acolytes spoke in whispers, weaving tales of miracles and divine power into the fabric of daily life. A merchant might recount how Marcus’ favor had turned a poor harvest into a bounty. A washerwoman would tell of her sick child, cured after praying to the God-Machine. These stories, passed from mouth to mouth, were deliberately humble, told as if they were born of the people’s own faith. Marcus was never presented as a usurper of Adala’s gods but as their fulfillment, a living manifestation of divine will.

Bartholomew had already begun to see the effects. Crowds gathered in secret to hear the sermons of his agents, drawn by curiosity and an aching hope for something greater. Even the city guard had started to whisper of Marcus as a savior, their doubts eroding with each tale of his supposed miracles. Yet he knew this was only the beginning. The people of Adala were skeptical by nature, wary of magic and charlatans. They would need to witness something undeniable, something so extraordinary that their faith in Marcus would not merely grow but become unshakable.

He leaned back in his chair, the glow of the candle casting shadows across the maps and notes spread before him. His mind raced through scenarios, each one a potential turning point in his campaign. The sick and destitute, praying for relief in Adala’s infirmaries, would be perfect witnesses for a staged miracle. With his magics, Bartholomew could heal a dying child before a crowd, presenting it as a blessing of the God-Machine. Or perhaps the stars themselves could be his canvas, reshaped to form the great wheel of Marcus’ symbol above the city, a fleeting but undeniable sign from the heavens.

The relics of Adala also presented an opportunity. During his audience with the council, the relic’s reaction had sown doubt even among the most devout traditionalists. Bartholomew could amplify this effect, orchestrating a moment where the relic seemed to come alive, glowing with divine energy as it responded to prayers offered in Marcus’ name. For the skeptics who loudly opposed him, he envisioned a display of divine retribution—an illusion of fire or light striking down a vocal critic, leaving them unharmed but visibly shaken. Their sudden, dramatic conversion would ripple through the city, turning doubt into awe.

Every miracle would be carefully witnessed by his acolytes, who would spread the stories with fervor. They would embellish the details, ensuring that Marcus’ name became synonymous with salvation. Each tale would be tied to Adala’s own religious lore, making it feel like the natural culmination of their faith rather than an intrusion.

Bartholomew extinguished the candle and rose, his shadow flickering against the walls. Outside, the city of Adala was still and quiet, but he knew the seeds he had sown were already beginning to grow. Soon, the people would speak Marcus’ name not as a conqueror but as their living god, the answer to their prayers.

“It is not enough for them to believe,” Bartholomew murmured to himself. “They must need him. They must see him as their salvation, the divine hand that will guide them into a new age.” With that thought, he pulled his cloak around him and slipped into the night. The pathways of Adala were as familiar to him now as the strategies etched into his mind. Step by step, heart by heart, he would see to it that every street in the city echoed with the name of Marcus Aumont, the God-Machine.