The Last Banner

The morning sunlight spilled through the tall, arched windows of Helena's chambers, painting the room in soft gold. She sat at her writing desk, quill in hand, the sharp scratch of ink on parchment filling the silence. Across the room, Mistress Althea stood by the window, her silver-streaked hair catching the light as she watched Helena's progress with a keen eye.

"Your analysis of trade tariffs is thorough," Mistress Althea said, breaking the quiet. "But you've overlooked one critical factor. In Lysara, and many human kingdoms, the Church of the Eternal Flame dictates the flow of wealth just as much as the nobility does."

Helena paused, her quill hovering over the page. "The Church?" she asked, glancing up. "Why would they concern themselves with trade? Isn't their role supposed to be spiritual?"

Mistress Althea's lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn't reach her eyes. "Ah, but you misunderstand their purpose. The Church of the Flame isn't just a religious institution—it's a political force. Every kingdom, every duchy, feels its influence. Through blessings, decrees, and even threats of divine judgment, the Church ensures that no coin exchanges hands without their approval."

Helena frowned. "But doesn't that stifle progress? Wouldn't constant interference weaken kingdoms?"

"On the contrary," Mistress Althea replied, clasping her hands behind her back. "The Church has ensured humanity's survival, even if their methods seem... heavy-handed. After all, what do you think holds us together when so much else has fallen apart?"

Helena's hand tightened slightly on the quill. She had heard the stories, of course—everyone had. Humanity's kingdoms, once sprawling and mighty, had been the pinnacle of the world. Great empires spanned continents, their borders unchallenged, their power unmatched. But that was before the other races appeared—mysteries that still baffled even the wisest scholars.

No one knew how it began. Elves—both high and dark—had emerged from the forests with their mastery of magic and ancient knowledge. The Lizardmen, strange and alien, brought power drawn from the very essence of the world. Dwarves, with their unmatched craftsmanship and resilience, claimed the mountains. The undead had risen without warning, their cursed legions spreading fear and decay. The Skaven—terrifying creatures half-hidden in shadow—infested the underbelly of the world. And finally, the orcs, goblins, trolls, and their monstrous kin swept across the plains like a tide of destruction, their raw savagery consuming everything in their path.

These races had risen from seemingly nowhere, as though the world itself had conjured them to humble humanity.

Empires that had stood for centuries crumbled under the weight of these invasions. Cities were burned, armies broken, and borders redrawn. Where humanity had once been the rulers of the earth, they were now fractured and struggling to survive. Kingdoms splintered into duchies, each fending for itself in the face of relentless threats.

Amid the chaos, the Church of the Eternal Flame had emerged as a stabilizing force. Their priestesses, wielding fire and light, had rallied humanity's remnants. They declared themselves the intermediaries of divine will, promising protection and prosperity to those who submitted to the Flame's guidance.

But submission came at a cost. The Church's power grew, its influence spreading like the very fire it worshipped. Kingdoms leaned on their blessings, and soon, rulers could scarcely make decisions without the Church's approval. Taxes were adjusted at the Flame's whim, trade agreements rewritten to suit their interests, and even marriages dictated by their designs.

For the common people, the Church was both a beacon of hope and a symbol of oppression. The priestesses spoke of salvation, but their actions often served the nobility and the Church's coffers. To question the Flame was heresy, and heresy was met with swift, fiery retribution.

Helena's hand twitched as she resumed writing, her thoughts clouded by Mistress Althea's words. Thrace had always balanced the Church's influence carefully. Her father, Duke Leonidas, respected the Flame publicly but kept its interference at arm's length. Here in Lysara, it was clear that balance was not a priority. The Church's presence was woven into every aspect of life, from trade to governance.

"This is why the Church holds such sway," Mistress Althea continued, her voice soft but unyielding. "Through control of wealth and belief, they shape humanity's survival. To the common people, they are saviors. To the nobility, they are equals—or rivals."

Helena set her quill down, her green eyes narrowing slightly. "And what if someone tried to resist them?"

Mistress Althea's smile returned, sharper this time. "That, Lady Helena, would depend on how much they were willing to sacrifice. The Church does not take defiance lightly."

Helena remained silent, her thoughts drifting to Thrace once more. The simplicity of home, where decisions were practical and direct, seemed almost quaint compared to the tangled web of politics and faith that dominated Lysara.

Helena walked through the bustling streets of Lysara, her crimson cloak trailing behind her as the sounds of the city enveloped her. The cobblestones beneath her feet were uneven, worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic. Stalls lined the edges of the road, their vendors hawking everything from vibrant silks to exotic spices. The mingling scents of fresh bread, incense, and sweat filled the air, a mixture that was both invigorating and stifling.

A courtier had offered to escort her, but Helena declined. She preferred to observe the city on her own, free of the stiff formalities that followed her inside the palace. Her keen green eyes took in every detail: the opulence of the inner district fading gradually into the practical simplicity of the merchant quarter, and then to the struggling outskirts.

It was in these transitions that Lysara revealed its true face.

The merchant quarter was alive with activity. Traders barked their wares, their voices competing with the clang of metalworkers forging tools and jewelry. Buyers haggled over prices, their hands gesturing wildly as they argued over the worth of goods.

Helena stopped by a stall selling fine fabrics, her fingers brushing against a bolt of deep green silk.

"Perfect for a gown, my lady," the merchant said, his smile wide but his eyes calculating. "Lysaran silk is the finest in the region, blessed by the Eternal Flame itself!"

Helena raised an eyebrow. "Blessed silk? Is it more durable because of that, or just more expensive?"

The merchant hesitated, clearly unsure how to respond to her dry tone. Helena smirked faintly and moved on, leaving the man scrambling to recover his pitch for the next customer.

As she wandered further, Helena noticed the sharp divide between the merchants themselves. Some stalls overflowed with luxuries: gold-stitched fabrics, rare spices, polished gemstones. The merchants here stood tall, their wealth evident in their fine clothes and confident postures.

But further down the street, the stalls became humbler. Farmers sold vegetables with dirt still clinging to their roots, fishermen offered their catches on wooden carts that smelled faintly of brine and decay. These merchants kept their eyes down, their voices quieter, their desperation more apparent.

Helena's steps slowed as she observed a small child standing near one such stall, her wide eyes fixed on a loaf of bread. The baker noticed her and shooed her away, his expression hard. The child darted back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as she'd appeared.

Helena's gaze shifted upward, drawn to the towering spire of one of the Eternal Flame's temples that loomed at the edge of the merchant quarter. It was a magnificent structure, its crimson and gold facade glowing in the sunlight. Priestesses in flowing robes moved gracefully up the wide steps, their hands raised in blessing to those who bowed before them.

She noticed how the wealthiest merchants bowed deeply, their chins practically brushing the ground, while the poorer vendors only offered hurried nods. The priestesses returned the bows of the wealthy with smiles and prayers, but to the poorer ones, they barely spared a glance.

Helena's lips pressed into a thin line. Divine favor seems conveniently selective here.

A few feet away, she overheard two merchants murmuring in hushed tones.

"She paid double for her blessing," one said, his voice low. "I saw her slip the priestess a pouch after the service."

"Of course she did," the other replied, shaking his head. "Without the Flame's approval, her business would be cursed before the week was out."

Helena turned away, her mind churning. It wasn't that the Church wielded influence that surprised her—she had already seen that much in her lessons. But seeing how deeply it bled into everyday life made it harder to dismiss as just a political tool. Here, the Church wasn't just a force in governance. It was the scaffolding that held the entire city together, no matter how rotted the beams beneath might be.

As Helena ventured further, the noise and activity of the inner city gave way to quieter, rougher streets. The outer district was stark in its poverty. The buildings were smaller, crammed together like pieces of a haphazard puzzle. Children played barefoot in the dirt, their laughter tinged with a sharpness that spoke of hunger and hardship.

She passed a group of laborers hauling crates from a cart, their movements slow and deliberate, their faces lined with exhaustion. One stumbled under the weight, the crate slipping from his hands and shattering on the ground.

A priestess who had been walking nearby paused, her gaze flicking to the broken crate. She shook her head and muttered something under her breath before continuing on her way, leaving the laborer to scramble and clean the mess alone.

Helena's fists clenched briefly at her sides, but she forced herself to keep walking. This isn't Thrace, she reminded herself. It's not my place to interfere. Not yet.

As she turned back toward the palace, her thoughts drifted to her family. Hadrian would have seen through this city's facade instantly, his sharp mind picking apart every flaw, every crack in the gleaming exterior. Alexander would have tried to fix it all with sheer force of will. And her sisters—how would they have viewed this place? Would they have seen the splendor or the shadows beneath?

Helena exhaled softly, her footsteps echoing against the cobblestones. 'I'm getting home sick-errrgh', she thought. 'This place is awful'.