“In its ambitious attempt to portray the transition from deities to idols, the ‘Divine Tragedy’ stumbles on its own grand scope. The work fundamentally misunderstands—or perhaps deliberately ignores—the crucial role of human agency in shaping religious and societal norms. Instead, it presents a passive metamorphosis where there should be struggle and choice. The verse, though undeniably compelling in its artistry, cannot mask this philosophical void at the play’s core.”

  – Gideon Stonewall, The Divine Tragedy: A Tragedy of Insight?

  Year 298 of the Age of the Tetrarchy

  Kel was awash in its perpetual summer, a humid haven nestled within an emerald embrace of thick jungle foliage.

  At least that was what you would have seen, if you approached it from the sea.

  Slowly, buildings would reveal themselves. Marble spires with obsidian ornaments before anything else, of course. What did they say? Every city holds a mystery, but the first sight of her skyline is a key, inviting you to unlock all that lies within. At the center of this city sprawled the Ministry of Faith, a city within the city, really. Monument to opulence and power, despite any official declarations to the contrary.

  Next to it—almost huddled in its shadow—golden domes glistened under the high sun, catching the light as if they were alight with an ethereal fire. The Tetrarch’s palace. And two figures in front, staring up.

  Delam adjusted the collar of his uniform, trying to make himself more comfortable in the oppressive heat. Great idea, this uniform. He missed the ever-present breeze on his ship. All the while, his dark eyes surveyed the grandeur of the palace with, the surely intended, awe and apprehension. Beside him, Harrold—his ‘burly ogre with a knack for negotiation,’ as Delam liked to call him—was sweating profusely, his usually cheerful face marred with lines of discomfort.

  “Remind me again why we didn’t bring a shade-bearer or two with us on this trip,” Harrold muttered, using a handkerchief to wipe his brow.

  “A shade-bearer, Harrold?” Delam replied with a sardonic smirk. “What’s next, a personal fan-bearer? We’re on a mission here, not a vacation. Imagine what they’d say about us back home, if they knew. No, we need more Elevated and the road to success isn’t shaded, Harrold.”

  Harrold rolled his eyes and stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Fine then, I’ll brave the sun. Though I’m pretty sure my face is going to melt off before we even start to negotiate.”

  Delam bit off a comment about how that would be an overall improvement to Harrold’s appearance. Some things were better left unsaid. Instead, they entered the towering foyer of the palace in silence. Inside, they were greeted with a merciful coolness.

  Before them lay paper. Lots of paper. No, Delam corrected internally, whole mountain ranges of paper. Before them rose a maze of paperwork, neatly stacked next to each desk. Behind each desk, a hunched over figure sat and wrote.

  They had been warned. Protocol in Kel, their advisors had said, is designed to filter out the trivial from the important, the mundane from the extraordinary. Their mission had been made clear for Delam and Harrold—secure an audience with the Tetrarch of Kel and persuade him to assign more Elevated to the city of Olban. Or do not come back at all. Your choice.

  Delam recalled one of their advisors asking Embrez, one drunken night, whether he would prefer more ships or more Elevated. The Bloody Duke had taken a swig of ale and looked at the man with obvious distaste. “You know what’s the difference between trees and Elevated? Only one of them appears out of thin air.” And that was that.

  Now Delam paced through this wide hall in Kel, ogling the grandiose ceiling far, far above them. Their reverie was only interrupted by the sounds of quills scratching rhythmically, echoing softly in the open space. Unsure how to proceed, Delam chose a desk at random. Harrold, face still turned upward, nearly ran into him when Delam changed his direction.

  “Good day, sir,” Delam began, righting himself as he approached the nearest clerk. “We wish to request an audience with your Tetrarch.”

  The clerk looked up, his eyes flickering over Delam and Harrold before he pointed toward a stack of parchment.

  “Form 672-C, gentlemen,” he said, voice as dry as the parchment in front of him. “Complete in duplicate. No cross-outs or blots, if you please.”

  Clearing his throat, Delam began again, “My dear man, there must be a misunderstanding here. We’re no ordinary petitioners. Let me tell you that…” The withering look that the man shot at Delam immediately shut him up. He gave Harrold an exasperated look over his shoulder. Where was the ‘knack for negotiation’ now? Harrold merely shrugged his huge shoulders. Delam sighed. Sometimes it was just the ogre.

  He picked up two of the documents from the stack the clerk had indicated. Delam began to skim its contents, his eyebrows furrowing with confusion as he made his way through the text. It was a lengthy document, form 672-C, crammed with instructions, footnotes, and cross-references. Questions about their lineage, the average annual rainfall in their city of origin, the color of their horses... it seemed as though every conceivable question that had no bearing on their request had somehow found a place in the form.

  He grabbed Harrold by the arm and, together, they navigated the labyrinth of the form. Occasionally, its cryptic language and obscure demands even prompted Delam and Harrold to heated debates over their interpretation—quickly followed by irritated hushes from the clerks in their vicinity. Some people just had no respect.

  Finally finished, they presented the filled form to the clerk, who promptly directed them to another desk in the room, manned by a man who somehow appeared to be the spitting image of the first, save for a distinguishing mole on his left cheek.

  “This is Form 721-Q, gentlemen,” the mole-bearing clerk stated, handing them a document, “to verify the authenticity of the details filled out in Form 672-C.” This form, somehow even lengthier than the first, indeed asked them to reconfirm the details they had filled out earlier, but in a reversed order. Delam sighed and refrained from arguing this time.

  And so it went, for the better part of the day.

  The two found themselves navigating a dizzying array of corridors, each leading to a new room filled with clerks and new forms—forms to request forms, forms to validate the completion of other forms, even forms to justify the necessity of the previously filled-out forms.

  As they traipsed from room to room, the sun began its slow descent, casting elongated, grotesque shadows over the palace. By now, their patience was hanging by a thread, their tempers flaring at the absurdity of it all. In one office, Harrold found himself filling out a form to confirm the color of his hair. A detail, he loudly pointed out, that was plainly visible to the clerk handling the form.

  “I swear, if they ask for one more form, I might just swim back to Olban,” Harrold grumbled. “If I’d known navigating palace bureaucracy was like wrestling an octopus, I’d have brought my harpoon.”

  Delam chuckled, despite himself. “Patience, Harrold. We’re playing by their rules here. The sooner we accept that, the easier this will get.”

  By the time they reached what appeared to be the final room, the palace was bathed in the soft hues of the setting sun. Exhausted, Delam slumped into the chair in front of the last clerk’s desk, a rotund man with a weary expression who skimmed over their stack of meticulously filled forms. In all his years at sea, Delam had faced storms and pirates, but never had he navigated waters as treacherous as the ocean of paperwork in the Tetrarch’s palace.

  “It appears everything is in order,” the man yawned, his eyes barely open. “You’ll be informed when the Tetrarch can meet with you.”

  With an equally exhausted and relieved sigh, they sank into the plush seats of the waiting room, hands cramped from the hours of writing. There, they found themselves in the company of other petitioners, each holding their own stack of forms, faces etched with the same weary frustration Delam felt.

  A servant, dressed in the pristine black-and-silver uniform of the palace, floated around the room, carrying a tray laden with fragrant Kelian tea. Delam accepted a cup, savoring the warm, spiced aroma, while Harrold declined, mumbling something about not wanting to fill out a ‘tea consumption form.’

  As he sipped from his tea, Delam took in the air of resigned exasperation that permeated the room. An ambience that was only occasionally punctured by whispered conversations of the waiting petitioners or the soft rustle of paper. Leaning back into his chair, Delam turned toward Harrold, a smirk dancing on his lips.

  “Did you ever think we’d miss being out on the sea, facing raging storms and treacherous creatures?” Delam asked, elbowing his friend.

  Harrold let out a throaty laugh. “If you’d told me a year ago that I’d prefer a kraken’s company over paperwork, I would’ve said you’d been hit on the head one too many times. I’d probably still say that last one, though.”

  They were interrupted by a creaking sound. A flicker of hope stirred in Delam’s breast, as he watched the opening door. Yet it only revealed a small, stooped man, clutching a form in gnarled hands. His brow seemed creased with worry as he squinted at the room through his thick spectacles.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Turning to a younger attendant perched on a stool, the old man’s voice trembled. “Is this where I submit the form for the request of a third cousin’s lineage verification?”

  The attendant, scarcely more than a boy, directed the old man toward the rotund clerk with a lazy flick of his quill. As the old man hobbled toward the clerk, Delam could hear muffled fragments of the ensuing exchange.

  “The third cousin twice removed, is it on the mother’s side or the father’s side?” the rotund clerk asked behind his seemingly endless stack of documents.

  Harrold groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I really did prefer it out at sea, Delam. At least the sharks we dealt with were in the water, not behind desks.”

  Delam smiled and patted the shoulder of his friend. Then, soon after he finished his cup of tea, a palace attendant finally approached them, her face just as blank as the forms they had been filling out all day.

  “Gentlemen,” she began, her voice echoing across the high marble ceilings of the waiting room, “His Excellency, the Tetrarch, will see you now.”

  “‘Now,’ like in today?” Delam asked hopefully as he rose. The attendant nodded and turned. He exchanged a glance with Harrold, who simply shrugged. Delam waved him onward.

  As they followed the woman down a long corridor decorated with murals, their footsteps reverberated against the gleaming mosaic floor. “Your scheduling is impressive,” Delam managed to say, still processing their long day. “We didn’t expect to be granted an audience so swiftly.”

  The attendant paused to glance back at them and offered a crisp smile. “Gentlemen, your audience was scheduled the moment you first approached the front desk. The paperwork... well, it’s only a formality, really. We mainly use it for research. You wouldn’t believe how ecstatic researchers can get when their questions are placed on a general form.” Then she turned again and resumed her walk.

  Belatedly, Delam noticed his mouth, hanging open.

  Yet, before he could think of an appropriate response that did not end in open war with the Tetrarchy, their little procession halted before large double doors, adorned with intricate silver leaf designs.

  The attendant opened the doors, giving them a view over a surprisingly small conference chamber, hardly more than an elongated table, which still somehow abounded with riches. Dark, gleaming mahogany was visible everywhere, chased with silver inlays. Along the table, crystal jugs displayed variously colored liquids. A model of a Kelian three-master stood perched on a small side table. All four walls were covered with detailed landscape paintings of the surrounding bay, making it almost seem as if their meeting was held in the jungle around them.

  Two figures sat at the table, two stood. The person at its far end must have been Kel’s Tetrarch, clothed in a midnight blue robe.

  Delam braced himself. Here went nothing. As they hesitantly stepped into the room, a woman shot up from her chair, leaving the Tetrarch’s side, boots resonating sharply on the polished floor as she strode toward them. The woman’s bright and piercing eyes assessed them critically for a heartbeat. Then, without preamble, she started to talk.

  “Captain Delam and... Harrold, is it? We were expecting you. Now, would you mind explaining the reason behind this sudden—frankly unexpected—request for more Elevated?” Her words, her entire blunt demeanor, caught Delam off guard for a second.

  Yet before he could answer, a deep voice echoed throughout the chamber, full of stern authority with just a hint of amusement. “Tarene, let them catch their breath first.” The Tetrarch, Feldar, stood, his gaze resting steadily on Delam and Harrold. “I believe introductions are in order. This is Vice Minister Tarene, gentlemen. She’s here today to represent the affairs of the Ministry of Faith.”

  Feldar waved his hand toward two empty chairs opposite himself and motioned for them to sit. A sour expression on her face, Tarene also returned to her seat. Harrold collapsed into his chair with a loud sigh of relief. Delam, however, remained standing.

  “Your Excellency. We’re here on behalf of Duke Embrez, from the city of Olban in the Trifelt,” he began, voice remaining clear and steady throughout the prepared entreaty. “We suffer greatly from the unjust aggressions of Ustil and the other cities in the region. Our people suffer. We need to protect them and cannot do so with our current assignment of Elevated. Duke Embrez asks for more Elevated for his city, to stave off the raiders and warmongers, and so that we might better protect the trade routes that so enriches this great city of Kel.” At this last point, he could not help but gesture around the richly decorated room.

  Tarene leaned forward, her expression skeptical. “And what makes you think, sailor, that the Tetrarchy would agree to such a request? As I’m sure you well know, we also have treaties with Ustil and the other cities. What do you think they’d do if we intervened on your behalf? Wars have been fought over less than a breach of contract.”

  “We understand the importance of treaties, Vice Minister.” Delam met her gaze, keeping his tone even. “But we’re also aware of the harsh reality our people face. Every day. They can’t wait for diplomacy to save them. They’re slaughtered as we speak. We need more Elevated, and we need them now.”

  “This is a sensitive matter, Captain,” Feldar stroked his long beard, eyes flickering between Delam and Tarene. “We can’t simply hand out Elevated without careful consideration. Besides, it takes years to train them properly, they’re a danger to themselves and others before that. We have a great responsibility here. The balance of power must be maintained by the Tetrarchy.”

  “Precisely, Your Excellency.” Next to Delam, Harrold suddenly leaned forward, his voice low but urgent. “That’s exactly Delam’s point. Lamentably, this balance of power is already lost in the Trifelt, already tipped in favor of Ustil and the other cities. They’ve combined their forces. Together, they have more Elevated than we do, and they use that fact to push us around and oppress our people. If you won’t intervene, they will conquer us. If Olban falls, the ripple effects will be felt across the whole Tetrarchy. We need more Elevated to level the playing field, to protect ourselves and our trade routes. Granting us more Elevated isn’t just aid; it’s an investment. With a strengthened Olban, the entire Tetrarchy stands firmer as a result.”

  This was Harrold’s gift. Hulking ogre most of the time, silver tongue whenever it counted most. It did not make any sense, and Delam loved it. He had to hold himself back from patting the huge man on his shoulder.

  There was a moment of tense silence as the Tetrarch and his vice minister exchanged a glance, their faces unreadable to Delam. Finally, Feldar spoke and his voice filled out the cramped chamber. “Your case has moved me. It truly has. But you must understand, we can’t simply redraw boundaries overnight.”

  He paused, holding up a hand to stave off Delam’s protest. “However, your Duke’s... enthusiasm for working with the Tetrarchy has also caught my attention.” Feldar’s gaze drifted to the side of the room, where a tall, young man in a teal-colored suit leaned casually against a pillar, observing the proceedings with a faint smirk. Their eyes met and some unspoken message passed between them.

  “Therefore, after careful consideration, we’ll increase your allotment of Elevated,” Feldar declared, patently ignoring Tarene’s startled sounds of protest. Delam brightened, but Feldar immediately raised his hand again. “But. There will be conditions.”

  As if on cue, the suited man glided forward, interjecting smoothly. “Naturally, to maintain stability, these additional Elevated must be assigned strategically. I’ll oversee their placement personally.”

  Tarene shot him a withering glare, but he continued unperturbed. “Furthermore, their abilities must... align with your needs. We have plans for the region. But don’t worry. We have some excellent candidates in training that come to mind. No unwelcome surprises, no chaos. And it goes without saying that your Duke’s loyalty is expected in these times of change. As is his payment for the additional Elevated.”

  The words floated pleasantly across the room, but there was an undeniable edge beneath all the politesse. Delam swallowed. He noticed that Feldar watched their reactions closely, as if he was gauging their sincerity.

  Delam’s relief was palpable and a tension uncoiled within him. They would be able to report the success of their mission back home. He saw Harrold’s posture relax, his earlier frustration giving way to a cautious optimism. After a long moment, Delam responded, facing the Tetrarch, “This is most generous, Your Excellency. Our Duke of course understands the magnitude of the great gift you’re giving us. Olban’s allegiance is to the Tetrarchy. Now and evermore.”

  Feldar smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. “Excellent. Make sure Embrez remembers that. His little fiefdom remains at our pleasure.” As he dismissed them with a wave of his hand, he added, “Leftos will discuss the details with you. Do give my regards to your duke.”

  As the two Olbanese were led out by Leftos, Feldar turned to Tarene, amusement crinkling his eyes. “And you thought my theatrics were unnecessary.”

  Tarene huffed in exasperation. “Let me just note that I don’t appreciate it when the responsibility of my Ministry is being handed to third parties. Especially when those third parties are being regulated by my employees. Leftos is still young, Feldar. Minister Nethis won’t be pleased. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Don’t I always?” Feldar chuckled as she glared at him. He sobered and gazed out toward the city. His city, after a fashion. “Let’s be honest. Embrez has overplayed his hand. The tide is turning against him.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t all drown when it does.” Tarene studied her Tetrarch pensively. “You know about his opponent.”

  Feldar rose and walked over to the window, to get a better look at the sprawling city below. “The situation in the Trifelt is precarious, Tarene. Burn has been consolidating this Concordate of his rapidly. Too rapidly. He’s ambitious and cunning, and I won’t underestimate the threat he poses. Neither should you.”

  Tarene joined Feldar at the window. Below them, Vellion’s Vein lazily snaked its way between the Ministry grounds and the palace, its water running the color of moss. “So, you intend to use Embrez as a counterweight to Burn?” she asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Feldar replied. “Neither trusts the other, which works to our advantage. Let them clash over trade routes and petty squabbles. It prevents either from gaining too much influence in the region. And, in the meantime, Embrez will be forced to aid us with the ruins in the Trifelt. Nethis will be pleased, I imagine.”

  He turned to face Tarene. “But we must be careful not to let the conflict escalate beyond our control. The last thing we need now is open war in the Trifelt. No matter who wins, we can only lose.”

  Tarene crossed her arms. “And how exactly do you propose we maintain control, with those two rattling their sabers at one another?”

  The old man smiled thinly. “The same way we always do. Through subtle maneuvering, my dear Tarene. We’ll use our connections in both camps to stoke suspicions but prevent outright aggression. And our Delegates will... redirect things if needed.”

  Tarene raised one eyebrow. “Redirect?”

  “Ensure confrontations remain minor clashes, not wholesale destruction,” Feldar clarified. “The Delegates understand their duty. Isn’t that right, Thavos?”

  The giant behind Feldar’s seat, standing impassively throughout the entire exchange, merely grunted his assent, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Thavos. It was so easy to forget him.

  “Let’s hope so,” Tarene murmured. She pursed her lips in thought. “But you know we can’t afford to worry too much about the Trifelt. The bigger threat lies elsewhere. The Ministry has been clear on that. The killings have started again. And I suppose you realize how much our influence wanes in the south.”

  Feldar’s expression darkened. “Yes, that is troubling. But difficult to remedy. The Dormani guard their independence jealously. We hardly receive any news.” He sighed. “Still, we need to be careful. If we press too aggressively, we risk uniting them against us. For now, we simply watch and wait for opportunities to exert control.”

  Tarene nodded slowly. She understood the need for caution, but inaction worried her. It always had. Threats were arising, and Feldar seemed blind to the danger.

  Her gaze lingered on her Tetrarch as he returned to the table, shuffling through reports and directives before the next meeting. The machinery of bureaucracy churned onward, documents flowing in an endless stream. But Tarene wondered whether Feldar grasped that the sands were shifting under his feet. A storm was brewing—she was sure of it—and Tarene feared they were all hurtling toward the abyss. Nethis was on the right track with his project, but the old man was just so slow. Too slow.

  No, Kel needed someone to steer their ship through this storm. Someone… like her.