The Merchant's Rest was the kind of tavern that specialized in being forgettable. Tucked between a cooperage and a grain warehouse three blocks from the river docks, it served adequate ale to traders who needed a quiet place to conduct business without drawing attention. Gary had chosen it specifically because it was the sort of establishment where two men having a discrete conversation would blend into the background like morning mist.
He'd sent the message through Tobias, the fish merchant who supplied the Waystone's weekly catch. A simple request passed along trade routes that had existed longer than most kingdoms: "Tell Brother Marcus that an old friend would like to discuss mutual concerns about spiritual wellness. The usual place, tomorrow at noon."
The usual place. Twenty-five years ago, it had been a different tavern entirely—the Silver Swan, long since demolished to make room for a textile mill. But Marcus would understand the reference, and more importantly, he'd understand the careful nature of the request.
Gary nursed his ale and watched the door, his centuries of experience keeping his expression neutral while his mind catalogued every patron, every conversation, every potential threat. The Merchant's Rest attracted a steady stream of traders and dock workers, their conversations creating a comfortable wall of sound that would mask quieter discussions.
When Marcus finally appeared, Gary almost didn't recognize him.
The young, guilt-ridden cleric who'd once sat in Gary's circle, working through trauma with shaking hands and tear-filled eyes, had been replaced by a man of obvious authority. His robes were finer now, bearing the silver threading that marked senior clergy, and he moved with the careful confidence of someone accustomed to wielding power. But Gary's experienced eye caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze swept the room with practiced caution before settling on Gary's corner table.
"Gary." Marcus slid into the opposite chair with fluid grace, keeping his voice pitched just above a whisper. "When I got your message, I wasn't sure whether to feel relief or terror."
"Hopefully relief," Gary replied quietly. "Though I suspect terror might be more appropriate, given what I need to discuss."
Marcus's smile was wry, touched with the same dark humor Gary remembered from their sessions decades ago. "Let me guess—the Temple of Divine Order has been taking an interest in your little healing circle."
"More than an interest. They've made it clear they'd prefer we cease operations entirely."
"I was afraid of that." Marcus accepted the ale Gary had waiting for him, but didn't drink. "The new High Cleric has been... aggressive about consolidating spiritual authority under official channels."
Gary leaned forward slightly. "How new? And how aggressive?"
"Valdora took power eighteen months ago. She's young, ambitious, and sees the Order not as a tool for spiritual healing, but as a pathway to absolute power." Marcus's voice carried a bitter edge. "She's been systematically targeting anyone who might challenge her growing influence—healers, wise women, community leaders, even minor nobles who won't fall in line."
The words hit Gary like cold water. "Systematically?"
Marcus nodded grimly. "There's a list, Gary. Names, locations, methods of operation. Your tavern meetings have been under observation for months."
Gary's ale suddenly tasted like ash. "What kind of observation?"
"The thorough kind. They know your regular attendees, your meeting schedule, even some of what gets discussed." Marcus finally took a sip of his ale, using the motion to mask his expression. "But that's not the worst part."
Gary waited, dreading what was coming.
"Valdora isn't content with just eliminating competition. She's weaponizing every piece of information they gather. Using people's confessions, their moments of vulnerability, their deepest shames—turning them into leverage for complete political and economic control."
The confirmation of Pip's information settled in Gary's stomach like a stone. "She's building her own shadow government."
"Exactly. Blackmail, coercion, manipulation—but not just for the Order's benefit. She's positioning herself to control trade routes, influence royal succession, even dictate military policy. They've built files on half the nobility, most of the merchant guilds, three generals, and anyone else with influence who's ever sought spiritual counsel." Marcus's voice dropped even lower. "The Order has become the web at the center of her bid for absolute power, with every thread leading back to Valdora's hands."
Gary thought of his own family—Miriel's magical trauma, Korven's crisis of faith, Thorne's violent past, Pip's criminal history, Dr. Elara's manipulation by the necromancer. Any of those wounds could be weaponized by someone twisted enough to try.
"How deep does this go?" he asked.
Marcus was quiet for a long moment, staring into his ale as if it might contain answers to questions he'd been asking for years. "Deeper than you can imagine. Valdora has allies in the royal court, owns several major trading houses outright, controls at least three other religious orders, and has compromised military commanders. She's not just corrupting the Divine Order—she's using our corruption as the foundation for reshaping the entire kingdom under her control."
"And you? Where do you stand in all this?"
A ghost of the old Marcus flickered across his features—the young man who'd once broken down in Gary's tavern, weeping over the innocent blood on his hands. "I'm walking a very thin line. Publicly, I support her reforms. Privately, I document everything, protect who I can, and wait for the right moment to act."
"What would it take? To act, I mean."
Marcus looked up, and Gary saw something in his eyes that might have been hope. "Evidence that can't be dismissed or buried. Testimony from credible witnesses. And most importantly, support from outside the Order—people who can't be silenced or discredited."
The implication hung between them like a bridge waiting to be crossed.
"Marcus," Gary said carefully, "I may have some of what you need. But I need to know—are you asking me to trust you with my family's lives?"
The question seemed to age Marcus by years in the space of a heartbeat. "I'm asking you to trust me with the entire kingdom's future, Gary. Because if we don't stop this, Valdora won't be content with your little tavern meetings. She's building a system of absolute control that will corrupt everything from spiritual healing to royal governance. No one will be able to seek help, guidance, or even basic human comfort without it being catalogued and potentially used against them."
Gary studied the man across from him—the weight of authority he carried, the careful way he spoke, the obvious exhaustion of someone fighting a war no one else could see. But underneath all that institutional polish, Gary could still see the young cleric who'd once worked through his trauma one careful word at a time.
"All right," Gary said quietly. "Let's talk about what you need, and what we might be able to provide."
The conversation that followed was careful, coded, and filled with the kind of details that could get them both killed if overheard. By the time they parted ways—Marcus leaving first, Gary waiting a full ten minutes before departing—they had the outline of a plan that was either brilliant or suicidal.
Possibly both.
The bell had rung for that evening's meeting by the time Gary returned to the Waystone, but instead of the usual therapeutic circle, he found his family arranged in what looked more like a war council. They'd been waiting for him, and the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a blade.
"Well?" Korven asked without preamble. "Did he show?"
Gary poured himself a whiskey—something stronger than his usual ale seemed appropriate—and settled into his chair. "He showed. And the news is worse than we thought."
The silence that followed was heavy with dread.
"How much worse?" Dr. Elara asked.
"The corruption goes all the way to the top. The new High Cleric isn't just targeting unauthorized healing—she's using that as cover while building a shadow government. She's systematically compromising everyone with power, from nobles to generals to merchant guild leaders."
Gary took a sip of whiskey, letting the burn steady his nerves. "They have files on nobles, merchants, guild leaders—anyone with power who's ever sought spiritual guidance. They're using people's deepest wounds as weapons."
Pip had gone completely still. "How extensive are the files?"
"Extensive enough that Marcus believes they could dictate royal policy, control trade, and even influence military decisions." Gary met each of their eyes in turn. "And they've been watching us specifically. They know who you are, when you meet, and at least some of what you've shared."
The weight of that revelation settled over the group like a shroud.
"So what do we do?" Miriel's voice was small, but there was steel underneath it.
Gary smiled grimly. "We give Marcus what he needs to bring them down. Evidence, testimony, and most importantly—proof that their methods are destroying the very people they claim to serve."
Thorne leaned forward. "You trust him?"
"I trust the man I knew twenty-five years ago. And I believe that man is still in there, fighting to do what's right." Gary's voice carried the weight of centuries spent reading people's hearts. "But more than that—I trust us. Together, we're stronger than any corruption they can throw at us."
Around the circle, Gary could see his family processing the scope of what they'd learned. Not just a local threat to their healing community, but a systemic corruption that threatened everyone who'd ever sought comfort in their darkest moments.
"So we're really doing this," Dr. Elara said quietly. "Taking on someone who's trying to control the entire kingdom through corrupted spirituality."
"We're healing a wound that's been festering for too long," Gary corrected gently. "Same thing we do every week, just... bigger."
Pip's grin was sharp as a blade. "Well then. Looks like it's time to put all those old connections to good use."
Outside the Waystone, the night seemed darker than usual, as if the shadows themselves were holding their breath. But inside, around their familiar table, six people began planning not just their defense, but their contribution to a fight that could determine whether healing remained a tool of comfort or became a weapon of control.
The real work was just beginning.