Throughout the kingdom, the ringing of hammers and iron pickaxes can be heard, along with the rasping of saws and the blazing of forges, though the shouts of the foremen make the most noise amidst the wave of repairs. If the night was lived in nerves and worry over a possible second elven invasion, that new dawn was experienced with renewed spirits. Although many mourned the fallen, the joy of being alive was greater; hence, when King Marc called upon the population to join the reconstruction, the subjects decided to collaborate willingly.
While the children help drag the enemy corpses to the wheelbarrows to throw them into the great chasm, the healthy young men were tasked with reopening the entrances and exits between the ramparts—paths that vanished when the bricks transformed into ancient stone, a material whose hardness left the workers sweating and breathless.
"I'd like to complain, but I can't," says a worker, lowering his iron pickaxe and wiping a hand across his forehead. "This damn hard stone is what saved us."
"Less talking and more chipping. You heard the boss, if we finish today we'll get extra pay," responds another worker.
Although rumors about the walls were many, no one outside the castle knew the origin of what had happened. Hence, the central plaza of the temple district, located behind the castle—a subtle message that divine threads influence the men in power—was crowded with the faithful seeking resurrection or answers.
Dozens of people who lost loved ones dragged the corpses of their relatives to the district, be it the whole body or a foot they barely managed to recover, and planted themselves before the temple doors. There, paladins doubled their efforts to assert their authority and prevent the gatherings from turning into riots, especially when a priest tried to explain to a believer that a thumb is not enough to bring a corpse back to life. Out of every ten bodies presented, only one managed to be raised by the power of the god in question. Such services were supposed to be priceless, but the priests always insisted on receiving large donations first, all to ensure the upkeep of the temples and the offerings to their respective divinities.
Due to what happened with the dark elves, and to avoid appearing petty, the priests opted not to ask for alms this time. Some clerics observed their altars with concern, looking for any sign of anger or displeasure—perhaps a statue looking more severe than usual, or an offering of fruit turned rotten. None wished to demand too much from the heavens, lest they send an earthquake or a plague in return.
"Praise and thank Mitras, the warrior god!" In front of a red clay temple, a priest in a scarlet tunic clinging to his muscles raises a dull ceremonial sword, trying to impress the men and women moving through the plaza. "Mitras, who with his sacred shield granted us a divine defense to protect us from the darkness! And his celestial sword gave us the fury and strength to answer the threat!"
"Silence, fool!" replies what appears to be a boy in the temple to the right. The building looks like a small mountain of gray rock with torches flanking the square entrance and gems buried randomly in its surface. The boy has his tunic and face covered in soot; a stranger would mistake him for a little vagabond, but everyone present recognizes him as a cleric of the dwarf god. "It is ancient stone, the stone of Tor! If I am wrong, let the earth open up and swallow me! Tor created the mountains and he created the walls!"
"You should be more humble and accept the alternative, comrades," says a person from another nearby temple, a rustic wooden building with water fountains on the front walls that pool to quench the thirst of the poor. The woman's tunic is a simple deerskin cloak, and she tries to raise her voice without shouting while pointing with her gnarled staff. "Everything points to Lacrimossa, the weeping goddess, taking pity on us and offering us a second chance."
The same debate was repeated in the rest of the temples. The dozens of conflicting versions left the faithful confused. Without a clear answer, and for simple peace of mind, each person stuck with the divinity they felt most attuned to.
Back at the castle, Queen Gineber sits by her vanity in her chambers and writes a letter, the movements of her hand and quill as elegant as her bearing. She is a beauty with blue eyes, a slender figure, and silver hair. When a new maid arrives at the castle and sees Gineber paired with King Marc, the girl in question always wonders how someone like her could end up tied to such a rustic monarch.
Waiting for the ink on the paper to dry, Gineber rises from the padded stool and opens a window. She gazes out at the kingdom, at the crude, towering walls casting crooked shadows. Being alone, Gineber allows herself to frown and show her revulsion. Those new defenses seem in poor taste to her, and she would have enjoyed venting by writing at length about the anguish clouding her heart...
But Gineber knows how to restrain herself and recognize the moment. The contents are not about her and the pain caused by being so far from her home kingdom, but rather specify everything she could understand about the new monster hiding in the bowels of the castle.
A monster that produces monsters. A Dungeon Core.
Gineber slips the letter into an envelope, and to ensure there is no doubt about the message's origin, she plucks a hair and places it next to the paper. She approaches a golden cage near the door, opens it, reaches in, and strokes the head of her phoenix. The majestic creature's plumage is a vibrant orange, showing it to be a very young specimen. Aside from being trained to carry messages and packages, they are also instilled with the instinct to immolate themselves if their cargo is compromised.
Using a silk ribbon, the queen ties the letter to the phoenix's leg. She carries the creature to the window on her arm, and with a single motion, tosses the phoenix, sending it taking flight.