Bartholomew sat in Titus’ tall, golden seat and nervously fidgeted his hands while looking across the rest of the Council- all of whom glared back at him.

“A-and... I think that about does it for the day’s reports, yes?” Bartholomew spoke with a nervous, twitching smile. He was far out of his depths on this one- stuck in the golden throne as the Duke’s assistant- his substitute for the day. The Councilman who had rammed into him earlier in regards to his failure to protect the villages, leaned back on his chair to fold his arms and look at his stack of paper atop the pristine council’s table with a scoff.

“Unless you intend to retrieve the real Duke, I see no reason to go on with this meeting. You are clearly out of your element, Outsider.” As much as Bartholomew was relieved to hear that the men were as eager to disband the meeting, as he, himself was, he could not allow it... not yet, at least. Before long, they would hopefully find Titus and when they did, he would need to recover from his melancholy, which meant that Bartholomew could potentially be the Assistant-Duke for some time. Not that he could see why the duty had befallen him, when every man around the table were his betters, by far.

He raised his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and said: “My brother is still under the weather and until he can recover, we must continue to run His city. Now, as much as we despise one-another, I hope we can make it so that he does not have to worry about Pilta, not when he needs his precious rest.” All knew of Petrus’ fate, but none had dared suggest that there was anything more than met their eyes between their Duke and the Purged.

The Village representative, however, was a fiend prone to antagonizing Bartholomew, if only by habit at that point. He raised his calloused hand and scoffed a: “Duke Munson led the Council from his deathbed, but Titus is yet to explain-” His tongue fell silent as the massive, steel doors swung open to reveal a golden form. Bartholomew let relief wash over him at the sight of his brother’s armor, only to have it drain away as he felt that something was... different... about Titus.

His red, curled hair was filthy with streaks of something viscous and slightly darker tainting his locks. Furthermore, his lips were contorted into an unsightly smile that made Bartholomew’s skin crawl. The assistant-Duke stood from his chair and immediately began striding around the council’s table to say: “Duke Titus, I-” Titus raised his golden-gloved hand and raised his chin to stare his wide, crazed eyes at Bartholomew. The wayward brother was taken aback by the intensity of his grin and the unrecognizable expression-… the... green... eyes.

“Worry not, Council of mine- your Duke hath returned.” Titus chuckled and took a steep inside. To the Councilmen, he sounded the same as he did whenever his playfulness got the better of him- as if he were jesting. But Bartholomew could sense that something was amiss with his brother. It was as if all the sorrow and pain had been eaten away from him- no... as if it had been corrupted and turned to something else. With a flick of Titus’ glove, the soldiers at the door closed the heavy, metal barrier and left them to their meeting. Bartholomew remained frozen in place as the rest of the Councilmen rose up and bowed their customary greeting, but Titus paid none of them any heed as he stepped towards the golden throne and motioned for his Council to take their seats. The Duke himself, however, remained upright- looming behind the golden furniture as Petrus so often had, while ignoring his stumped, unnerved brother.

As the last of the civilian leaders took their seats and smiled their satisfactory grins towards one-another, Titus clapped his hands and spoke: “I apologize... I was under the weather, but I feel better now. A friend of mine came to my assistance. But I am here now and I am ready to begin.” The councilman Bartholomew had always pegged for being responsible for their finances brimmed with pride as he informed: “And we are happy for it. We were about to begin discussing-”

Titus raised a hand and informed: “No, you misunderstand. I did not come before you to discuss or debate... I’ve come so that we may begin anew- as we were meant to.” The men all seemed positively surprised to hear the cryptic message- likely awaiting some bemusing crescendo to some unheard-of jest. Titus continued:

“I had blamed my brother, at first. I foolishly thought that it was he who had failed me- that he had not succeeded in leading our loyal men to the discovery of this magi-led plot, but I was wrong and for this, I apologize, my dear Bartholomew.” Titus took a step back to bow down low, but before Bartholomew could accept the gesture, Titus returned to grin at his confused Councilmen in turn.

“You cannot blame the hammer because the smith’s pristine nails will not be held by rotting plank... it is you who have failed me- you. The Inquisition- my family- came to Pilta to lead you into greatness and to some extent, we’ve succeeded.” Usually, they would clap or cheer whenever they spoke of success, but for once, all remained silent- staring at their Duke with cryptic discomfort. Titus stepped out from behind his chair to lay his hand on the shoulder of his Master of Exports and grinned from behind his back:

“It is not the Inquisition’s fault that we are finally facing some resistance- the fault lies with its people and their representatives. You- all of you, have watched and held your tongues as my Brother’s men have disappeared. Petrus- my beloved Petrus was killed by the ordinary people of this city- my friend has told me all about it, yet none of you have raised a finger to condemn them...” The aged Master of Exports shifted uncomfortably between Titus’ strong fingers. His green, glistening eyes traversed the table as he grinned at them in turn.

“You all take us for fools... your two tongues pray for our leadership, yet you allow for this brutality- you've not raised a finger to stop it.” Without breaking from his grin, Titus wrapped his right arm around the Councilman’s throat and pressed down on his arm with his left- collapsing his trachea. He immediately began writhing and struggling, but against a man such as Titus, what could any regular businessman do? The others remained in their seats- their jaws agape with disbelief as the Master of Exports began struggling, kicking, scratching and grabbing for whatever piece of Titus’ golden armor he could get his hands on... yet Titus’ grin never faded- nor did he flinch as the madman’s thrashing fingers tore at the skin of his face.

“If you wish for the Inquisition to lead you to greatness, then we will do so... but your interference is an unnecessary obstacle. We have tried the cotton gloves, but yet again, the People have proven they can only be run by the iron gauntlet.” Titus tore the man from his chair and raised him up high- finally convincing the rest of the council that this was no planned jest. Subconjunctival hemorrhages turned the man’s wide, white eyes a profound red- his purple lips ceased frantically moving as he squeezed his arm over his throat until cartilaginous cracks echoed in the perfect stillness of the chamber. By the time his limp corpse had fallen to the floor, the rest of their assembled Council had risen from their chairs and sought to distance themselves from their golden leader, but to no avail.

Titus grabbed the village representative by his shoulder and slammed him face-down into the table. His teeth shattered in a series of clicks- sending the fragments across the table, where they thumped against Bartholomew’s armor and his disbelieving expression.

“Titus, what are you-”

“Shut up! Shut up and watch, Bartholomew! This is all they will ever respond to!” Bartholomew took a step back and let his agape jaw signal his disbelief in the insanity. As the rest of the Council scuttled towards the locked doors, Titus laughed as he repeatedly slammed the man’s head against the table- shattering the pristinely polished surface with the same, unchanging brutality that he had unleashed upon his Master of Exports. Just as Petrus’ face had been pulverized by the time the fishermen had dragged him from the water, Titus gave his all in his efforts of demolishing this man.

By the time his corpse fell to the floor, there was more blood and loose strings of tissue on the table than what was left of his face.

“Gods above- let us out! Let us out!” The men by the tall, metal doors screamed as they attempted to pry their way out. Titus wiped the blood from his pale face and tasted the metal on his lips with a motion of his tongue, before reaching for his golden blade. He continued to laugh as he approached the men by the door with his blade at the ready and promised:

“The Gods are on my side.”