At long last, the Orthodoxy was dead. It had died this morning, when Burghermeister had lopped off Grand Friar Vagt’s ugly head.

It had taken him 20 years. It had taken him 20 years for him to dismantle the Orthodoxy. He had hunted them down, sent the troops fore and back from their households, wintering in and out. And every winter, the Friars had grown back from the brink of death that Boleslaw IV had put them in. Vagt was what kept that insurgency alive.

But no more.

18 years ago, almost to the day, he had removed all trace of the Glaunist Orthodoxy in Port Aurora.

15 years ago, he destroyed the Bastion of Boschemus and dismantled the heretic army.

7 years ago, he got news that his son had been taken prisoner in a cowardly ambush.

5 years ago, he was reunited with his son.

2 years ago, he finally drove the Friars back into Verlichten.

Just a month ago, he was sieging the walls of Dawn

This morning was the execution.

Three hours ago was the edict.

And now, now was the feast in the Hall of the Sovereign Diet.

It had taken 20 years. It had taken the lives of 80,000 men, women, and children. It had taken the burning of countless fields and farms. But it was finally over. Glimmer was finally free of the Glaunist Orthodoxy. Boleslaw was finally free of the Orthodoxy.

He drank deep from the lager. He had a headache as the hall roared around him. Full of happy generals and soldiers and merchants who could reopen their businesses. His son to his right, his daughter to his left. Someone clapped him on the shoulder, congratulating him for his edict, but Boleslaw couldn’t seem to make out the words. All he could do was look around, as he saw the other burghers. Limoen had wheeled himself in, for the occasion. Konig was here. His brother. His other brother. His sister. Ardur, Hans, Ezzelio. A Burgher from the South, a Burgher from Goodburgher. Many of the Loyal Friars. Many had come to witness the occasion. To bask in Boleslaw’s hard-won glory.

Boleslaw finished his lager. He downed some schnapps. His head pounded, and he felt somewhat sickly, so he let the mutton before him lay.

His thoughts wandered back to the edict. The Edict of Dawn, men would call it. Never again would an organized religion threaten Glimmer. Never again would the authority of the Sovereign Diet be challenged. The only say the Gods would have in the politics would be through the ears of the Burghers. All large churches were subservient to the burgher of their home, and the laws of the Sovereign Diet. All holy armies were banned. All human sacrifice was banned. All ritual killings was banned. All religious conflict was banned. All unwarranted ritual and activity was banned. All tithe would be taxed. All Loyal Friars would be pardoned, and protected. All remaining Carnatak worshippers were protected. A new dawn had come on Glimmer.

Boleslaw’s cup had been refilled. He drank from it. Ale. He loved ale. This one had such a nice flavor. The Lager had been sour, but crisp, and tasted slightly of metal. This was far nicer. A drink to celebrate victory. A drink to celebrate legacy. This would be what Boleslaw would be remembered for. This would be what he gave to the world. A Glimmer free of tyranny. A Glimmer where all could worship whomever they like, or no-one at all. A Glimmer that would prosper.

The crown weighed heavily on him. His arms moved almost as if they were the arms of sloths, but finally lifted the gold-and-iron circlet from his head. The starburst ruby seemed the glimmer from the fire, and the eight spires had their sharp edges almost softened. The lager had run to his head, it seemed, and Boleslaw had not eaten enough mutton. He’d almost dropped the crown, but thankfully Konig helped him, and took the crown in his grasp. There seemed to be a smile. A look of concern? A blur.

Boleslaw looked over to his son. Albers was his son’s name. Albers. Boleslaw had almost forgotten that. He was not smiling. Boleslaw looked over to his daughter. Gwyn? Gwyneth? She was in shock, and had her hand grabbed at the crown. Nobody was laughing. That was okay though, the noise hurt Boleslaw’s head. He had been so tired. So tired, from the years. All he wanted to do was sleep.

He closed his eyes, and felt his head tip forward. He never felt his head hit the table. He could only feel himself give a languid sigh of satisfaction, as he fell to sleep.