Sestrala’s Valorian chapter sat nestled within a grove of towering redwoods just beyond the Keep’s bounds. At its heart stood a grand chapel, its weathered stone walls still pristine from years of meticulous care. Each morning, candles were lit before the chapel’s shrine, casting a soft, warm glow that danced upon the fluted columns supporting the structure. The chapel's centerpiece was an intricately carved statue of the Saint, standing resolute atop a limestone dais. Surrounding this central edifice, wings and buildings stretched out in all directions. A daily schedule, pinned to a board at the end of the paladin wing’s corridor, directed the paladins’ duties. Each morning, they gathered after breakfast to read their assignments.

As usual, Roland walked with his friend Gristle, who began every morning with a lighthearted complaint about the food. Gristle, a giant of a man with shoulders like an ox, looked as tough and greasy as his name suggested. His booming laughter and gruff voice belied his past as a highwayman, robbing travelers along The Kingsroad. Yet, their Saint chooses people of all kinds, even reformed cut-throats with names like Gristle.

Gristle read the board and clapped Roland heartily on the back. “Off to look menacing at court,” he said cheerfully. “You?”

“Just says to report to Saphira.”

“Lucky bastard. I don’t mind the scowling, but my feet hate standing around all day.”

Roland snorted. “Still the same trial, the stalker?”

“Unfortunately. Guy’s a real creep. I could’ve broken him day one and been done with it, but Saphira says that’d look bad.” He shrugged, his massive shoulders lifting with ease. “It’s too bad we aren’t the ‘burn-at-the-stake’ kind of paladins.”

Roland nodded, a smile slanting his lips. “If we were, I’d fear for our cook’s life.”

Gristle’s responding laugh filled the whole corridor, causing a few heads to swivel in their direction. “Well, I’d better get to it. Good luck with the High Paladin.”

Saphira’s office was above the chapel, accessible by a flight of stairs behind the dais. But today, as Roland made his way there, her secretary intercepted him, pointing him towards a small conference room back on the main level instead. The room was small and intimate, with a long rectangular table surrounded by well-worn pillows. Morning light streamed through a south-facing window, bathing the room in a sunny glow. At the head of the table sat two women, deep in conversation.

High Paladin Saphira, her white pelt stark against the sunlight, had blue eyes so pale they bordered on white. Beside her, a woman wearing the distinct vestment of the Many-Faced Goddess. The narrow purple scarf-like raiment she wore distinguished her as a Bishop. The Many-Faced Goddess and their Saint often cooperated, but this was the first time Roland had seen a Bishop in their temple. Followers of the Many-Faced Goddess were known to be ethical to a fault, though sometimes those ethics were ruthlessly utilitarian. They recruited lawyers, clerics, and clerks, representing those who couldn’t afford it and organizing humanitarian efforts. They fixed what could be fixed through any means they deemed appropriate, occasionally extending their reach to Saint Valoria’s chosen when their interests aligned.

The Bishop was a tall, severe-looking woman with short iron-gray fur and an air of quiet confidence. As Roland entered, the two women fell silent. He adopted an expression of saintly forbearance, bowed his head, and took a seat beside Saphira.

“This is the paladin, then?” The Bishop eyed Roland shrewdly, her narrowed amber eyes scanning him from head to toe. She had a face like a hawk, all angles and keen edges. Saphira nodded, “This is Roland. His manners are impeccable, like a very polite shadow; he is unlikely to cause an incident, and he's got a keen eye. Although he’s a poor liar, so I hope you don’t plan on putting him in a situation where he needs to flatter someone.”

A polite shadow? Roland's displeasure at being talked about like he were livestock warred with satisfaction at Saphira’s praise, backhanded though it was. Valoria’s chosen paladins often had a certain bull-in-a-glass-shop quality, and it was immediately obvious whatever this woman wanted him for would require more tact than usual, a delicate touch that Saphira felt he possessed–delicate for a paladin, anyway.

The Bishop's hawkish gaze did not relent through Saphira’s veracious account of him. Her expression yielded neither approval nor reproach as she assessed him. It was difficult to stave off his apprehension under such a gaze, but he managed to keep his face neutral and avoid shifting on his cushion. “And the cleric?” she asked sharply.

“He'll be along any moment. I hear good things from his mentor.”