The lingering oddity of the jest melted away into the damp chill of the chapel, and the Archon's face hardened as he returned to the grim business at hand.
"The factions," he muttered, his lips curling into a sour line. Alpheo could read the subtle distaste in the old man's expression; Vesparian clearly loathed laying bare the raw, political underbelly of his sacred brotherhood, especially to an outsider.
An underbelly that he was willing to dive in, and unfortunately for him he needed that outsider's help.
"There are several," the Archon continued, rubbing his frail temples. "Some are small, fragile things, destined to wither and collapse after the first ballot. Others are long-settled, built precisely for moments like this.It is the dream of every noble family to have their thirdborn reach the Curia."
