Winter Queen

It is always hard when one comes into power in the twilight of a bitter war, thought Wolff to himself. He stood at attention, Bishop William's sword grounded and burning quietly at rest, content to wait as he saw the trial unfold at a distance.

After the fall of the Grand Inquisitor, power had been granted to the Oldest of his Circle. It had always been the way; even before any High Lord of the Citadel had even had a circle of any kind, the next highest in the Rule had ascended after the loss of a High Lord. Yet, the Grand Inquisitor had been the first ever to have no obvious heir and a circle (a pentagram, perhaps, Wolff wondered) instead.

Never since the days of Thomas of sad memory had the Citadel been so beset by forces beyond its control. Yet Thomas's predecessors had all been good men, and he himself had not been an evil one.

The Oldest had broken tradition. A cruel usurper with many other differences from all before, the Oldest had become a victim to pride and fallen on the other side. The Oldest was not meant to have sat upon the Throne. But the usurper had acted in its place without humility.

Now, the winter of discontent was coming down like a howling snowstorm in all fury. Wolff watched, and only Bishop William's ancient fire kept him warm.

=====

Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.