Novel Full Chapter 1513 Concessions
Chapter 1513 Concessions
“The church has protected the people of this continent for millennia! We are the only institution with the moral authority to stand against tyranny when every other power has been corrupted or conquered! If you strip us of that-”
Quinlan’s voice was even as he replied, “You’ll have the Goddess herself to escalate to. She seems to keep a close eye on me. If she herself declares me a heretic, an enemy of life itself, all hell will break loose anyhow.” He shrugged. “I merely do not wish to give that right to mankind.”
Velara stared at him. Her grip on the staff shook, and it had nothing to do with fatigue.
“Fine,” she breathed through her teeth. “Political neutrality. The church does not involve itself in governance.”
The words left her mouth like a concession, and they were one. She knew that.
But somewhere beneath the fury and the exhaustion and the indignity of negotiating at swordpoint, a quieter voice stirred. A voice that sounded like the girl she’d been before the cathedral claimed her, before the politics and the alliances and the endless maneuvering that came with being the Goddess’s highest representative in a city full of ambitious nobles.
A church that only tended to the faithful. That healed, and guided, and spread the Goddess’s values without entangling itself in the affairs of thrones and taxes and trade disputes. A church that was purely, entirely, devoted to its purpose.
It sounded like what she’d signed up for.
Velara crushed the thought before it could take root. This was a conqueror standing before her, a man who had invaded her city, slaughtered its garrison, and walked into her cathedral uninvited. Whatever his terms sounded like on paper, the hand offering them was soaked in blood. She would not mistake a tyrant’s convenience for a blessing.
“And who polices these terms? What happens when you decide the church has overstepped?” “You police yourselves. Internal violations are your problem. But if the church can’t keep its own house in order, I reserve the right to clean it up myself.” “This demands a lot of scrutiny before we sign anything… But if we accept this,” she continued, her voice harder than before, “I want protections. And they had better be ironclad.”
“Name them.”
“Freedom of worship. Completely unrestricted. No interference with services, ceremonies, teachings, or any practice of faith.”
“Granted.”
“Preservation of sacred sites. Every cathedral, temple, and shrine under your jurisdiction remains church property. No seizure, no repurposing, no desecration.”
“Granted.”
“Church assets remain church assets. Tithes collected from willing donors continue. You do not tax the church’s holdings.”
“Tithes from willing donors,” Quinlan repeated. “Willing being the key word. No forced donations. No mandatory contributions tied to receiving healing or blessings.”
A flicker crossed Velara’s face. “The church has never extorted its faithful.”
“Then you should have no problem putting it in writing.”
A beat passed.
“…Fine,” Velara said through her teeth.
“And healing prices. An Arch Priestess’s services cost a fortune, from what I understand.”
“Arch Priest healing is a rare and powerful gift. The cost reflects the scarcity.”
“I’m sure it does. But in my territory, the church doesn’t price the common people out of miracles and call it supply and demand.” He leaned against the doorframe. “We’ll come back to that one.”
Velara’s grip shifted on the staff, but she moved on. “Healers cannot be conscripted into military service. Under any circumstances. Wartime, peacetime, or whatever state of crisis you invent.”
The words landed, and Quinlan felt a familiar ache behind his ribs.
Seraphiel. Dragged from her life, forced into service by a kingdom that saw her class as a resource to be deployed. She’d never chosen the battlefield. It had chosen her, as a girl barely having reached adult age, and her life was nearly ruined.
‘Never again.’
“Granted,” he said. “And I’ll go further. No governmental authority within my domain will ever conscript a Healer or Arch Priest into service. That protection is absolute and it applies in peacetime, wartime, and every state in between.”
Velara blinked.
She’d been bracing for a fight on this point. She had arguments prepared, precedents to cite, appeals to the Goddess’s will. She’d expected to claw this concession free inch by inch.
Quinlan had handed it to her in a single breath.
He caught her surprise and offered no explanation. The reason was his, and it would stay that way.
“However,” he continued, “if a Healer or Arch Priest volunteers for military service of their own free will, that is their right as an individual. You don’t get to forbid them from choosing to serve.”
The surprise curdled. “You would poach my healers by dangling opportunity-”
“I would respect their freedom to make their own choices. Something I’d think the Goddess would appreciate, given how the class’s holders are free to move away from the church and live life the way they want.”
Inside the cathedral, a few of the white-robed healers had stopped pretending they weren’t listening. One young woman near the front pews was staring at Quinlan with an expression that was hard to read.
Velara noticed. Her teeth came together.
They settled on safeguards. No coercion, no financial incentive beyond standard pay, and the right to withdraw at any point. Velara took the concession and moved on, knowing she’d won something real on the conscription front even if the volunteer clause stung slightly. But this was a clause not even the rulers of the three nations respected. Thus, to the priestess, it felt like she’d won something big for her people.
“Now.” Velara planted her staff. “Your undead filth.”
“Just as I don’t call you names, I’d appreciate the same courtesy toward my soldiers.”
“They are not soldiers. They are corpses puppeteered by blasphemous magic, a mockery of every being the Goddess has welcomed into her embrace. Undeath is the antithesis of Purity. It is vile, it is unnatural, and the man who wields it is no better than the abominations he commands.”
Quinlan smiled. “You do know I’m the only Necromancer, right?”
“And that is one too many.”
“Have you ever actually looked at my army, Arch Priestess? My soldiers aren’t rotting husks stitched together with dark magic. One look at them should tell you I’m nothing like the Corpse Animators you’ve read about in your scripture.”
Velara’s lip curled. “Undeath is undeath. Necromantic magic is necromantic magic. Whether you dress your abominations in prettier packaging changes nothing about what they are. They have no place in the world of the living and they are to be banished.”
‘There it is,’ Quinlan thought, and the smile widened. ‘She can’t tell the difference and she doesn’t want to learn. She just wants them gone.’
He could work with that.
A woman who saw all undeath as the same evil, who couldn’t distinguish soul extraction from corpse animation, who had already decided the verdict before examining the evidence… that kind of stubbornness made the concessions he was about to offer sound far more generous than they actually were.
“You asked for their dissolution. That’s a no.”
“Then we have a problem.”
“Not quite.” Quinlan pushed off the doorframe and stood tall, his voice carrying to the civilians inside the cathedral. “I’ll make you a series of promises, Arch Priestess, and I’ll make them publicly so every person in this cathedral can hold me to them.”
He held up a hand and began counting on his fingers.
“I will never use the bodies of my own citizens as fuel for my army. I will never rob graves, crypts, or burial sites. I will never harvest from the innocent, and I will never breed or farm living beings for the purpose of raising the dead.”
Several faces in the nave went pale at the implication that such a thing was even possible.
“My army draws its strength from my enemies and criminals who have forfeited their right to mercy. Soldiers of hostile forces who chose to fight against me and lost. The dead of my people will rest in peace. The dead of my enemies will serve our nation.”
Silence spread through the cathedral. An old woman near the aisle clutched her prayer beads tighter, but her expression had shifted from terror to cautious attention.
Velara’s eyes were narrow. “Pretty words from a man who commands the dead.”
“My soul soldiers… How many civilians do you think they will kill by the end?”
The question landed hard.
Velara’s mouth opened. Closed.
“My orders were simple. Kill none who do not resist.” Quinlan answered for her. “They engaged the military and they engaged it cleanly. A conventional siege would have lasted weeks. Starvation. Disease. Collateral damage in every district. Artillery leveling homes while families cowered inside.” The old woman with the prayer beads was staring at him now. So were the parents holding their children. So were the healers.
Velara said nothing for several seconds.
“The church will not endorse your methods,” she said. “We will never call what you do righteous.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
Velara’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked like she wanted to throw her staff at him.
“The church,” she said tightly, “reserves the right to pray for the dead under your command. Publicly. In every service. As a matter of spiritual duty.”
Quinlan almost laughed.
Sanctioned, ongoing protest. Prayers for the “lost souls” he commanded, spoken from every pulpit in every city he conquered. Toothless in practice, but it let the church maintain its moral position without opposing him politically.
‘Clever. She’s better at this than I expected.’
“Granted. Pray all you like.”
Velara registered the concession with a careful nod, and the faintest crack of satisfaction broke through her firmness.
“Now,” Quinlan said. “The kowtow.”
Velara’s chin rose, expectant.
It was instantly shut down. “No.”
“What? You haven’t even-”
“No. I bow to no one, be they mortal or divine. Moving on.”