At least a third of the thousands of lords seated in the Holy Council had ties to the Wealth Church. Polytheists or not, Annan's status as Holy Son was genuine.
Even in the Year of Turmoil, no one could guarantee there weren't fanatics among the believers willing to do anything for their faith—perhaps they thought it would make them more
The Windmill Grand Duke's lips moved soundlessly. He was beginning to think he had been foolish to leap up and declare his loyalty.
Annan shook his head, unimpressed. So this was what it felt like to hide his strength and spring a surprise? Not much to it...
Perhaps the Gemstone King or his candidate taking the floor in person might have piqued his interest.
"We'll discuss the heretic question later. Back to the story."
"Where was I... Oh, the terrible system."
Annan stressed the words, but this time the Windmill Grand Duke did not dare speak up. Annan spread his hands. "I'm not here to attack the weakness of nobles. I'm saying that little country was a portrait of Middle Earth today."
"At first, we declare nothing is wrong. Next, we say everything is under control. Once it spreads, we say it's too late. Finally, we say we should have done something back then."
"That lord thought I was singling him out. Sorry, I should clarify."
Annan looked at the Windmill Grand Duke, who avoided his gaze. He turned back to the goateed noble. "I'm not singling you out. I'm saying everyone here is—trash."
As expected, Annan's words caused an uproar in the Holy Council. Arguments broke out everywhere, perfectly reenacting the little country's response in his story: the lords of Middle Earth who had been caught in the insult were outraged, while those from the west and south watched