Lindorthell's New Hat

The work began inside the Fervalkin estate some time ago, not in its halls or cellars, but in the softer architecture of recollection. A business meeting of a lesser nature was the perfect set up to begin the downfall of Lindorthell.

Mordrid and Barnvald did not feel their memories change. There was no pressure, no sudden clarity, and no sense of intrusion, The Hat had grown quite good and utilizing his resources and doing his research. Subtle conversations had with the other orphans there. Diligence and discovery and the occasional greased palm were all it took to figure out what he needed. The Fervalkin's past simply rearranged itself into something more tolerable, more flattering, and far less dangerous. Where once there had been ownership, they now remembered guardianship. Where there had been indulgent cruelty, they recalled stern instruction justified by care. The tabaxi girl (Boots aka Ghost) they had taken in was no longer a possession sharpened into usefulness, but a strange, gifted child rescued from obscurity and raised with difficult love. Mordrid remembered patience she had never practiced, Barnvald recalled restraint he had never exercised, and both of them shared an unshakable certainty that whatever hardships the girl had endured had been necessary, benevolent, and, above all, proof of their devotion.

The Hat took his time with it and he enjoyed it, deepening the bond with them as well, they remembered him always being there as a part of their lives. A friend. A confidant. A companion. Almost like one of the family. He layered warmth into the memories, not as decoration but as reinforcement, embedding pride, nostalgia, and a sense of loss that would curdle into grief rather than guilt once Ghost was gone. None of them remembered chains, and none of them remembered choosing to forget. They remembered only a family that had loved imperfectly and lost something precious.

When Ghost left Lindorthell, the Fervalkins mourned her sincerely.

With the estate settled into its revised truth and its occupants aligned in purpose without ever realizing alignment had occurred, the city itself was ready to be addressed. That task fell not to the Hat, but to Dagen.

He began his walk as the light slowly shown over the horizon, following Lindorthell’s perimeter, tracing the city’s outline. The boots carried him with unwavering intent, their passage unremarkable to those who glimpsed him, unchallenged by guards who found no urgency in stopping a lone figure moving with such quiet confidence. Each step pressed gently against the city’s sense of itself, not asserting dominance but inviting surrender, encouraging Lindorthell to relax the tension it had maintained for generations.

Over the following days, the city’s rhythm softened. People remembered who they were but felt less compelled to prove it. Dissent did not vanish, but it struggled to organize, its urgency dulled before it could sharpen into action. Within this gentled space, House Fervalkin resumed its work, though not before one final courtesy was extended.

The Hat returned to the estate not as an enforcer or master, but as a confidant, bringing with him a single book bound in dark leather and quieter promises. He framed it instead as clarity, a means of formalizing an understanding that already existed, a safeguard for all involved. Friends, after all, deserved agreements that could not be misremembered or misinterpreted. Mordrid appreciated the elegance of that logic immediately, admiring the way the text allowed for autonomy while still ensuring alignment, while Barnvald saw in it a rare thing indeed: a structure that protected him from rivals above and below him alike.

They signed willingly and from that point on, the work of House Fervalkin flowed with remarkable ease.

Information moved through Lindorthell as though guided by instinct rather than intent, Barnvald’s reports arriving precisely where they were most effective, polished just enough to be trusted and incomplete enough to be useful. Mordrid’s influence deepened in salons and private gatherings, her suggestions landing softly and taking root before anyone thought to question their origin. They did not feel controlled; they felt supported, buoyed by an unseen hand that removed obstacles before they could become threats. Thrain Ironfist continued to rule Lindorthell in every way that could be measured, his authority unquestioned, his edicts enforced by a Black Guard that remained loyal and efficient. The Emerald Assembly still served as the city’s public face, its rituals of governance intact and unquestioned. And yet, outcomes began to align with remarkable consistency, crises resolving themselves before reaching the council chambers, dissent losing cohesion without ever being openly challenged.

The Hat never claimed the city, because ownership would have demanded attention, and attention was wasteful. Instead, he accepted something far more durable than rule: an understanding. Lindorthell did not belong to him in name, but it had agreed, through habit and convenience and ink laid down in the right hands, to lean where he pointed. Its most influential currents flowed now through channels that felt chosen rather than imposed, guided by people who believed themselves trusted collaborators in a design larger than any single council or crown.

When the work was done, the Hat gathered his agents only briefly.

He adjusted his coat, rested his cane, propped his feet up on a desk, pulling on a cigar as the smoke swirled about him like whisps of magic. “You did beautifully,” he said, and meant it, though the praise landed sideways. “All these little places, all these loud, frightened cities… they think walls and councils will keep them safe.” A soft chuckle followed, private and indulgent. “As if safety were ever local.” He gestured vaguely, not toward Lindorthell, but outward, as though indicating the world itself. “That’s why we’re building the Hairnet. Threads across continents. Across borders. Across stories people tell themselves about independence.” He leaned in slightly, conspiratorial. “Protection only works if it’s everywhere, and everyone hates paying for it. Lucky for them, I’m a generous being. I don't need prayer or sacrifices like the gods and I sure as well won't blow away a town with a snot rocket pointed in the wrong direction!” Then, almost as an afterthought, he waved them off. “Go on. Back to your domains. Back to your continents. Make things right and prepare.” His eyes flicked up beneath the brim of his hat, sharp with sudden intent. “But keep listening. When the net tightens, I’ll tug the right thread, and I’ll expect you to feel it.”

Lindorthell had not been conquered, and it had not been betrayed; instead, it had been scheduled and like all things entered neatly into the Hat’s ledger, it would be there if he decided to turn the page or tear it out completely.