Away from the south, the Basin lingered on the edge of a wintry coolness. Summer never quite arrived within its stone walls, never settled within their northern borders. Snow still persevered under the shadows, slowly melting ice clung to the boughs of evergreens, as if there was never warmth enough to pervade the frigidity of their home. Much had changed since the last time the denizens of the Aurora Basin had congregated beneath their leaders in the palm of the valley. Returning home from the Earth God's vessel had been a relief, and he joined the gathering as he always had, lingering at its edges so he would not feel smothered by the masses. His gaze settled upon the distantly familiar form of Ophelia as he neared, recalling past negotiations with her herd, when she had led the Foothills alongside her tenacious sister. She had come far. Roland found himself wondering what might have brought her to the snowy north, to the Basin and its helm, its crown, so quickly. And what had happened to Illynx? Where had the Gilded Blade lost herself in the turmoil that had plagued them over the last few seasons? The Thief hoped she was well, wherever she might be.

He was not opposed to a change in leadership, necessarily. It had a tiresome tendency to bring on new rules and laws, new expectations. They had yet to discover what Ophelia might impose upon them. Perhaps she would lead them accordingly, or perhaps she would not. Roland was not quick to condemn her to his doubt; only time would tell, after all. At the very least, the Reaper was there, statuesque and stoic as ever. The Thief listened raptly to the news that he brought, the mention of current alliances and prosperous trades, a hope for future commerce. Aside from the looming threat of the Regime, it seemed that all was well.

His attention turned to Ophelia as she stepped up, and Roland's skin crawled at her mention of the murders. His jaw clenched at the thought of the Gods; of their fallen son, their fragile, shattered methods and schemes. They no longer had the capacity to hold his faith within them any longer. He had bore witness to their failings one too many times, had grown up a disillusioned youth under the preachings and practices of an unquestioningly devout nation, fell prey to their righteous appeal; but he would not be the victim any longer. The Gods would not have his prayers, his devotion, his affection. He wanted nothing from them any longer, not after he had seen all they could take.