The news of the 'Miracle at the Cathedral' reached the Tome and Trinket via a terrified Imperial messenger who had been granted special, one-time access to the Sacred Zone. Princess Aurelia was the one who received the sealed report, her face growing paler with every word she read.
"Unbelievable," she whispered, setting the report down on the chest-altar, which was getting rather crowded with relics. "They have replicated the Handprints. In the capital. On the Grand Cathedral itself."
Valerius Zathra, who had been meditating on the existential implications of a particularly well-made souffle Ren had created, came over to inspect the report. He read it, and a slow, dangerous smile spread across his ancient face.
"So," he mused, "the fledglings seek to imitate the eagle. How quaint. And how… predictable."
Seraphina Vex materialized beside them, her eyes like chips of amethyst ice. "They are mocking the Master," she hissed. "They are creating cheap, gaudy copies of his holy work. They are stealing his glory. This is an act of spiritual plagiarism. An unforgivable insult."
Her first instinct was to go to the capital and personally pry the blasphemous bricks from the cathedral wall, preferably with the faces of the priests who had allowed it.
"Patience, Shadow," Valerius cautioned, his smile widening. "Do you truly think the Master is unaware of this? That he is angered by it? You still think on a mortal scale."
He picked up the report and tapped it thoughtfully. "This is not an insult. It is a challenge. And it is a test... for us. The Master has seen the Heretics' crude attempt to honor him. He is now waiting to see how we, his chosen acolytes, will respond. He wants to see if we have truly understood his lessons."
"What lesson is there to understand?" Aurelia asked. "They have built a shrine. Are we to build a bigger one? A grander one?"
"Never!" Valerius declared, aghast. "Grandeur is vulgar! Ostentation is the language of kings and false gods! The Master's language is subtlety. It is humility. The power of his actions lies in their very mundane nature. A grilled cheese, a leaky roof, a common turnip. We will not answer their gaudy cathedral with a golden temple."
He began to pace, his mind alight. "We must show them the true nature of the Master's divinity. We must respond with an act of such profound, overwhelming mundanity that it completely eclipses their pathetic miracle."
His eyes scanned the bookstore, the sanctum, and then looked out the front window at the small, weed-choked patch of dirt that served as the "Tome and Trinket's" front yard. An idea, so simple and so brilliant it could only have been born from his magnificently warped logic, struck him.
"A fence," he breathed.
Aurelia and Seraphina stared at him.
"A fence?" Seraphina repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. "They build a golden shrine on the heart of the Empire, and our response is... carpentry?"
"Precisely!" Valerius's eyes were blazing. "Think! What is a shrine? It is a place that says 'Look at me! Worship what is here!' It is an act of spiritual pride. What is a fence? A humble picket fence? It is a statement that says, 'This space is private. This space is special. Respect its boundary.' It is not a call for worship. It is a quiet declaration of sanctity. It is the perfect, subtle, devastatingly humble counter-move! We will not build a monument to his glory. We will build a simple, elegant barrier to protect his peace."
The genius of it was undeniable. While the Heretics screamed for attention with their golden hands, they, the true inner circle, would demonstrate their superior understanding by performing an act of quiet, protective devotion.
"We will build the most profoundly sacred and architecturally perfect picket fence in the history of creation," Valerius declared.
The project began immediately. It was not a simple construction job. It was a holy rite.
The wood was procured by Seraphina. She did not go to a lumberyard. She spent a full day in the deep woods of the province, communing with the ancient trees, until she found a single, ancient white oak that, according to her assassin's senses, had a 'spirit of quiet stubbornness.' She did not cut it down. She 'asked' it to contribute a few of its branches, which it willingly shed for her. It was a piece of master-level druidism she didn't even know she was capable of.
The design was handled by Princess Aurelia. She did not draw up a simple blueprint. She spent twelve hours in a deep trance, cross-referencing ancient architectural texts with the 'Alphabetic Principles of Governance' she had derived from Lyno's bookshelf. The final design was a masterpiece of sacred geometry. The height of the pickets, the spacing between them, the angle of the points—it all corresponded to a complex series of divine ratios and political allegories. It was a fence that was also a legally and theologically binding statement of sovereignty.
Ren was tasked with creating a "wood treatment." He did not use varnish. He created a soft, conditioning balm made from beeswax, a hint of his 'Optimistic Oatmeal,' and the tears of a happy child (a detail the others wisely chose not to ask about). The balm wouldn't just protect the wood; it would make it feel contented.
Brother Tepin's job, of course, was to sing to the fence as it was being built, providing a constant chorus of encouragement.
And what of the Master?
Lyno had woken up that morning, looked out his window at the weed-choked patch of dirt, and thought, [That front yard is a real eyesore. Someone should really put up a nice little fence or something.]
When Valerius had approached him and humbly requested his "divine blessing for a small act of protective demarcation," Lyno had just shrugged and said, "Sure, sounds like a good idea."
He had no idea he had just authorized the single most over-engineered and theologically significant home improvement project in history.
They assembled the fence over the course of a single, sun-drenched afternoon. Every nail was hammered with reverent silence. Every picket was placed with the precision of a watchmaker. As the final piece was put into place, a palpable aura radiated from it.
It was, by all accounts, a very nice-looking white picket fence. But to those with the senses to perceive it, it was so much more. The Aura of Unconditional Okay-ness, broadcast by the Crystal Turnip, was now focused and amplified by the fence's sacred geometry.
The bookstore was no longer just a place that made you feel vaguely happy. The area within the fence was now a zone of absolute, soul-deep tranquility. To step inside the small yard was to feel every worry, every ambition, every hostile thought simply melt away, replaced by a profound desire to sit down, have a cup of tea, and maybe take a nice nap.
It was no longer just a quarantine. It was an active 'De-Escalation Field.' It was a weaponized comfort zone.
Inquisitor Caelia Vance, observing from her post, noted the development in her ledger. 'The subjects have constructed a new perimeter defense. Analysis of its emanations suggests it is a psychotronic barrier designed to pacify and mentally subdue any approaching force. More advanced than the passive field. They are upgrading their security. The Spider is reinforcing his web.'
The new picket fence stood there, gleaming whitely in the sun. A humble, beautiful, and utterly defiant response to the golden gaudiness of the Heretics.
The holy war of divine one-upmanship had officially begun. And the score was currently tied at one sanctified chimney and one profoundly serene picket fence.