The Order assembled in Samael Grifford's large ballroom, seated in rows by their House; House Walker, with Clayton, Emily, and Jonathan. The empty seat beside Jonathan underscored the troubles of their House; House Blackwood in the row behind Walker, two seats for the row with only one occupant - the last survivor of the House - Donovan Blackwood. Donovan, whose wife Angela took his baby daughter, and fled the order to find her wicked delight in a fallen Angel. Donovan whose House would die when he did. House Carter filled the entire row behind Blackwood, dressed in black and gray, the somber looking family sat with grim expressions. House Hutchinson filled the row across from the Walkers, and as the Walkers were present without their young David, the Hutchinsons were absent Karen. Dressed in muted blue-gray, and ashen green, the Hutchinsons wore a bold red rope over their right arms to honor the fallen Nadjia Walker whose posthumous marriage into House Walker offered little solace to her bereaved widower, and grieving in-laws. House Carter stood behind their seats, noble - some would say arrogant - expressions on their faces. A family of politicians whose line was born from generations of farmers, whose ties in the American government included a peanut farmer that said beautiful things, but could not avoid leading his nation into recession, inflation, and an energy crisis.

The Order was hopeful that the actor from Illinois, and one time governor of California would replace the current administration for the nineteen-eighty-one election. With no disdain for House Carter, or the sitting President, both the country, and The Order needed change.

The second Houses filled the ballroom, taking their places to the left and right, and behind the too empty rows of the seated First Houses. Last, the armed branch of The Order filed in, descended of the Jesuit order of The Church. Theirs will strictly military Houses. While the son's and daughters of The Order Inquisition knew violence, the Zealots of The Order were seldom rivaled in combat prowess. Trained into arms mastery, the Zealots we're the first, and last line of defense in the war against heathen circles, and those infernal powers at home and abroad.

Standing at his podium with his brother Randall Grifford to his right, and his nephew Simeon Grifford the farthest most right.

Samael's voice echoed through the ballroom from his place at the podium. "The world is changing - has changed - and these radical changes happened all around us. They have been for a long time. As we clung to the traditions of our ancestors, these very old and outdated traditions, Coven have grown strong. These heathens attack us in our own territories, and fear nothing of consequence!"

The Zealots broke into raucous, arms lifted, yelling over one another.

"Justice for Divinae! Justice for House McCalleigh!"

"Justice for the slaughter at the Rowans! Justice!"

"...peace, Zealots. House McCalleigh, the tragedy at our lodge is not forgotten, and to Houses Mordha, Stiobhard, Conaghy, O'Niéll, and O'Dubhghaill, my regrets are with you, as is my remorse. I judged fairly Bishop, and your houses! None from your lines suffer the actions of your kind, and Bishop is stripped of his title!"

"...but not his wealth! Your honor, I am Shawn Stiobhard, the successor to my brother Walther! Where is the recompense for my line? What of his children who serve even now? Is the seven-seventy-seventh and we who make it up not worth the life of a traitor?"

Grifford raised his black gloved hands and called for silence, his voice carrying above the arguing, and shouting before it could gain a foothold. "Malcolm Bishop was an asset, and loyal to The Order - to a fault. I'll not have you impugn a man not found guilty! I'll not have you call blood for blood from our own ranks, that we hunt a man who fought in self defense!"

"He murdered!"

"Here's! Malcolm Bishop must answer for his crimes!"

Samael Grifford glanced down at his brother, and Randall's face was an expression of subdued fury. Randall stood, and Samael stepped down from the podium.

"Zealots, you Brothers of Thunder from the Seven-Seventy-Seventh! Hypocrites! You call for blood when blood is taken unjustly from our own! While a family mourns, you drudge up matters settled, old feuds, and demand recompense for the sins of your fallen? What of The Order? What of those who still live? Is it not your sworn duty to protect us, to insure our safety even as we protect Driftwood?"

Silence fell over the ballroom. The Zealots withdrew back to their respective sides of the ballroom, gathering tight to the walls.

Samael sat in Randall's seat and watched as his brother took control before the situation could fully unravel. "Do you want to hunt this Malcolm Bishop? Should it be his life for all those lost?"

The Zealots broke into an uproar again, demanding blood.

Randall Grifford raised his arms in a slow shrug. "Hunt him, the whole of you. Consider yourselves avenged, but know your considerations are false. Your comfort in revenge is a lie. Malcolm Bishop is old blood in The Order, from an old line, and you will all fall by his hand to the last on among you. This will be his Thermopylae, except this sole warrior will stand over your dead, and not you over he! You will fail in your duty to The Order, and come time to bury your cold dead corpse - if you are buried at all - you will be buried in a place unmarked. You will be buried in a place reserved for traitors, and witches, and no one will know you died. No one will remember you. No one will visit your graves. The brush, and the wilds will reclaim you. No one will know you existed, you will be erased! Be silent, you hypocrites of The Order! You bloodthirsty gourmets of war! We shall not spill a further drop of our own blood, be silent! Be silent!"

Randall Grifford's voice echoed through the ballroom, and not a soul among the First and Second Houses dared even cough. The Zealots, their faces pale, stood in shock and awe of Randall's presence, and command.

"Today we gather here in the memory of our fallen, but not forgotten. We remember it was not only the fault of her killer, but the fault of The Order this happened. For too long we sat contented by our own strength, daring all those outside to act. We carried our Inquisition without fear of consequence, and now we real the disorder we have sown."

Jonathan stood abruptly, and Randall Grifford raised his black gloved hand at him, offering him a place at the podium. Jonathan stood still, and stared first at the Griffords, but then his gaze swept across the ballroom, the Houses, and the Zealots.

"My world is crumbling around me. My Nadjia," Jonathan swallowed against the lump in his throat, and coughed. "My Nadjia is dead. Our Judges, and our Houses, and our standing forces sworn to protect us... this was not your responsibility. It was mine."

A chorus of chatter rose up, voices overlapping, the murmurs of disagreement and sympathy a cacophony of collected nothing in Jonathan's ears.

"Jonathan Walker if you mean to speak, please come and speak." Randall Grifford, stone faced and unreadable, patted at the podium.

Jonathan shook his head, and began to side step through his aisle. Clayton caught his wrist, and Jonathan shook his hand free without effort. He continued out of the aisle, out of his row, and toward the large closed doors of the ballroom. He stopped at the doors. "The Judges Grifford are right. The world has changed, and your order has to change with it... but I am not a politician, or a judge, or a speaker."

"Where are you going, Walker?"

"I'm going to find my wife's killer. Then, I'm going to remind Coven - all coven - their place in my city."

"Where is that?"

Jonathan's gaze swept the Zealots, the Second, and First Houses, and finally locked on Randall Grifford. "Hanging from a tree. Facedown in Pridewater Lake. In a shallow unmarked grave. Whatever is convenient."

Jonathan turned away from the ballroom, and pushed through the double doors.

The attention of everyone in the ballroom shifted from Jonathan as the doors closed behind him, and back to Randall Grifford.

"Gone are the days where we address one another as Goodman. No more after today will a ten minute conversation take twenty minutes dressed in fanciful speech for our own satisfaction. Gone are the traditions that demand purity in our Houses."

Randall Grifford raised his fist to silence the room.

"Our Houses are falling. Failing. We are killing one another, or calling for our own blood. This is where in our traditions we arrived. Houses in service to The Order will be elevated by merit! Not by tradition! Not by binding oaths of blood! Moving forward, we are all The Order Inquisition. We are all First House. The ancestors of this nation once said United we stand. Divided we fall. We will no longer be a house divided. You Brothers of Thunder, go. Fight our wars here, and abroad if you want... or join the One House that is The Order! You Second Houses will no longer live in the shadow of First Houses. You are equals. We Judges retain our authority... but no longer will we live as nobles among lesser men. You are not lesser men, lesser women, lesser lives!"

"You have no authority to erase hundreds of years of tradition! Of discipline! You have no right!" Shawn Stiobhard called from the Zealots. The Zealot Houses raised their voices in agreement.

"You have no voice in this decision, Shawn Stiobhard! This is a matter already decided! While you argued over revenge, a hunter mourned his wife! While you demanded your so called justice, The Order seethes. As you make your demands, a hunter leaves alone into Driftwood... and your complaint is that we should be unequal?"

"The Brothers of Thunder are loyal to The Order, not it's judges, not one city! I cannot speak for the others, but I'll not stand by as you destroy what so many died to bring stability!"

Silence. Shawn Stiobhard shook his head, and pushed past others in his ranks. Slowly, with little hesitation, more followed, and then all the Zealots of the seven-seventy-seventh followed.

Without them in the ballroom, it was clear how fallen were their numbers. How only a hundred made up all the Houses in Driftwood.

Clayton nodded, and stood from his seat. "I am with you, Randall Grifford."

The Hutchinsons stood, all. "God wills it!"

House Carter rose. "God wills it!"

Within seconds, all the houses of The Order were cheering, storming the ballroom with their voices, their cries echoing from the walls.

God wills it.

Randall Grifford stared down at Samael from the podium, and bowed his head. Samael returned the bow, and stood with Randall's son. He raised his voice to call for silence as the double doors in opened wide.

A procession of musicians entered dressed in black and red - the colors of House Walker - carrying stringed instruments, their violins, their cellos, and their acoustic guitars.

The ballroom fell into bewildered silence. Samael spoke from beside his brother. "Darkness falls over Driftwood, and evil is clearly come. We despair at our fallen, and mourn... but tonight let us remember, and celebrate the life of Nadjia Sharif even as her husband is out there in the cold, and let us pray he returns to us safely. We remember our fallen, those who left us, and finally... let us honor the old ways, and bring in the new."

Thunderous applause drowned out his voice, and as each in the small musical arrangement found their place, they began to play their music.

The Houses risen already from their seats, moved aside as Grifford's servants cleared the seats from the ballroom. They shook hands, and hugged those now elevated in The Order.

Samael elbowed his brother, speaking near Randall's ear. "Well done..."

"...but?"

"Warn me the next time you decide our branch of The Order is going rogue."

Randall waived at the Hutchinsons as the passed by the podium. He grinned, his teeth in far better condition than his brother's, nodded and returned affirmations. As the Hutchinsons passed, he leaned back to Samael. "We sealed their loyalties."

"...and our Zealots?"

"With The Hands of God moving forward, we will not need them. You brought me here to return order to your city. Here it is." Randall spread his hands out over the ballroom. The Houses raised their voices in unison, and clapped, cheering at the Griffords.

"You're a madman, Randall. You know this, yes?"

"I got it from father." Randall spared his brother a smug expression, and stepped down from the podium.

"Will you stay?"

"Where else should I go?"