The headlines read: Anarchy And Atheism In The Streets.

The two temples of the god Le'krysh in the old side of Rhy'din has been burning for a week; it was only now that the temples fell to nothing but stone and ash. The police shuffled around the remains in half-hearted investigation; truly the strange and cultish temples were better off gone, and the fire burned away anything worth sending home to families. Occasionally a homeless man would stumble across a body tucked neatly in an alleyway, stripped clean of any organs, delicate runes carved into the few bones and scraps of unusable tissue remaining. The dead priests' tattered robes always went unnoticed.

Meanwhile, a strange girl, quiet and plainly dressed, prowled through every library that Rhy'din offered, hunting for just one topic -- one small, insignificant word whispered in ancient texts:

Fae.

And a hired messenger boy with jingling pockets wandered to all corners of the city, searching for any blacksmith or forge whose name crossed his ears. "Cold-forged iron," he tells them. "Gold for cold-forged iron."