When the bell rang for that week's meeting, Gary could see the weight of their new knowledge in his family's faces. Marcus's revelations about Valdora's shadow government had settled over them like storm clouds, heavy with the promise of conflict to come.
"Right then," Gary said as the enchanted furniture completed its weekly dance. "I think it's time we stopped being purely reactive."
The plan they outlined was elegant in its simplicity. Each member of their group had connections, people they trusted, networks they could quietly activate. Not to spread lies or accusations, but to share truth—careful, documented truth about what they'd experienced, what they'd witnessed, and what they knew about the Order's real methods.
"I can reach the dock workers," Thorne offered. "They talk to merchants from every corner of the kingdom. Word spreads fast along the trade routes."
"My patients trust me," Dr. Elara added. "And healers talk to each other. If other medical practitioners hear about this kind of corruption..."
"The locksmith guild has connections everywhere," Pip said, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "Amazing what people will say in front of someone they think is just there to fix a door."
Miriel was quieter, but when she spoke, her voice was steady. "The magical community is small. Most of us know each other, at least by reputation. If they hear that the Order is exploiting magical trauma for political gain..."
Gary felt a surge of pride watching his family transform from worried victims into strategic allies. "And I've got centuries of bartending conversations to draw from. Amazing what people will confirm once they realize someone else already knows the truth."
They spent the next hour mapping out connections, timing, and most importantly, safety protocols. No one acted alone. No one shared more than they were comfortable sharing. And everyone had multiple exit strategies if the pressure became too much.
"Remember," Gary cautioned as they prepared to leave, "we're not trying to start a revolution. We're just helping truth find its way to people who need to hear it."
The first ripples appeared on Firstday morning.
Thorne arrived at the docks to find the usual crew already deep in conversation about "strange goings-on" with the Divine Order. A merchant from the eastern provinces mentioned pressure on his guild to report "unauthorized spiritual activities." Another spoke of nobles suddenly changing their traditional confession arrangements.
By midday, the dock workers were comparing stories across three different shipping companies.
Dr. Elara's rounds took on a different character as well. Patients who'd never mentioned spiritual matters began asking careful questions about the reliability of Order healing. A fellow healer from the merchant quarter stopped by the clinic to discuss "concerning patterns" she'd noticed in referrals from certain clerics.
Pip found his locksmith calls unusually enlightening. Servants whispered about their employers' private meetings, about sudden changes in household spiritual advisors, about tension in noble families that hadn't been there before.
And Miriel, for the first time in years, found herself actively seeking out conversations with other magical practitioners. Her inquiries about "clients experiencing complications after Order consultations" yielded more responses than she'd expected.
The Order's response came on Secondday morning, wrapped in the mundane formality of an official document.
Gary read the parchment twice before its meaning fully settled. "Notice of Spiritual Wellness Compliance Review," stamped with the Divine Order's seal and signed by someone calling themselves "Inspector Caldris of the Ecclesiastical Standards Division." The language was carefully neutral, but the threat was clear as mountain spring water: submit to formal review of all "therapeutic activities" within fourteen days, or face "appropriate ecclesiastical sanctions."
He folded the document carefully and tucked it into his apron pocket. So Valdora had noticed their efforts. The question was how far she was willing to escalate.
The answer came that afternoon, when Mrs. Pemberton—a halfling widow who'd been coming to the tavern longer than most could remember—arrived looking more apologetic than grief-stricken.
"I'm sorry, Gary," she said quietly. "My nephew heard I've been coming here, and he thinks... well, he thinks it might not be appropriate. With the troubles brewing."
Gary kept his expression neutral, even as something cold settled in his chest. "Troubles, Mrs. Pemberton?"
"Oh, you know how people talk." She wrung her hands, clearly uncomfortable. "The Divine Order's been asking questions around the merchant quarter. About where people go for... comfort. My nephew works in the textile trade, has dealings with some of the clergy. He's worried about appearances."
She left without her usual tea, and Gary watched through the window as she hurried down the street like someone afraid of being followed.
By Thirdday, the information network had taken on a life of its own.
Gary could feel it in the way conversations stopped when strangers entered the tavern, in the meaningful looks exchanged between regular customers, in the careful way people tested new acquaintances before sharing information.
Word was spreading along channels none of them had anticipated. The dock workers Thorne had spoken to were talking to merchants from across the kingdom. Dr. Elara's medical network was comparing notes about suspicious Order activities in multiple cities. Pip's guild connections had reached servants in noble houses, who were sharing overheard conversations about private meetings and political maneuvering.
But with the spreading information came increased scrutiny. Gary noticed more strangers in the tavern—not the comfortable anonymity of travelers seeking food and drink, but the careful observation of people gathering intelligence.
Fourthday brought Jensen, a half-orc cooper from three blocks over who'd never set foot in the Waystone before but suddenly needed Gary's opinion on barrel aging techniques.
Their conversation wandered from wood selection to weather patterns to, somehow, the reliability of spiritual guidance in uncertain times.
"Man hears things," Jensen said carefully, testing the ale Gary had offered. "About certain institutions maybe not having people's best interests at heart."
"Lots of institutions struggle with that," Gary replied equally carefully. "Easy to lose track of your original purpose when you get too focused on power and control."
Jensen nodded slowly. "Word is, some folks who sought help in the wrong places found their troubles getting worse instead of better. Personal troubles becoming public knowledge, if you understand my meaning."
"I might," Gary said. "Terrible thing, when someone's vulnerability gets weaponized against them."
They discussed coopering for another hour, but Gary knew Jensen left with more than knowledge about barrel staves.
Fifthday evening brought the most telling sign yet: the tavern was busy, but different.
The usual crowd was there—dock workers both human and orc, elven merchants comparing trade gossip, a table of gnomish artificers debating enchantment techniques—but mixed in were faces Gary didn't recognize. People who'd heard whispers, caught fragments of conversations, or simply felt drawn to check out the tavern everyone seemed to be talking about in hushed tones.
The conversations were carefully neutral on the surface, but underneath Gary could sense the current of shared knowledge building. People comparing stories, sharing experiences, beginning to understand that their individual encounters with institutional pressure were part of a larger pattern.
Sixthday morning brought the escalation Gary had been dreading.
Brother Thaddeus arrived just after the breakfast rush—a tall, pale elf whose Divine Order robes were pristine and whose smile was sharp enough to cut glass. Unlike Marcus's careful discretion or even the shadow-cloaked visitor's veiled threats, Thaddeus was all official courtesy and barely contained authority.
"Master Ironbottom," he said, settling onto a barstool with casual ownership of the space. "I trust you received our notice regarding the spiritual wellness review?"
"Aye," Gary replied, continuing to clean mugs with steady hands. "Fascinating bit of bureaucracy, that."
"The Divine Order takes spiritual wellness very seriously. We wouldn't want any... misunderstandings about proper therapeutic procedures to cause harm to well-meaning citizens."
The threat was polite, professional, and unmistakable.
"Of course not," Gary agreed. "Though I've always found that genuine care tends to heal people, while manipulation tends to wound them. Funny how that works."
Thaddeus's smile didn't waver, but his eyes went flat. "Indeed. I'm sure the review will clarify any confusion about which category your... establishment falls into."
He left without ordering anything, but Gary noticed he'd taken careful note of every face in the tavern, every conversation he could overhear, every detail that might be useful to someone building a case.
That evening, as Gary prepared for the next Seventhday meeting, he understood that they'd crossed a line. The gossip campaign had worked—perhaps too well. The Order now knew they were actively working against them, and the compliance review was just the beginning of Valdora's response.
He thought about Mrs. Pemberton, too afraid to take comfort in her grief. About the tension in honest conversations, the way people now second-guessed seeking help when they needed it most. About the files Marcus had described, full of weaponized vulnerability and stolen trust.
Some wounds, Gary realized, could only be healed by cutting them open first and letting the poison drain out.
The question was whether they could expose the corruption before it destroyed not just the Waystone, but everyone who'd ever found healing within its walls.
Outside, Sixthday night settled over the city with an unusual stillness, as if the very air was holding its breath for what would come next.