Then what of Ernest, that city with so much history? To Oliver, that was even easier, for he could feel it in the place, see it in the graves, and in the empty suits of armour. The dead, and all the centuries that had existed before their current time, they were held in Ernest like a bank. The meaning that had rung strongly in their time, as loudly as the bells that rang above Claudia's churches. The sufferings that they had endured, the victories that they had won, and the defeats that they had barely survived. Ernest was all those things.
Ernest was a library of humanity, it was thousands and thousands of lives, and hundreds of great men, all of them searching in Ernest for what it meant to be a Stormfronter. Corrupt men they might have been, in the way that all men were corrupt. Men that had made poor decisions, and men who had, at the same time, shone with that blinding white light that accompanies all heroes.
