The corridor stretched before them, heavy with physical silanece.
Alaric walked with measured steps, his boots echoing against the polished floor in a rhythm that contrasted with the rapid, shallow beating of his own heart—a physical manifestation of a cold, calculated rage. Behind him, Gyan moved like a whisper given form, her presence barely disturbing the air around her.
The shadow link was tight, a thin, vibrating thread connecting their minds.
"He smelled of copper," Gyan's voice resonated in the back of Alaric's skull, flat and devoid of inflection.
"It was… stagnant. Like he had been bathed in a lot of it recently. Quite odd for a man who spends most of his time in a crypt."
"Aside that he was gaurded," Alaric replied, his thoughts sharp, analytical. "The moment I mentioned the constructs, his he became so defensive. His repetition of Pontifex's about his work was interesting. Most people would be convinced when that was brought up. Thing is he brought it up way more than he needed to."
They passed a stained-glass window depicting the Sun Arcana in radiant gold, its light casting fragmented rainbows across the stone floor. Gyan stepped through them without breaking stride.
"Still, that is not enough to accuse the chaplain of anything," she said. "The Church would demand substabtial evidence. Corroboration. A confession obtained through proper channels."
"I know." Alaric's hands clasped behind his back.
"If I attempt to make a move, then the West Cardinal steps in. Cardinal Ljudevit does not tolerate accusations against his people, no matter how justified. It would become a diplomatic incident between the State and the Church."
Gyan shook her head.
"That's a conflict we cannot afford. Not with the Revolutionists gathering strength and the possibilty of a traitor in the Council watching our every move."
"Precisely." The word hung in the air between them, heavy with frustration neither of them voiced.
They emerged from the corridor into a wide courtyard, and the world changed. It was a garden. But it was not a garden of vanity or leisure. It was a utilitarian plot of earth, stripped of ornamentation, where rows of cabbage, tubers, and hardy grains grew with disciplined precision.
Even though there were some adornments that served as symbols of faith such as the stained glass window they passed by, the Church practiced a radical minimalism that bordered on asceticism. In a world where nobility spent fortunes on imported spices and fabrics, the Sacred Orthodox Church insisted on self-sufficiency.
They owned lands, yes, but they cultivated them with their own hands. They paid nothing for their sustenance. They bought nothing unless the survival of the congregation absolutely necessitated it. The economy of the Church was a closed loop, an insult to the bloated excess of the merchants and the lords who felt the need to display their wealth in gold-leaf tapestries and imported silk.
Alaric stopped at the edge of the garden, his eyes sweeping over the scene.
A group of children, their hands stained with the dark, rich soil of the cathedral grounds, were working a patch of root vegetables. They moved with a quiet efficiency that spoke of long hours and simple lives. A nun supervised from the shade of an olive tree, her expression serene.
One of them, a young mundane boy, looked up and spotted the striking figure of the Lord of Blackwood and his personal assistant.
His eyes widened. He whispered to a girl beside him, and they stood, wiping their muddy hands on their tunics. They approached Alaric with a mix of trepidation and childish wonder.
"Mister," he said with a small voice.
"Would you like to taste?"
"Yes please." Alaric said with a smile.
The boy reached into a wooden basket and pulled out a small, sun-ripened tomato, offering it with both hands. Behind him, several other children had paused what they were doing, watching with wide eyes. The supervising nun had risen to her feet, her hands clasped before her.
Alaric took one knee—an act that made the children gasp—and accepted the tomato.
"Thank you," he said.
"What is your name?"
"Ann."
"Ann." he repeated patting the boy on the head. He reached into his coat and produced a gold coin—an exorbitant sum for a piece of produce, a fortune for a child. He placed it in the boy's palm. The boy stared at the gold, then at the man. He bowed, his fingers forming the intricate, prayerful sign of the Church then raced back to the nun. The nun's eyes widened, but she accepted it with grace and placed it in a small wooden offering bowl near the garden's edge. The other children crowded around, their voices a cascade of excited whispers.
Gyan who had been observing returned her gaze back to Alaric, who had risen and was now examining the berries he had been given. His expression had returned to its usual calm.
"Gyan," he said, not looking up and turning to walk away.
"Did you ever have a teacher?"
The question caught her off guard. She was silent for a moment before answering.
"You know the life I lived before you found me," she finally said. "Kill and eat or kill and be eaten. There were no teachers, only predators and prey."
A memory flickered across Alaric's vision. He was younger then—younger by nearly two decades—standing in a dead forest that reeked of rot and decay. Webs of shadow had surrounded him, thick as rope, pulsing with malevolent intent. From the darkness beyond, pairs of crimson eyes had gazed at him, hungry and ancient, assessing him as a spider assesses a fly.
Gyan cleared her throat, a soft sound that shattered the memory like glass.
"Do not recall anything embarrassing," she said, and there was a strange tightness in her voice. "I will not have you dwelling on... that moment."
"What was embarrassing about it? It was a memorable moment for the two of us."
"I was naked."
"I gave you my cloak."
Her jaw tightened.
"You still saw everything." she said in a small voice, a faint flush crept across her dark cheeks. She looked away sharply, her hand rising to adjust the collar of her shirt.
"I have never understood the obsession," she muttered. "Flesh is flesh. We all possess it. Yet humans insist on covering it with layers of fabric and pretending it is some great mystery."
"You say that but the thought of being naked back then makes you embarassed." Alaric smiled—genuinely, warmly—and it transformed his face again. He wiped one of the tomato against his shirt, took a bite, and chewed slowly.
"Sweet," he said. Then, extending the fruit toward her: "Would you like a bite?"
Gyan shook her head. They continued walking in silence but she hadn't missed the telltale signs that her Lord was far from poise. His Presence—normally so tightly controlled it was almost invisible—had begun to leak from him like steam from a vent. She could sense the malice coiling beneath his composure, dark and sharp, waiting for release.
"I asked if you had a teacher. Well I did, I had many when I was growing up. A teacher for etiquette. A teacher for academics. A teacher for combat. Of all of them the one that stood out to me was..."
"...Sigmund Kilgowe."
Alaric paused for a bit before continuing.
"I was a target," he muttered.
"Fazhan University. And I was the only student without a drop of Flow in my veins. A hollow vessel. A freak. Even my beloved Elara once looked down n me because of my abnormality."
He chuckled.
"Oh how far we've come."
Gyan didn't say anything but she had a look of concern on her face as more and more of Alarics Presence began to leak.
"I remember the library. The smell of old parchment and the sound of laughter behind my back. They didn't just ignore me. They resented me. There was a boy named Theron. Wealthy family. Powerful Trait—The Chariot, or so he claimed. He was the worst of those who resented me. He took exception to my presence one afternoon. Thought I was polluting the sanctity of the lecture hall."
"He attacked you?"
"Theron's arrogance wrote checks his skill couldn't cash. He came at me with everything he had—spinning, flowing, his Trait blazing around him like a halo of fire. While I could defend myself with my martial skill and the essence of my developing Stillsword style, at the end of the day I was still a mundane human."
A pause.
"He broke my nose against the mahogany desk. Said I was a stain on the lineage of the university. Needlees to say he didn't walk away unscathed. He couldn't eat solid food for a few months. Still, I was humiliated. The others in the university naturally ignored or fabricated the incident in his favor all because I didn't have Flow."
Alaric's jaw tightened.
"But then there was S.K. He was different from the other professors or students. He didn't care that I had no flow. He didn't look down on me. He saw something in my stillness, my ability to wait, to observe, to strike only when the time was perfect. He taught me that stillness was not absence of motion, but the fulcrum upon which all motion turns."
He fell silent, and Gyan watched the memory play across his face. For a moment, he looked younger. Hopeful.
"Bloody brilliant, that man," Alaric murmured in an accent that was not his own—cruder, rougher, with a northern lilt. "'You don't need to be faster, Alaric. You need to be stiller. Let them come to you. Let them commit. Then move. Once. Precisely. And bloody end it.'"
Gyan felt the weight of his Presence intensify. The air grew heavy, pressing against her skin. The ground beneath them vibrated, and cracks spider-webbed across the nearest flagstone.
"Aside from the Inquisition," Alaric said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "myself and Elara, no one knows S.K was murdered. But Igor knew. He knew without being told. That proves he lied about his involvement and by extension proves he is in some way connected with Rorics death."
The pressure grew unbearable. Gyan's hand moved to his shoulder, and the contact was like a key turning in a lock. Alaric blinked, and the oppressive weight vanished. The world snapped back to its natural state. He looked at the trembling nun in the distant garden with the terrified children gathered around her.Even from this distance, Alaric could see her hands trembling.
He exhaled slowly, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentle. Remorseful.
"I let my emotions get the better of me."
He moved toward the nearest offering bowl and deposited an amount of money as payment for the distress he had caused. They walked in silence for a bit.
"You really only show it when you're reminded of your failures, don't you?" Gyan murmured as they moved.
"Other than your lust for your wife and your love for your family. It is... disconcerting to see it slip."
Alaric chuckled, the sound genuine this time.
"Lust for my wife. Is that what you call it?"
"Affection, then. Devotion. Whatever word you prefer. The point stands."
Before Alaric could respond, a voice cut through the air. Light, feminine, and laced with a mix of exasperation and amusement.
"I knew it! I knew That Presence was familiar."
Ahead, standing in a shaft of pale afternoon light, was Lord Heidi Dahl, Lord of the Kartsfall region and one of Alaric's old friends. Standing beside her was a man in utilitarian traveling leathers most likely a servant or assistant.
"Lord Dahl." Gyan dropped into a low bow, her head inclined. Heidi raised her hand in acknowledgement. Gyan then nodded at the man Heidi was with. He reciprocated and nodded back.
"Heidi," Alaric said. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Stop pretending you are surprised to see me Auro. You know damn well I am a believer." Heidi said, folding her arms. She stepped closer, her eyes scanning him, probing the edges of his frustration.
"I never expected to see you here, though. Don't tell me you've finally decided to walk the path of faith?"
Alaric chuckled, shaking his head. "I fear the divine and I have a complicated relationship. I'm merely a tourist in your cathedral."
Heidi shrugged.
"One day, you'll join the fold. The soul always seeks a home."
She then tilted her head, her gaze sharpening.
"But that's not why you're here. You look like you've been chewing on glass. What has you so vexed? I could basically see the malice in your Presence."
Alaric hesitated. He knew Heidi. Of the Lords in the Council allied with him, she was the only one who could see through the cracks in his armor. He glanced at Gyan, who had broken the alignment of their shadows.
"I came to have a word with the Cardinal to attend to one or two things." he answered with a sigh. Heidi's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile.
"Ah, I see. You and Cardinal Ljudevit. I should have guessed. The two of you have never been able to agree on anything. You're like oil and water."
"A succinct summary," Gyan muttered in agreement.
Heidi laughed. It was a kind, rhythmic sound that cut through the lingering tension.
"He is, isn't he? All that piety and fire. Still, you must admit he is effective at his job."
"He is good at what he does," Alaric admitted.
"That does not mean I have to like him."
"Fair." Heidi stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm.
"Infact, I was thinking of coming to see you concerning certain matters. You could even say me meeting you here was the gods plan. But before that, I hear Lord Vaughn's restaurant in town has come out with a new cousine."
Alaric knew it was pointless as Heidi would badger him like a spoiled sister.
"Very well then."
"Good." Heidi said pulling him along. Gyan and Heidi's assistant paused before following.