Lucien watched her quivering form in silence. For a noblewoman, being thrust into a den of monsters must have been unbearable. Worse still, she was here because of him.
"Please have a seat; the sermon will begin soon," a guttural voice announced.
"Let's go," he urged softly, but she gave no response—only quiet tears spilling down her cheeks.
Lucien sighed. "Forgive my rudeness."
He gently took her hand and led her to a row of benches. As they settled, footsteps echoed through the hall. A blue-haired man in a white robe ascended the podium.
Lucien's brow furrowed. A human?
The man stood tall, a serene smile gracing his lips as his cyan eyes swept over the gathering. Once the murmurs died down, he began.
"My brothers and sisters, agents of truth. The fight for truth is a marathon, not a sprint. We may not see results at once, but we must not waver…"
Roschella stirred. Her sobs had subsided; her free hand brushed at her damp cheeks. Lucien slipped off his gloves and turned her palm upward, slowly tracing his fingertip across her silk-covered skin.
[You alright?]
Her expression crumbled again. Tears welled as she bit her lower lip, then gave the faintest nod. But a navy-robed guard along the wall fixed his eyes on them. He shifted his attention back to the podium, feigning interest as the gaze lingered.
Only when it shifted away did he dare move his fingers again.
[Found escape.]
Her fingers twitched beneath his; she was listening. He pressed another line into her palm.
[Need help. Gray powder. Latrine. Inside the pit.]
He didn't know whether she could act through her trauma, but he needed more saltpeter.
For a long time, there was no answer—just the relentless cadence of the sermon. Then, slowly, she flipped his hand, her fingertip trembling as it traced against his palm.
[I'll try.]
It turned out he had underestimated her resilience. With that, Lucien added his final note.
[Stay strong.]
Her fingers curled around his, as though afraid to let him go, and he answered with a faint squeeze. The sermon continued; its words rang hollow in his ears.
"By standing firm, we become the force that will transform the world," the speaker concluded.
The congregation rose, applause rolling through the hall. Once the blue-haired man departed, the werewolves began shuffling out with restless murmurs.
Lucien and Roschella remained seated, hands joined beneath the bench as the hall emptied. A heavy silence stretched between them. Roschella had steadied; she no longer trembled, and her tears had dried.
Footsteps echoed, drawing their eyes to a black-robed figure.
"We need to return," a guttural woman's voice said.
Roschella's head snapped toward Lucien, horror staining her features as her grip tightened.
"It's alright." Lucien gently eased his hand from hers, trying to reassure her. With their escape not yet ready, it was unwise to provoke the cult.
Her face blanched as the woman seized her wrist, tears streaming down her cheeks. She clung to him, nails digging into his hand, eyes wide with a silent plea he couldn't answer. Inch by inch, her grip loosened until only her fingertips brushed his—then she was gone, dragged into the darkened corridor.
Lucien's hand fell uselessly to his side, curling into a fist. "I'm sorry."
He let out a sharp sigh and raked a hand through his hair; bitterness permeated his mouth. Clicking his tongue in irritation, he strode toward the exit.
Let's get out of this damned place.
Stepping outside, he found two guards waiting. He halted before them and ordered, "Show me the kitchen."
The guards exchanged a glance before one answered, "Follow me."
As they walked down the corridor, the faint sound of cascading water guided them into a vast hall. At its center stood a marble fountain crowned by a statue of a goddess, crystal water spilling at her feet.
Two figures in white robes stood nearby, drawing Lucien's attention—the blue-haired speaker among them. As Lucien approached, the man turned, a benign smile curving his lips. The guards halted and bowed; he returned the gesture with a simple nod.
Then his gaze found Lucien. "Your Highness," he greeted warmly.
Lucien regarded him wordlessly—something about him was deeply unsettling.
A growl pierced through his thoughts. "Bow before—"
The man raised his hand, silencing the beast. "There's no need."
"May I ask something?" Lucien began.
The speaker inclined his head, his saintly smile never wavering. "By all means."
Lucien cut straight to the point. "How did you earn the werewolves' reverence?"
His cyan eyes softened, as though indulging a child's innocent curiosity. "They did not choose me; they chose the God within me."
"God?" Lucien arched a brow. "There are no gods here."
This continent was a godless land.
Yet the man merely chuckled. "According to the Empire? Perhaps."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"The Apocrypha of Solairé," he said smoothly. "Have you ever wondered why the Empire banned that book?"
"Because you're establishing a cult," Lucien shot back.
"That is incorrect," the man gently corrected him. "We published it to reveal what the Empire buried."
Lucien's lip curled. "And you expect me to take your word for it?"
He spread his hands lightly. "Believe as you will; I do not demand your faith. But if you ever look into the Elders of the Empire… you will understand."
A figure at his side stepped forward. "Your Holiness, it is time."
He nodded, then cast Lucien a final look, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Until we meet again, Your Highness. And remember—it's not a cult, but Akmé. We seek only to unveil the truth. I trust you will not judge us too harshly, once the light reaches you."
With that, they turned away. Lucien watched in silence as their figures disappeared into the darkened corridor.
A low growl rumbled beside him. Lucien glanced over to find the werewolf's feral eyes locked on him. "If not for His Holiness, we'd have torn you apart."
Unfazed, he merely shrugged. The werewolf's lips peeled back, revealing its jagged teeth. After a long, tense beat, it snorted and stalked forward.
As Lucien fell in step behind them, his thoughts drifted to the four black-robed figures who had stood before him during his coming-of-age rites.
The Elders.
In truth, he had looked into them once and found nothing.
And yet… if Akmé's goal was to expose those powers to the world, shouldn't scholars and zealots alike already be scouring the land?
The realm's unusually quiet suggested something—or someone—was holding the chaos at bay.
Had the poet's carving on the monument been pointing to the cult all along?
Lucien clicked his tongue in mild annoyance. Pointless thoughts.
Whatever fate awaited this world wasn't his concern; it was Tristan's.
However, the sight of a vast chamber beyond the windows—lined with shelves heavy with books—caught Lucien's attention. He slowed to a halt.
A library?
"Hey, what are you doing?" one of the guards barked.
"Wait."
Ignoring the protest, Lucien strode toward the entrance and pushed the door open. The hinges groaned, and the scent of old parchment wafted through his nostrils. Inside, several black-robed figures glanced at him before returning to their tasks.
He moved more slowly between the aisles, eyes scanning the spines, clinging to the faint hope of finding something—anything—that might take him back to the modern world. If this cult truly performed miracles, surely there had to be a clue hidden somewhere—
"…imperial galleon…"
Lucien froze at the hushed words.
"…Zerounix galleon… negotiations ended…"
His brows knitted as he strained to listen.
"…divine judgement…"
"…tear each other apart…"
Lucien's head snapped toward the muffled voices beyond the shelves.
What in the world are they planning?