The fire had burned low, little more than coals hissing in the resin. Pine needles whispered when the wind shifted, and beyond the camp, the forest stretched black and endless.

  Darius broke the silence first. His voice was measured, steady, but every man and woman around the circle leaned closer as if the words themselves carried heat.

  “During the fight with Malcolm,” he said, “Devotion showed me visions.”

  Heads turned. Calder’s scar curled into that half-smile that was never quite amused. Kaelen stiffened. Even Myrren’s quill hovered over her ledger, uncertain whether she ought to write such a thing down.

  “Visions of her,” Darius continued, his eyes flicking toward Selene. “Of your mother. She seemed a good woman.”

  A murmur passed through the Inquisitors. Shock. Doubt. Eryndor’s brows drew together, but he stayed silent.

  “And of your father.” Darius’s jaw tightened, but he did not look away. “He seemed a decent man.”

  The reaction this time was sharper. Calder hissed under her breath. Tomas shifted as if stung. Kaelen actually barked a word—“Blasphemy”—before Jareth laid a hand on his arm. Others muttered darkly, voices overlapping.

  Darius lifted his hand, and their words stilled. “I speak of who he was,” he said coldly. “Not what he became. You all saw what demon blood does to its hosts. That cannot be denied.”

  For a moment, the fire popped and hissed, filling the silence. Calder’s scar tugged into its half-smile, but her eyes were shadowed with unease. Kaelen muttered low, as if the words tasted bitter, “A decent man, once…” Jareth frowned into the flames, his jaw tight. Even Tomas—so quick to call blasphemy—found no retort, only a scowl that did not hide the doubt creeping into his eyes.

  “It is true,” Isolde said at last, reluctant but firm. “Demon blood makes monsters of men. If he were… decent, then the question remains: why drink it? What drove him to that?”

  “Or who drove him,” Myrren added softly, quill stilled in her hand. “Not all who bear it take it by choice.”

  Murmurs rippled. The Inquisitors exchanged glances—begrudging, unsettled, but not dismissive. For the first time, the sharp certainty of their judgments bent under the weight of possibility.

  Across the fire, Selene gave a scoff sharp enough to cut through the night. “You don’t understand anything.”

  The words struck like a whip. Calder’s hand twitched toward her sword, Kaelen’s jaw clenched, and Tomas muttered a curse under his breath. Yet none turned away. Curiosity, grudging and raw, held them fast.

  Darius turned to her. “Then help me understand. Tell us what happened to your father.”

  Selene’s eyes gleamed gold in the firelight, unreadable. “You aren’t ready to hear that story.”

  Darius’s frown deepened. “Then tell us one we are ready for.”

  Silence. Selene did not move. The flames cracked, casting crooked shadows across the gathered faces.

  It was Eryndor who finally spoke. His voice was careful, almost gentle. “You say you don’t hate the Church… What do you mean by that? How do you feel?”

  Selene let out a long breath and came forward, her steps slow, deliberate, until the light touched her fully. She lowered herself to sit by the fire, and for a moment, no one spoke.

  “That,” she said at last, “is a long story.”

  “We have a little time,” Darius answered.

  She looked at him—truly looked—and for the first time, there was something uncertain in her gaze. Then she turned to the rest. “You all know what became of my parents. It was before I could even walk, but my grandmother told me every detail. She believed in the Sanctum’s message: that Dragon-bloods must be watched, guided, and protected, so that they might protect others in turn. She believed it so deeply that she convinced me as well. And I agreed.”

  The words fell heavily. Shock rippled through the camp. Calder’s eyes narrowed. Kaelen muttered a curse. Myrren stopped writing altogether. Only Aelun sat quietly, his face unreadable, as though none of this surprised him.

  Selene’s voice lowered. “But there was one thing I could never accept—the way the Sanctum chose to enforce that protection. Their methods. Their cruelty.” She lifted her eyes, and the fire caught in them like molten glass. “So I thought the best way to change it was from within. When I was ten years old, I entered the Sanctum as a Saintess candidate. But not under the name Selene. I was called something else.”

  The fire crackled, throwing sparks into the night air. A moment before, half the circle had looked away from her, some with boredom, others with disgust carved plain on their faces. But Selene’s words clung like smoke, seeping into their lungs, into their thoughts.

  One by one, heads turned. Calder, who had been leaning back with arms crossed, shifted forward, the scarred half-smile on her face twitching as if against her will. Kaelen’s scowl eased, curiosity flickering in his eyes despite himself. Even Tomas, ever the first to spit venom, found his gaze fixed on her, suspicion warring with the need to hear what she would say next.

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  Isolde’s lips pressed thin, but she too leaned closer. Myrren lowered her quill, not to write, but to listen. The firelight caught in their eyes, and the circle bent inward as though the night itself were pulling them toward her voice.

  Every Inquisitor present leaned forward, unwilling—unable—to miss a word.

  Selene’s gaze drifted into the flames. And the world shifted—

  The chapel square smelled of incense and tallow smoke. Villagers pressed close together, their cloaks drawn tight, their children clutching their hands. At the front stood a long table draped in white cloth, three figures seated behind it:

  An Inquisitor knight, stern and armored, with a scar tracing his jaw.

  A priest, round-faced and warm, in robes edged with gold thread.

  A scholar, sharp-eyed, with ink smudges on her fingers, a stack of parchments at her elbow.

  The priest rose and spread his hands to the gathered crowd.

  “Over the past days, your children have been tested,” he announced. “We weighed their Vaylora capacity, their glyph affinity, their gifts of mind and spirit. Today we reveal the results, and guide each child to the path best suited to serve the Sanctum—and the world.”

  The crowd stirred, shifting on their feet, a wave of whispered prayers and stifled breaths moving through them. Parents clutched their children’s shoulders as though to anchor them, eyes shining with hope, fear, and desperate pride.

  The first name was called. A boy of eleven, bright-eyed, stepped forward, his parents and younger sister at his back. His tunic was patched, his boots worn thin, but he stood tall, jaw set as though he knew the weight of this moment. The priest read his score aloud, voice rich with approval: strong Vaylora, sharp mind, though his glyph affinity was modest.

  The Inquisitor leaned forward, his scar catching the sunlight, and asked, “Do you wish to walk the Thorned Path with me?”

  The boy froze for half a breath, wide eyes searching his parents. His mother nodded through tears, his father thumped his chest with pride, and the younger sister—barely more than a toddler—clapped her hands without understanding. The boy grinned, wide enough to split his face. “Yes.”

  The Inquisitor rose and pressed a bronze token into his palm, the mark of initiation. “Then rise, Initiate. Your blood will serve the Sanctum.”

  The boy bowed so deeply his hair brushed the flagstones. His family wept openly, their sobs half relief, half triumph. The crowd erupted with cheers and murmured blessings.

  The next name was called. A frail boy of twelve, his tunic too large for his thin frame, shuffled forward with his mother’s hand pressed firm against his back. He kept his eyes down as the priest read his results: his body was weak, his capacity low, and his spark of Vaylora was barely a flicker. Murmurs rippled through the crowd; some parents clutched their children tighter, as if to guard them from the same fate.

  The boy’s shoulders sagged. His mother bit her lip until it bled.

  The priest closed the ledger and, after a pause, spoke with a steady voice meant for all to hear: “Fret not, child. When one door closes, another opens. The Sanctum does not forsake its own.”

  The boy’s head lifted a fraction, uncertain.

  That was when the scholar leaned forward, eyes warm behind her round spectacles, her voice kind where the priest’s had been solemn. “Your scores in the study are excellent. Your glyph recognition is unmatched. You will be a scholar.”

  A stir moved through the crowd. The boy’s face shifted from shame to shock, and then to the faintest spark of pride.

  Even the Inquisitor added, with a gruff nod, “Never underestimate scholars, boy. Steel saves lives, but so do the words of those who craft our spells. I’ve been carried from battle by more parchment than iron.”

  The boy’s eyes widened, his chest rising as if he’d suddenly remembered how to breathe. His mother’s tears came fast, this time bright with joy.

  The scholar pressed a silver token engraved with a quill into his hand. He clutched it tight, bowed low, and returned to the crowd, his grin shaky but true.

  One by one, names were called, paths chosen. The system of the Sanctum ground on like a great clock, gears turning, children placed.

  Then a hush fell.

  The next child approached with measured steps, the sound of her sandals soft against the stone. She was perhaps ten, silver-blonde hair catching the sun in a pale halo. Slightly pointed ears betrayed her mixed blood. Behind her walked her parents: an elegant elven mother with hair like spun glass, and a rugged human father, broad-shouldered and smelling faintly of pine and earth.

  A ripple coursed through the crowd. Some gasped, others bowed their heads and traced the Sign of Thorns, as though warding themselves. Children craned their necks, mothers pulled them close. The presence of the elf alone would have been enough to turn heads, but with the child at her side, it was as if the mountain itself had drawn breath.

  At the table, the three examiners shifted. The priest’s eyes narrowed, but not in surprise — recognition flickered there. He set his quill down deliberately. “So,” he said, voice carrying over the hush, “you are the half-elven child they told us about.”

  The Inquisitor frowned, the scar at his temple pulling taut. “Elves keep their own. Why is she here?”

  The mother stepped forward, bowing deeply, every gesture precise with elven grace. “We come from a nearby village,” she said. “My daughter wishes to serve her human half. Her gifts will not be wasted on us alone.”

  The Inquisitor leaned back in his chair, studying the girl with an appraising eye. His gauntlet drummed once against the table before he muttered, half to himself, “With what you are, the main branch would have taken you without question. Elves, before you have chosen their place without trial. You could do the same.”

  Esmeralda lifted her chin. Her voice rang clear, steadier than many grown men’s.

  “That would not be fair. Every other child stands these trials. So will I.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, sharp with surprise. Some gasped, others bowed their heads as though witnessing something sacred. A few scoffed under their breath — but even those who doubted could not look away.

  The priest’s grave expression softened, pride stealing into his features. He inclined his head slowly, as if addressing not a child but an equal. “Such conviction… Any of us would be honored to have you walk our path, young lady.” His voice carried, deliberate, so all could hear.

  For the first time, even the Inquisitor leaned forward, their earlier doubts giving way to something closer to respect.

  For a heartbeat, the three at the table said nothing. The Inquisitor’s frown softened into something closer to wonder; the Scholar’s lips pressed thin, but she gave the smallest of nods.

  Then the priest smiled — slow, approving, almost reluctant to break the silence. “Very well,” he said. “Then let us begin your evaluation… Esmeralda Thalewyn.”