The cathedral rose above the city streets like a monument to patience and stone. Alkibiades walked its aisles slowly, each step careful not to scrape the polished marble. He remembered when he had last stood here, young and fiery, a hero to some, a traitor to others.

  Chains had rung against the stone, the Order’s judgment pressing heavier than the walls themselves. They had punished him for fighting the right fight, or so they said.

  The high arches swallowed him as he walked. He had come seeking assistance. The city trembled at its edges. Rumors of unrest twisted through the streets like smoke. People whispered of violence, of strange happenings, of threats that seemed almost too quiet to notice until they were upon you. Alkibiades had hoped the Order could lend aid to the fall of Varidia, or at least presence, some measure of authority to steady things before they became uncontrollable.

  The chamber smelled of incense, old stone, and faint wax smoke from candles long extinguished but left to drip on marble. Light poured through stained glass, red and gold and green mingling across the floor. The colors seemed to mock him, bright and impossible in a place that had once punished his zeal.

  He approached the clerics, who were gathered in their usual semicircle of judgment. Their robes whispered over the floor, soft and measured. Faces were polite but cold. Eyes met his, assessing, weighing. He did not meet their gaze. He had learned that long ago.

  One stepped forward, a bishop whose hands were folded so tightly that the knuckles shone white beneath his skin. The man’s voice was measured, a slow drip of disdain. “Alkibiades. You seek the church’s help. Tell me, why should we concern ourselves with matters of unrest? You yourself were found wanting once before.”

  Alkibiades’s jaw clenched, and he felt the old burn of shame and defiance rise. He had been punished, yes. His crime had been daring to act, to lead men and women to freedom, to break chains no one else dared touch. For that he had been exiled in practice, sent to Varidia to perform minimal duty while others took honors, privileges, and divine attention.

  “Unrest? Varidia is in ashes!” Al shouted, before lowering his voice again.

  “I was there. Something tore the sky apart. The city is a crater. The dead came back. ALL OF THEM!” His voice raised again.

  “Shout again and your next words will be in a cell.” The bishop threatened.

  “It is our duty to-” Alkibiades continued, quieter.

  “Your duty,” another voice cut him off, “is to maintain order, not question it. This city requires stability, not meddling from those who would see themselves above the rest.”

  A younger paladin smiled in a way meant to be charming but failed utterly. “Tell me, Al, does it sting to serve without blessing? To wear the mantle of Templar but hold no fire from the gods? Some among us are gifted, yet here you stand with nothing to call your own.”

  Alkibiades did not respond. His mind traced the past, the long hours of training, the nights spent awake in the city streets ensuring people’s safety while others slept in comfort. Nothing had changed. He still had his skill, his blade, and his loyalty. That was all.

  The bishop moved closer, voice dropping to a near whisper that still carried over the marble. “Were we so inclined, we could strike you down where you stand. That you live, that you walk these halls, is mercy enough.”

  Alkibiades’s eyes flicked toward the man’s chest briefly, noting a small glint at the throat. A pendant hung there, wrought in metal, its lines curling into a shape he did not recognize. It caught the light for a moment and reflected a faint green. He looked away, continuing to mask any sign that he noticed. It meant nothing to him now, but his memory clung to it in a quiet way he did not question.

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  Another priest, older and quieter, spoke, words soft and deliberate. “The Order remembers more than you know, Alkibiades. Sometimes the smallest failures echo louder than the greatest victories. Remember this when you think of aid.”

  Alkibiades felt a pull of weariness. He had seen this before. The church was concerned with its hierarchy, its order, its image. They valued control more than righteousness. Some kept to themselves, some spoke only what was safe, and some wielded authority like a weapon. Whether by accident or design, he did not know, and for now it did not matter.

  He moved through the chamber slowly, each step echoing against the vaulted ceiling. Candles flickered in corners he had not noticed before, casting long shadows across pillars carved with saints and warriors, faces frozen in eternal vigilance. He remembered the day he had raised his sword here, calling the people to freedom. Now the halls seemed narrower, the walls closer, as if the cathedral itself were reminding him that the Order did not want heroes who acted without their blessing.

  The clerics spoke again, their words a chorus of polite dismissal and gentle reprimand. “Perhaps you overestimate the church’s duty,” one said. “Perhaps you expect guidance where none is owed. Keep to your stations, knight, and do not presume to advise those who hold the law of our lands in hand.”

  Alkibiades nodded slightly, though he did not lower his gaze. Nothing they said could change the truth he carried. Loyalty was a private thing, not granted or withdrawn by robes or titles. He had faith in the Order, even if the Order no longer saw him as faithful.

  When he left, the bells above tolled the evening hour. The city had changed in the months since he had walked these streets. Faces were wary, some hostile, some indifferent. He passed citizens who muttered under their breath, who watched from the shadows, who had learned to fear any glimmer of rebellion or independence.

  Alkibiades kept walking, the echo of the clerics’ judgment still pressing at his shoulders. He needed the company of his companions, a place that smelled of life and warmth, even if the comfort was only temporary. The streets narrowed around him, shadows lengthening with the fading light, and he pushed open the tavern door, stepping into its crowded interior.

  The tavern felt smaller, thick with the smell of smoke and sweat and spilled ale. The laughter and song of drunken patrons rose and fell in waves. The group had settled into an uneasy silence. Shadows pressed into the corners, heavy where the lamplight did not reach.

  Marvel stirred first. In her feline form her fur stood up along her back, ears flattened tight to her skull. A hiss rolled low from her throat.

  Everyone followed her gaze.

  A man stood in the far corner. No door had opened. No footsteps to warn them. He was simply there, tall and cloaked, as if he had always belonged to the room and only now had chosen to be seen.

  His features slipped in and out of focus, difficult to hold in mind for more than a moment. Bringing unease to the group.

  Alkibiades’s sword came half out of its sheath with a sharp rasp. Horren swore, pushing to his feet.

  “Who the hell are you?” Horren demanded.

  The man folded his hands, voice smooth and calm. “I'm merely an advisor to many. Perhaps, tonight, to you.”

  Alkibiades stepped forward, jaw tight. “We do not need an advisor.”

  The stranger’s gaze moved across them, never lingering long enough to be pinned down. When he spoke again, his tone was measured, almost kind, though there was nothing warm about it.

  “You think what you saw was an accident. A single night of chaos. It was not. The rot spreads. There are hands behind it, sharpening their knives in the dark.”

  The words hung in the air.

  Lillyth felt the weight of them and whispered, “You mean… there are more of them?”

  A small smile touched the man’s mouth. “Far more. And if you hope to survive what comes, you must cut away the sickness before it takes root.”

  From within his cloak he drew a pouch of coin. The gold clinked softly as he set it upon the table. “Funds for the road. You seem to be low already.”

  Alkibiades’s face hardened. “We do not take bribes.”

  The advisor regarded him with the patience of a teacher correcting a student. “Not a bribe. A tool. A blade without whetstone dulls. A body without fuel fails. Gold is no different. Take it, or leave it. It changes nothing.”

  “Where?” Horren asked.

  The advisor inclined his head slightly, as though pleased. “An ancient crypt lies beyond the town. A cult stirs there, spreading rot. Stop them, if you can.”

  “Why help us?” Aeyona asked swiftly.

  “Our interests align… for now.” He said slowly, his eyes taking turns on each of them.

  “It's just us, we can't do it all on our own.” Alkibiades sighed.

  “You won't be.”

  The man gave them nothing further. His eyes lingered for a moment longer, unreadable.

  And then he was gone. Not through the door. Not into the hall. One heartbeat he was present, the next he was simply erased from the room.

  Silence filled the space he left behind. The air felt colder, though the tavern’s lantern still burned. Marvel hissed again at the corner where he had stood.

  Horren ran his hands through the gold, checking its legitimacy.

  Alkibiades shoved his blade back into its sheath with a snap. “We would be fools to trust him.”

  “We may be dead fools to ignore him.” Horren replied.

  “The church was less than no help.. so unless he finds more, we are alone.” Alkibiades said quietly. “You girls may want to stay here.. it'll be safer than-” He began.

  “Fuck that, we've gone this far already.” Aeyona snapped at him.

  Lillyth wanted to protest, she had no desire to walk into more danger, or bring it to Marvel. Then the words stirred in her mind from earlier, Witch. Her safety may not be here either.

  “I agree.. Varidia was home, if they plan to hurt more people, I can't just sit and wait for it.” Lillyth decided out loud, looking towards Aeyona's approving eyes for comfort in her choice.

  “We leave tomorrow. Get some more rest, I'll find us supplies.” Al said after a moment of thought. He scooped up some of the gold, and made his way back into the city streets.