he road to the Sanctrum wound through hills of pale dust and dying grass. The carriage wheels cut narrow furrows in the earth, and each turn seemed to take them further from the quiet of Bondrea and deeper into the heart of the Priesthood’s dominion.

  Phillip sat opposite his brother, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the horizon through the window slit. The early light caught the line of his jaw, he looked tired, but still young enough to believe that questions had meaning.

  Alexander watched him for a moment before speaking. “How was it?”

  “The battle?” Phillip’s voice was flat. “Disagreeable.”

  “You won.”

  Phillip looked up. “We did. They were too many, but poorly trained. It wasn’t a fight, it was a culling.”

  Alexander nodded. He didn’t ask for details. The blood was implied. The silence that followed was not empty; it pulsed with all that could not be said. Outside, the wind moved the dust like water, and the smell of ash clung to the air, as if the land itself remembered war better than peace.

  For a time, only the sound of the wheels filled the carriage. Then Phillip said, “You allied yourself with Lexordo.”

  Alexander’s gaze stayed fixed on the passing hills. “I did.”

  “He’s a torturer,” Phillip said. “A man who hurt children.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Then why?”

  Alexander turned his head slowly. “Because sometimes the monsters we despise know how to hurt the monsters we fear.”

  Phillip didn’t reply. His jaw tightened. His fingers, gloved and clean, trembled once against his knee.

  “You think I enjoy this?” Alexander asked quietly. “You think I sleep well knowing who I deal with? I don’t. But if I waited for good men to win wars, Dromo would’ve burned centuries ago.”

  Phillip gave a small, humorless laugh. “You sound like Father.”

  Alexander leaned back, folding his hands over his knee. “Then he wasn’t entirely wrong.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence. The hills grew sharper, the soil turning white and brittle as they neared the Sanctrum’s reach. Every milestone bore the sigil of the Light, carved deep into stone as if to remind travelers who ruled their faith.

  The Sanctrum loomed ahead by late morning, its domes gleaming like the ribs of some ancient creature, all bone and sanctity. The air grew colder as they approached. Two Custodians stepped forward when the carriage halted, inspecting the seal on the door before allowing them through the gates.

  Inside, the corridors smelled of myrrh and stone polish. Candles burned behind frosted glass, throwing trembling halos along the walls. Alexander’s boots echoed softly, the rhythm of someone too controlled to betray impatience. The silence here was cultivated, monastic, deliberate, a silence that made even truth sound like blasphemy when spoken aloud.

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  Jacobo awaited them in the upper hall. He was not alone this time, two Priests stood behind him, silent as carved saints. His robes were immaculate, but there was something strained in his posture, something that hadn’t been there before.

  “Lord of Bondrea,” Jacobo said, his voice warm but thin. “And young Phillip. You come at a heavy hour.”

  “We rode as soon as we received word,” Alexander replied with a bow. “You’ve heard, then.”

  Jacobo’s eyes narrowed. “Heard enough. The attack at Sbelto is unacceptable. It undermines every doctrine we’ve built. Faith cannot flourish in chaos. The Light is order, and this…” He gestured vaguely, “…this rebellion threatens to spread.”

  Alexander inclined his head slightly. “Then perhaps I can bring you some clarity.”

  Jacobo studied him. “You have information?”

  “I do.”

  “Speak.”

  Alexander reached into his coat and withdrew a folded letter, sealed and marked with a rough, uneven stamp. He placed it on the table between them.

  “This arrived two days ago,” he said. “It was sent by a soldier named Rethal, once in the service of the Valval militia stationed near Preta. I don’t know why he chose me, perhaps proximity, perhaps chance, but the letter names the man responsible for the attack.”

  Jacobo’s expression sharpened. “Who?”

  “Lexordo,” Alexander said simply. “The same Lexordo who once served as one of the Five Flames. The letter contains instructions signed in his hand: orders to strike Sbelto, to burn the banners, to make it look as though the Knights of Light still held power in the region.”

  Phillip stood behind him, arms crossed, silent.

  Jacobo’s nostrils flared. “Lexordo…” He spat the name like something foul. “That old parasite should have died with the king he betrayed.” He turned to one of the Priests. “Send word to every district under our light. His execution is to be immediate. If he resists, burn his men.”

  The Priest bowed and left.

  Jacobo looked back at Alexander. “You’ve done well to bring this. I will not forget it.”

  Alexander inclined his head again. “I serve the Light, as always.”

  Jacobo smiled thinly. “I believe you. Still, Lord of Bondrea, I must caution you: this rebellion grows close to your borders. I trust you will not allow it to find root in your soil.”

  “Bondrea has no love for chaos,” Alexander said. “My people want peace, not fire.”

  “Good.” Jacobo’s gaze lingered on him, colder now. “Then ensure it remains so. I cannot promise the same patience from my superiors if more unrest rises.”

  “Understood,” Alexander said.

  Jacobo gestured toward the doors. “Then we are finished. Go in peace, Lord Alexander. The Light sees you.”

  “And I see it,” Alexander replied smoothly.

  He turned and walked out, Phillip following close behind. Neither spoke until they reached the carriage.

  Phillip climbed in first, slamming the door behind him. “So that’s it? You hand Lexordo’s head to the Priesthood and pretend your hands are clean?”

  Alexander settled across from him, loosening his collar. “You assume I’ll hand him anything.”

  Phillip frowned. “You’re not going to deliver him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  Alexander looked out the window, watching the towers of the Sanctrum fade into the distance. “Because he’s already done his part. And because men like Lexordo don’t survive long in the open. The moment he’s hunted, he’ll hide. When the Priesthood looks one way, I’ll be looking the other.”

  Phillip exhaled, frustrated. “You play too many games, brother.”

  “Games keep us alive,” Alexander said softly.

  “You’re becoming everything you hate.”

  Alexander turned his gaze toward him, tired but unwavering. “Then maybe it’s time you stopped expecting me to be something else.”

  Phillip didn’t answer. He leaned his head against the wooden frame of the window, closing his eyes as the carriage rattled back toward Bondrea.

  The road ahead shimmered faintly with heat, the sun already dipping west. Alexander watched it in silence, his reflection caught in the window’s glass, a man of perfect posture and hollow eyes.

  For the first time in weeks, he felt the faintest tremor of unease. The Priesthood was tightening its hand, the rebellion was no longer rumor, and in the middle of it all, he could feel the invisible weight of the Light pressing down.

  “Soon,” he murmured under his breath, so quietly that Phillip didn’t stir. “Soon it all begins to burn.”

  The carriage rolled on, carrying them toward the horizon, the wheels whispering through the dust like a prayer too tired to reach heaven.

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