The wheels of the carriage moaned over the frozen dirt, each turn a reminder of the distance still left between Bondrea and the heart of the Valval Priesthood. The mountains were behind them now, but the wind that rolled down from their peaks still bit through the thin wooden walls of the carriage.

  Alexander sat opposite his brother and the two prisoners. His gloves were folded neatly over his knees; the smell of damp iron filled the small space. Across from him, Candriela sat with her hands bound, her wrists rubbed raw by the manacles. Next to her, Captain Orlen, a burly soldier whose loyalty was as unremarkable as his name, stared straight ahead, his mouth a grim, silent line.

  Phillip, as always, was the voice that broke silence. “How long until we reach it?”

  “An hour, maybe less,” Alexander answered without turning his head.

  “So,” he began, offering a half-smile to Candriela, “how does it feel to be traveling to the Sanctum? Not the best place for a reunion, I imagine.”

  Candriela turned her head slowly. Despite the bruises on her face, her eyes were bright, dangerously alive. “It feels,” she said, “like the end of something.”

  Phillip nodded. “Maybe the beginning of something else, then.”

  Alexander almost sighed. His brother had a way of talking to anyone, prisoners, peasants, highborn alike, as if none of it mattered, as if kindness alone could fix what politics had long broken. And it worked. Even now, Candriela softened, her shoulders easing as she gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

  Alexander turned his gaze to Phillip, feeling a familiar and unwanted envy. He’d built his name on discipline, fear, and silence; Phillip built his on warmth. People liked Phillip. They followed him, trusted him. Even Jacobo had once called him “the good brother.”

  Alexander adjusted his gloves. Being loved doesn’t make a man useful, he told himself, but the thought felt hollow.

  The carriage hit a rut, jolting everyone forward. Candriela muttered a curse under her breath. Orlen, who hadn’t spoken a word since their departure, only shifted his position slightly, his cuffs clinking against his armor.

  Outside, the faint outline of the Sanctum rose through the mist, vast white towers crowned with gold, the symbol of the Light etched into every wall.

  The carriage rolled to a stop before the marble steps. The drivers leapt down, pulling their cloaks tight, and within moments were posing as guards, the illusion rehearsed, seamless. Alexander admired their precision.

  As he stepped out, the smell of incense and rain filled his lungs. And standing at the top of the stairs was Richard of Varne, draped in ceremonial silk that shimmered like oil. His lips curved into the sort of smile that wasn’t meant to be kind.

  “Well,” Richard said, “if it isn’t Lord Alexander of Bondrea. I thought the Light might’ve forgotten your face.”

  Alexander met his gaze evenly. “The Light doesn’t have much time for faces, Richard. Neither do I.”

  Richard’s smile faltered. “Still as charming as ever.”

  “Still irrelevant,” Alexander replied smoothly, brushing past him.

  Richard’s expression twitched. He stepped aside without another word, his robes whispering against the marble.

  Inside, the Sanctum’s throne hall glowed under high stained glass, beams of gold and white cutting through drifting dust. Jacobo sat at the far end, his posture as still as carved stone, his face unreadable.

  The throne room of the Sanctum was vast, hollow, and bright. Shafts of light broke through narrow windows, painting the floor in gold and white. Jacobo, seated upon his elevated chair, looked like a relic carved from the very stone, a man both ancient and immovable.

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  He raised a hand as Alexander entered, his voice steady and soft. “You brought them?”

  “I did,” Alexander said, gesturing to the guards behind him. Candriela and Orlen were pushed forward, their chains clinking against the marble. Phillip stood a few paces back, watching.

  “They claim,” Alexander continued, “to be of importance to the Priesthood. The woman, Candriela, insists she is the sister of a woman named Virea. She believes Virea is in your custody. I thought it best to let you decide whether this is true.”

  At the name, Jacobo’s eyes snapped open wider than Alexander had ever seen. His lips parted slightly. “Virea…” he whispered, as though the name itself had weight. “Are you certain?”

  Alexander nodded. “The woman is either delusional or she’s telling the truth. Either way, she’s desperate. And the captain with her confirms the claim.”

  Jacobo’s gaze lingered on Candriela. Then he exhaled slowly and said, “I will see to them in a moment. But first, Lord Alexander, I must speak with you privately.”

  He gestured for Alexander to follow him through a side corridor lit by thin strips of torchlight. The air there smelled less of incense, more of parchment and cold stone. When Jacobo spoke again, his voice was lower.

  “There are rumors,” he said. “Persistent ones. That Lexordo is in Preta.”

  Alexander’s breath caught, though he made sure his tone didn’t betray it. “Lexordo?”

  “Yes.” Jacobo turned to the window, looking out toward the distant plains. “You understand what that means. If he’s there, then Preta may be harboring more than simple dissenters. The Knights of Light could be there as well.” His voice hardened. “And if that’s true, we will have to burn the place clean. Every street. Every house. The Light tolerates no infection.”

  “I understand,” Alexander said.

  Jacobo nodded, satisfied. “Good. I will wait for confirmation before dispatching an army. If the rumors persist… Preta will fall within the week.”

  Alexander bowed his head slightly. “As you command.”

  Jacobo turned away, dismissing him with a flick of his fingers. “You may go now. I must speak to your prisoners now.”

  Outside, the air had turned crisp and pale. Phillip was waiting by the carriage, exchanging a few quiet words with one of the guards. When he saw Alexander, he straightened.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Alexander descended the last few steps, cloak brushing the stone. “He believes Lexordo is in Preta.”

  Phillip frowned. “That's bad news”

  “Yes,” Alexander said after a moment. “But that’s not the worst of it. If Jacobo sends an army, they’ll destroy everything, the Knights, Lexordo, and anyone left there.”

  Phillip’s eyes narrowed. “Then what are you going to do?”

  Alexander looked toward the horizon, the faint shimmer of Preta far beyond the fog. “I’m not doing anything. You are.”

  Phillip blinked. “Me?”

  “You’ll send a message. Quietly. Tell them to move Lexordo immediately, no delay, no noise. Get him out of Preta before Jacobo acts.”

  Phillip hesitated. “Won’t that draw suspicion?”

  “Less than if I do it myself.” Alexander’s tone was sharp but tired. “Jacobo’s eyes are on me now. If I so much as breathe in the wrong direction, he’ll hear it. But you...” He paused, glancing at Phillip. “You’re still untarnished in his eyes. Use that.”

  Phillip nodded slowly, understanding. “And what about Lord Hirias? If they suspect Preta of involvement they will look for him.”

  “That’s why you’ll talk to him as well,” Alexander interrupted. “Tell him to prepare for inquiry. If Jacobo starts interrogations, he’ll go to Hirias first.”

  Phillip’s jaw tightened. “You think they’ll question him?”

  “They’ll question everyone,” Alexander muttered.

  He looked past his brother then, toward the gates of the Sanctum, where the sun was beginning to sink into gold and gray. The bells began to toll, steady, mechanical, oppressive.

  “Go as soon as you can.” Alexander said quietly. “Send both messages tonight. One to Hirias, one to Preta. And make sure they burn the originals afterward.”

  Phillip hesitated. “And if Jacobo finds out?”

  Alexander’s gaze was steady, unreadable. “Then you tell him the truth.”

  Phillip frowned. “Which truth?”

  “That you were following my orders. If someone must die for this is me, not you.”

  Phillip searched his brother’s face for a moment, then gave a small, tired nod and walked off toward the carriage, cloak fluttering behind him.

  Alexander stayed behind, watching him disappear down the road until the sound of hooves faded into the evening. The cold wind rose again, carrying the faint scent of rain and incense from the Sanctum.

  He turned back toward the marble steps, to where Richard stood in the doorway, pretending not to watch. Alexander’s jaw tightened.

  If Jacobo’s words were true, then Preta, and everyone in it, was already living on borrowed time.

  And if Lexordo didn’t move soon, they’d all burn for the same crime: existing in the wrong man’s faith.