Night fell slowly, as if the sun itself was reluctant to leave.
By the time the cathedral grounds dimmed and the fog returned—thicker than before—Cassian had already prepared. A concealed flame vial tucked beneath his robe, a disruption glyph etched faintly beneath his collarbone to mask heat signatures, and the crystal shard sealed in a reinforced container against magical resonance.
No guards. No hymns. Just the sound of my boots against stone. Almost like the Church wanted me to come. Or didn't think I'd dare.
He passed beneath arched vaults of scripture and silence, the cathedral vast and hollow. The North Tower stood apart—unreachable from the ground without climbing through the side cloisters and past a disused apothecary wing.
No one ever looked toward the North Tower. No sermons. No candles. Only warnings carved in dead languages. That's where truth likes to hide—beneath fear.
Exactly as planned.
He scaled the twisted staircase with only the flame vial to light his way. The tower was cold, airless, and lined with black stone that drank in light. No windows. Just smooth, seamless walls carved with faint glyphs—none of which matched any Church record.
I've read thousands of glyphs. These weren't meant to be read. They were meant to be forgotten.
At the top: a door. Ironwood. No handle. Only a spiral indent in the center.
He pulled out the crystal.
It pulsed once—then dissolved into heat, forming a stream of red light that traced the spiral.
Something inside me wanted to flinch. But my hands didn't shake. Not anymore.
The door opened.
Inside, a single room.
And at its center—an enormous circle carved into the stone floor, filled with ash, burnt bones, and glass dust.
And her.
The girl from earlier. White-robed. Lavender eyes. Sitting cross-legged at the edge of the circle.
"You came," she said without looking.
"I had questions," Cassian replied.
And too many answers that stopped making sense days ago.
"You'll get them. But not from me."
Cassian stepped in cautiously. "Then from who?"
From the shadows, another figure emerged. A man, face hidden behind a metal mask shaped like a fox. Cloaked in dark robes stitched with solar threads that shimmered faintly.
"You may call me Lysander," the man said. His voice was smooth, unhurried. "We are what the Church forgot. Or chose to forget."
Cassian's heartbeat slowed. I've heard that name… in whispers. In censored texts. In warnings disguised as scripture.
"You're Flame Hunters."
A pause.
"We were. Before the Great Silence. Now, we are simply Watchers. Waiting for the moment when the rot beneath the altar becomes too deep to ignore."
Lysander knelt at the circle.
"This room is a wound," he said. "A memory cut from time. Here, long ago, your Pope made a choice. She burned twelve to save one. And rewrote history to hide it."
Cassian stared at the ash. So this is where faith ends. In fire and silence.
"What does that have to do with me?"
Lysander turned to him.
"Because the one she saved… is still alive. Still in power. Still waiting for a successor strong enough to finish what she started."
He stepped forward, handing Cassian a small vial. Inside, an ember swirled—a living flame.
"This was hers. Her fire. Sealed after the massacre. Take it. Study it. And when the Tribunal comes for you… ask them about Project Thorneglass."
The name hit like a spark to dry leaves.
Thorneglass. That was buried. Sealed in triple wards. Classified beyond even the Cardinals. How do they know?
"Why me?" Cassian asked.
"Because you're the only one left with a soul unbound."
The girl stood. "And because something is waking up inside you. The moment you touched that crystal, it stirred."
Cassian looked at the flame.
It flickered once.
And then whispered.
His name.
It knew me. Not just my name—me. What did they put in that crystal? What did they see?
The ember vial still pulsed in his hand—warm, alive, whispering.
He looked from Lysander to the girl, then down at the ash-lined circle.
"You keep calling this place a 'wound.' A memory cut from time." He met Lysander's eyes, steady now. "What exactly happened here? Are the people who were burned… still alive?"
The girl's gaze drifted toward the circle.
"Not in the way you think."
Lysander spoke next. "Their bodies were consumed. But their souls—trapped. Bound to the flame that was sealed here. That ember you're holding is the prison key, and also the last piece of Her Holiness's original flame. She called it a divine purge."
Cassian's jaw tensed. "Then she's not just a ruler. She's a soulbinder."
Lysander nodded. "She was. Maybe still is. What do you think keeps her so young?"
Cassian's grip tightened around the vial.
Youth bought with borrowed souls. Grace dipped in blood. And I still wore her crest two days ago.
"Then what am I to her? A replacement? An experiment?"
Lysander's voice lowered. "A successor. Or a failsafe. If she cannot contain what she started… you might be the only one who can."
Cassian stepped back. No. Not again. Not another prophecy wrapped in secrecy. I didn't climb this tower to be someone's weapon.
"Why tell me this? Why not use it yourselves?"
The girl tilted her head. "Because we're not fully here. Not anymore."
That stopped him.
"You mean—you're dead?"
She smiled faintly. "I died twelve years ago. But death isn't what it used to be. Not in the Church's shadow."
Cassian turned to Lysander. "And you?"
"I walk between. Neither living nor dead. Bound to this place until the flame is claimed. This tower… is both sanctuary and tomb."
Silence fell like dust.
Cassian took a breath. "Then tell me this. The Tribunal. What exactly is it?"
Lysander's tone shifted, sharper now. "The Tribunal is the Church's final court. Above the council. Above even the Pope—though they pretend otherwise. It is where doctrines are judged, and where heretics are erased."
"They called me to stand before it."
"Then you've already been marked," Lysander said. "The trial is just tradition. A performance. They've already decided what you are."
"And what's that?"
"A threat."
Cassian stepped to the circle's edge. "Then I need more than fire. I need evidence."
Lysander nodded slowly and reached beneath his robe, pulling out a worn black scroll sealed with wax the color of dried blood.
"Then take this. But do not open it here. Not until you've entered the Tribunal. It only reveals its truth within sacred judgment."
Cassian hesitated, then took it.
It felt heavy. Not like paper—like memory. Like consequence.
"You'll be alone when they question you," the girl added softly. "But not unarmed. Memory is power. Let them hear the names of the forgotten."
As he turned to leave, Lysander gave a final warning:
"They will offer you mercy. Do not take it. They will offer you praise. Do not believe it. The Church does not pardon those who see beneath the altar."
Cassian descended the tower, scroll and ember hidden in his cloak, and a fire he did not ask for smoldering in his chest.
In two days, they'd expect silence. Deference. A loyal dog on a leash. But I've seen the wound. I've heard the whisper. And this time—
He clenched his jaw.
This time, I'll be the one asking the questions.
—To be continued...