Cassian sat alone in the dim sanctum, the only illumination coming from the ember vial flickering gently on the table beside him. The golden glow cast warped shadows against the stone walls, shapes that moved and twisted as though alive. The flame pulsed faintly—not with warmth, but with memory. A heartbeat of something ancient.
He kept the scroll Lysander had given him hidden deep within the inner lining of his robe, so well concealed even light had no claim to it. That parchment—sealed in black wax and ash—burned against his skin like a secret he wasn't meant to carry.
Every breath now felt heavier.
As if the cathedral itself were watching.
As if the stone arches and glass-eyed saints carved into the walls knew what he carried, what he questioned, and what he had seen.
What does the Pope truly want from me?
The thought had rooted itself in his mind like a weed. She had sponsored him, supported him, granted him privileges others spent decades earning. Despite his lack of noble blood, despite his middling talent, she had lifted him into the light. When others mocked or ignored him, she gave him tasks of meaning.
She had believed in him.
Hadn't she?
Does she see me as a successor?
Or as a vessel?
Cassian reached out and picked up the vial again. The flame within trembled, dancing against the glass like a trapped spirit. He narrowed his eyes. For a moment—just a flicker—he thought he saw faces in the fire. Mouths open. Screaming.
Or was it just imagination?
It was hard to tell anymore.
What am I supposed to do with this?
He could destroy it. Shatter the vial and end whatever it held. But instinct screamed that it wasn't that simple. The flame wasn't alchemical. It was tied to something—perhaps someone. He didn't understand it yet, but he knew: breaking the glass wouldn't erase what had already begun.
This flame remembers something. Or someone.
He placed it down carefully and leaned back, hands pressed to his face.
Can I trust those people in the tower?
The girl with the lavender eyes. The cursed circle of ash. Lysander's soft, ageless voice. None of them were fully alive. None of them fully dead. Caught in a liminal place where time was warped and truth was slippery. They had spoken to him of echoes. Of sins hidden by light. Of truths buried beneath consecrated stone.
They had told him fragments—just enough to ignite doubt.
Just enough to leave him falling.
What if they're lying?
What if they want to use me… just like the Church does?
His fingers curled into fists.
All his life he had followed the tenets. Healed without question. Offered his hands to the wounded and his prayers to the dying. He had never once cast judgment.
Why is my life still like this?
I didn't break any vows. I didn't seek forbidden power. All I ever wanted… was to heal.
And now, the very order he'd dedicated his soul to—the sacred hand of mercy and law—was calling him to account without witness, without delay.
He looked down at his own hands. Tired. Trembling faintly.
Too young to feel this tired.
He let out a bitter breath.
"I am a healer," he whispered to the silence. "And now I'm being judged like a heretic."
His voice vanished into the stone.
A knock shattered the silence.
Two sharp taps. Not urgent—but deliberate.
Cassian stood, adjusting his robe to hide the vial, his hands steady even as a slow storm raged inside his chest. He opened the door to find Garven standing there—tall, armored, his expression as grim as ever. But in his eyes, just beneath the surface, was something almost like… concern.
"They've summoned you," Garven said. "Early. The Tribunal convenes tonight. No witnesses. No delays."
Cassian said nothing at first. Then nodded. "Of course."
As he walked beside Garven down the candlelit corridors, a strange clarity settled over him. Not peace—he would not call it that—but a sharpened stillness.
If they wanted to judge him, then so be it.
He would not kneel.
He would not cower.
I'll walk into their circle with truth in one hand… and flame in the other.
Meanwhile, beneath the Cathedral…
The walls of the lower sanctum were made not of stone, but of silver-veined obsidian and polished black glass. Every surface reflected light in strange ways—bending it, fracturing it, as if rejecting the divine above.
At the center of the room floated a thin sheet of water, suspended mid-air by a stasis rune glowing with runic sigils of the First Tongue. Within that shimmering veil, images danced.
Cassian's face hovered at the center, eyes lit with the flicker of flame.
High Inquisitor Marcell Vane leaned forward, his gloved hands steepled. His eyes, a pale storm-grey, narrowed in thought.
"Strange boy," he murmured. "He doesn't radiate corruption. And yet... there's something in his threadwork. Something that shouldn't be there."
His voice echoed in the cold air.
A second presence entered, slow and silent.
Cardinal Virelli. Pale as ash, his skeletal fingers curled before him like folded blades. His crimson robes dragged faintly on the ground, whispering ancient prayers.
"You question the Pope's favorite?" Virelli asked.
"I question anomalies," Vane replied flatly. "Her Holiness plays a deep game. But even she cannot predict every move. Especially not from pieces like this."
Virelli tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "He is Kind. Yet his soul says otherwise."
"That," Vane said coldly, "is precisely the problem. No one is only what they appear to be. Not anymore."
"We could confront him."
"No," Vane snapped. "We observe. Test. Push the boundaries, but do not break them."
He rose from his chair, striding toward the basin.
"If he speaks those words—if he remembers—we will know. If he lies…"
He turned to face the Cardinal.
"…then we put his soul under review."
Virelli said nothing, but the barest smile crept across his lips.
Vane retrieved a glyph-stamped scroll from the pedestal beside the pool. It bore the seal of the Tribunal.
"Let it begin," he whispered.
And far above, the bells began to toll.
To be continued…