One Week Later

The Church's summoning hall smelled of centuries—old stone, older incense, and the particular mustiness that came from too many prayers soaking into wood that never saw sunlight. Seren sat on a bench that had been deliberately carved to be just uncomfortable enough, its slight forward angle forcing her to constantly adjust her weight.

She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear for the third time in as many minutes, the nervous gesture making her aware of how her hands trembled. Her notebook lay closed in her lap, its familiar weight both comfort and accusation. They'd been very specific—no notes, no recording, just memory.

The massive doors groaned open with theatrical weight.

Two Shepherds entered first, their white robes seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it. The faceless masks turned toward her in perfect synchronization, and she suppressed a shudder. Behind them came Archbishop Caldris—a name whispered in equal parts reverence and fear throughout the capital.

He looked like everyone's favorite grandfather. Silver hair neatly combed, laugh lines that suggested years of genuine smiling, a slight stoop to his shoulders that made him seem approachable. He even had a small ink stain on his sleeve, as if he'd been writing letters to grandchildren before this meeting.

The kindest ones were always the most dangerous.

"Miss Lyselle." His voice matched the appearance—warm honey that somehow made the threat underneath feel like concern. "Please, forgive the wait. Divine contemplation sometimes requires patience. I was praying for guidance on your situation, actually."

He settled across from her with a soft grunt, the sound any elderly man might make. One of the Shepherds placed a file on the bench between them. Her stomach clenched as she recognized her own handwriting peeking from its edges.

"Your research has been remarkably thorough," he said, opening the file with age-spotted hands that didn't quite hide their steadiness. Papers rustled—her notes, her sketches, even personal letters she'd written but never sent. "The Church appreciates such dedication to uncovering truth."

She forced her hands to stay still, fighting the urge to fidget with her notebook's binding. "I serve historical accuracy, Your Grace."

"Accuracy." He smiled, and she noticed he had a small gap between his front teeth that should have been endearing. "Such a noble pursuit. Tell me, what accuracy have you uncovered that required breaking into restricted archives?"

The question was delivered so gently she almost missed the accusation.

"I found inconsistencies," she said, her throat suddenly dry. "Gaps that suggested deliberate editing rather than natural loss."

"Indeed." He leaned back, wood creaking under his weight. "And these inconsistencies led you to Young Lord Avian Veritas."

Through the tall windows, afternoon light slanted in, highlighting dust motes that danced in the air. She watched them drift, using the moment to gather her thoughts.

"Lord Avian shares my interest in the historical period—"

"Lord Avian," Archbishop Caldris interrupted, his fingers drumming once against the file, "is an anomaly. A boy who shattered divine chains through will alone. Who demonstrates combat techniques that shouldn't exist. Who survived what killed sixty others."

He stood with another of those grandfatherly grunts, moving to examine a tapestry on the wall. His fingers traced the woven image of Saint Vaerin's victory with something that looked almost like regret.

"I've served the Church for sixty-three years," he said quietly. "I've seen heresies rise and fall. Watched false prophets and would-be gods. But never have I seen chains that strong break from pure will." He turned to face her, and there was genuine concern in his eyes. "Do you understand what that means? What it suggests?"

She remained silent.

"It means something unprecedented is happening. Something that threatens the order we've maintained for five centuries." His voice carried the weight of absolute belief. "Tell me, Miss Lyselle—and please, do be truthful—do you believe he is connected to Commander Dex?"

The question hung in the air like incense smoke, thick and choking.

She swallowed, tasting copper—she'd bitten her tongue without realizing. "I believe that truth has layers. Surface truth for comfort. Hidden truth for scholars. And deeper truth that..." She paused, brushing that stubborn strand of hair back again. "That perhaps should remain buried."

"Interesting philosophy." He turned from the tapestry, and for just a moment, she saw something in his eyes—not cruelty, but the terrible certainty of a man who'd sacrifice anything for his beliefs. Then the warm smile returned. "You're quite intelligent, aren't you? Top of your class, youngest researcher ever granted Veritas archive access. Such potential to serve the greater good."

He moved closer, and she caught his scent—parchment and prayer oil, but underneath, something sharp like iron.

"I'm going to be frank with you, child," he said, settling beside her on the bench. His voice held paternal concern. "House Lyselle is small but proud. Your family's archives are renowned for their completeness. Four generations of meticulous record-keeping. Beautiful work, truly."

Her hands clenched involuntarily around her notebook.

"It would be tragic if those archives were to suffer a fire. Or if your research privileges were revoked. Or if certain documents about your family's... questionable loyalty during the Demon War were to surface." He sighed heavily. "I don't want any of that to happen. Truly, I don't. But sometimes we must make hard choices to protect the many from the few."

The threat was elegant in its simplicity. Everything her family had built, everything they were, held hostage.

"What do you want?" The words came out steadier than she felt.

"Direct. I appreciate that." He pulled out a handkerchief—white silk with gold threading—and dabbed at his forehead despite the hall's coolness. "We want you to continue your friendship with Young Lord Avian. Observe him. Document everything."

"You want me to spy on him."

"Such an ugly word. We prefer 'protective observation.'" He folded the handkerchief with precise movements, each crease deliberate. "You see, the divine chains that bind him are nearly complete. Our measurements show ninety-nine percent reformation. The amount of divine power required has been... staggering. I've personally overseen the channeling sessions. It's killing three of my best priests."

She blinked, genuinely surprised. "Killing them?" Then the full weight of his words hit her. "Wait—you're saying the Church placed those chains? You're actively maintaining them?"

"Of course." He seemed almost amused by her shock. "Who else has such divine authority? Who else could sustain such a working for months?" His expression grew serious. "We don't hide this from you, child, because you're already too deep in your research to be fed comfortable lies. Better you understand the stakes."

"But that's—" She caught herself before saying 'illegal' or 'heretical.' The Church decided what was heretical.

"Necessary," he finished for her. "The amount of power needed to contain what's inside that boy..." He shook his head. "My priests volunteer gladly, understanding the stakes. Within days, perhaps hours, the chains will lock fully. And when that happens..." He leaned forward, and she could smell mint on his breath mixed with something medicinal. "We need to know what occurs. Will the chains hold? Or will something break them again?"

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"Break them again?"

"My child, do you know what happened after the Demon King's death?" His eyes held genuine fear now. "Our most sensitive instruments detected a divine signature unlike anything in our records. Not demonic, not holy—something else entirely. Something that shouldn't exist." He stood again, pacing now, his soft shoes whispering against stone. "We believe that power—whatever it was—found its way to the Veritas boy. The same force that shattered the chains in the arena. The chains are racing to complete before it fully manifests again."

Through the windows, a cloud passed over the sun, plunging the hall into momentary dimness. The Shepherds hadn't moved once during the entire conversation, still as statues.

"And if I refuse?"

He sighed—a disappointed grandfather finding his grandchild stealing from the cookie jar. "Then House Lyselle loses its standing. Your research is declared heretical. Your family name is struck from the noble registry."

He paused by the window, silhouetted against the light. "Your elderly uncle's medicine becomes unavailable. Your cousins lose their trade permits. The orphanage your family sponsors closes." His voice never lost its gentle tone. "So many people depend on House Lyselle's continued good standing. I would hate to see them all suffer for one person's pride."

Bastards. But he believes it. He genuinely thinks he's saving the world.

She stood, her legs protesting after so long on that deliberately uncomfortable bench. "If I agree?"

"Weekly letters to a Church contact. Nothing suspicious—many historians correspond with Church scholars." He turned to face her, backlit so she couldn't read his expression. "Focus on the divine chains. Document their final progression. Note any changes as they complete. And please, child—if something goes wrong, if he shows signs of that power manifesting again, you must tell us immediately. The fate of the Empire, perhaps the world, could depend on it."

"You really believe that, don't you?"

"With every fiber of my being." He moved back toward her, reaching out to pat her shoulder with genuine grandfatherly affection. His hand was ice cold. "I've dedicated my life to protecting humanity from powers we don't understand. Young Lord Avian may be innocent of any crime, but what manifested after the Demon King's death... that's another matter entirely."

The dismissal was clear. She stood, her notebook clutched against her chest like armor, and bowed to the proper degree—not too deep, not too shallow. Her shoes clicked against stone as she walked toward the door, each step measured despite her desire to run.

"Oh, Miss Lyselle?"

She stopped, not turning. She couldn't bear to see that kind smile again.

"Your research into Commander Dex—we encourage you to continue. You see, the best way to hide truth is to surround it with seekers who can be guided. Your genuine passion makes you the perfect shield. And perhaps..." He paused. "Perhaps you'll find evidence that validates our actions. That shows why we had to act, why Saint Vaerin's victory was necessary."

"I understand, Your Grace."

"I pray that you do, child. I truly pray that you do. Remember—the chains are at ninety-nine percent. We must be ready to act when they complete. For all our sakes."

Veritas Compound - Late Afternoon

The training ground was finally quiet. Avian sat on a bench, cleaning Fargrim with mechanical precision while Lux dozed at his feet, occasionally sparking in her sleep. The afternoon sun painted everything gold, making even the scattered training dummies look almost peaceful.

He felt Seren's approach before he saw her—something in her gait had changed. Where once she'd walked with a scholar's distraction, now each step seemed deliberately placed.

She appeared in the doorway, pausing to brush her hair from her face—a gesture he'd seen her make when nervous. The late afternoon light caught the gesture, freezing it for a moment in amber.

"Seren."

She didn't respond immediately, just stood there clutching her notebook. Her fingers were clean—no ink stains, which meant she hadn't been writing. For someone who documented everything, that was telling.

"How was the Church meeting?"

She laughed—a short, bitter sound that didn't suit her. "Educational."

He set Fargrim aside carefully, noting how her eyes tracked the blade. She'd never shown fear of it before. "Come. Sit."

She approached slowly, settling on the far end of the bench. Close enough to talk, far enough to run. When she finally looked at him, he saw exhaustion, fear, and determination warring in her expression.

"They know about the chains," she said quietly. "They're at ninety-nine percent completion."

The divine chains pulsed at her words, tight around his core like iron bands slowly constricting. He could feel them trying to lock with every heartbeat, grinding against something inside that fought just as hard.

"What else?"

She opened her notebook, and her hands trembled slightly. "They want me to watch you. Document everything." As she spoke, her finger traced words in the margin: "Threatened. My. Family."

Bastards. Using her family's standing as leverage.

"I'm sure your research will be thorough," he said carefully.

"Yes." Her voice cracked, and she paused to clear her throat. "The Church was very specific about their interest in what happens when the chains complete. They think—" She paused, brushing her hair back again, the gesture almost violent this time. "They think something will happen. In the next few days."

She turned a page, pointing to text while her finger spelled: "Racing. Against. Time."

The chains pulsed harder, and he had to suppress a wince. She was right—this was a race. The chains trying to lock before whatever was inside him fully awakened.

"Truth has layers," she said suddenly, looking directly at him. "Surface truth for comfort. Hidden truth for scholars. And deeper truth that requires careful handling."

She stood abruptly, swaying slightly as if dizzy. "I should go. I have a report to write."

As she passed him, she paused, not quite touching his shoulder. "That coin—the copper one. The stubborn bastards who refuse to give up, even when time is running out." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Even when everything is rigged against them."

Then she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of ink and fear.

Aedric's Office - Evening

The office was dark except for a single candle, its light barely reaching the corners. Aedric didn't look up when Avian entered.

"The chains are at ninety-nine percent," Avian said without preamble.

"I know." Aedric's quill scratched against parchment. "The Church has Miss Lyselle watching you."

"They're threatening her family."

"Standard leverage." The quill paused. "She warned you anyway. Brave girl."

"Can we protect them?"

"House Lyselle?" Aedric finally looked up, his face half in shadow. "Not without starting a war with the Church. But we can be ready for what comes next."

He stood, moving to the window where twilight painted the compound in shades of gray. "The chains will complete, Avian. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in three days. We can't stop that."

"And then?"

"Then we see what you really are." Aedric's reflection in the window was unreadable. "The Church thinks the chains will contain you permanently. They're wrong."

"How do you know?"

"Because whatever broke them in the arena is still there. Dormant, but there." He turned, and for once, his expression held something almost like concern. "For the next few days, be boring. Give them nothing to report. Let them think they're winning."

"While you prepare for war?"

"While I prepare for whatever comes next." His smile was sharp as winter. "Archbishop Caldris made a mistake—he showed his hand. Now I know exactly how afraid they are."

"And Seren?"

"Will play her part. As will you." Aedric returned to his desk. "Three days, Avian. Perhaps less. After that, everything changes."

Seren's Room - Night

She wrote by candlelight, each word carefully chosen. Her report was perfect—detailed enough to seem thorough, vague enough to be useless. Avian training. Avian showing no unusual signs. All true, all meaningless.

On her desk lay a sketch she'd made from memory—the copper coin's inscription, recreated in her precise handwriting.

The Stubborn Bastards.

She'd given the coin to its rightful owner, but the message remained burned in her mind. A promise carved in copper by someone who refused to give up even in death.

She set down her quill and rubbed her tired eyes. Three days to prevent disaster. Three days to protect her family while warning Avian. Three days to find truth in lies.

The candle flickered, sending shadows dancing across her walls. Somewhere in those shadows, she imagined, lurked Church spies and Veritas guards, all watching each other watching her.

She traced the words of her sketch with one finger, imagining the crude carving, the grief and love that had made those letters deep enough to last centuries.

Even when everything is rigged against them.

She began writing again, this time in the margins of her personal journal, in a cipher she'd developed years ago. If the worst happened, if everything fell apart, at least someone might eventually understand what had really occurred.

The truth had to survive, even if she didn't.

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