The Inquisitors stiffened, heads turning toward Veyr with the synchronized movement of predators sensing prey. But Calvian's expression remained unchanged, that perfect serenity undisturbed by the implicit challenge in Veyr's words.

"Your house produces skilled fighters, Lord Velrane," he acknowledged, the golden fire around his sword pulsing in time with his words. "But skill alone cannot stand against corruption. Only the flame purifies."

He stepped closer to Soren, close enough that the heat from his aura became nearly unbearable. Those burning eyes studied him with the detached interest of a naturalist examining an unusual specimen.

"You are unworthy to stand as a Blade," Calvian said, his voice carrying absolute certainty.

"Yet something clings to you." His gaze dropped to Soren's chest, to the exact spot where the shard rested beneath his shirt. "The Flame will strip it bare."

In that moment, Soren understood with perfect clarity. This man, this living weapon of the Church, would be his executioner if the judgment fell against him. Not a faceless Inquisitor, not a nameless guard, but this knight whose very presence forced silence upon the hall.

And as those burning eyes held his, Soren felt the shard pulse once more against his chest, not with fear, but with something closer to determination.

Valenna's presence sharpened, her voice cutting through the pain with crystalline clarity.

'Remember,' she whispered. 'I have faced his kind before. And they burned all the same.'

–

The Cathedral's Grand Audience Chamber smelled of incense and sweat, the former a deliberate choice, the latter an unavoidable consequence of packing so many bodies into the vast circular space.

Soren's raw wrists throbbed beneath the chains as the Inquisitors marched him and Veyr through massive bronze doors that groaned like dying beasts.

His legs nearly gave out at the sight before him. Hundreds of faces turned as one—clergy in their formal vestments, knights in polished armor, nobles in finery that could have fed Northaven's poor for a year.

The morning light filtered through stained glass high above, casting the assembled crowd in fragments of blue and gold that made them seem less than human, more like pieces of some vast, breathing mosaic.

"Quite the audience," Veyr murmured beside him, so softly only Soren could hear. "They've invited half the city's power to witness your judgment."

The guards shoved them forward, down a central aisle that seemed to stretch for miles. With each step, Soren felt the weight of those stares, some eager, some disgusted, some merely curious, as if he were an exotic animal brought for their entertainment.

At the chamber's center rose a raised dais of polished white stone. Upon it stood the marble-faced Inquisitor, flanked by six of his black-robed brethren. Behind them loomed Ser Calvian, golden-haired and impassive, his scripture-etched armor gleaming in the colored light.

When they reached the dais, the guards forced Soren to his knees. The stone floor struck his bones with bruising force. Veyr they allowed to remain standing, though the chains around his wrists kept his hands bound before him.

The lead Inquisitor raised his arms, and silence fell across the chamber like a smothering blanket.

"Faithful of Solmir," he intoned, voice carrying to every corner of the vast space, "you are summoned to witness the Trial of Flame, sacred rite of our faith, in which Solmir's blessed light reveals truth by consuming falsehood."

A murmur passed through the audience, anticipation rippling like heat across still water.

"Before you kneels a vessel suspected of harboring corruption," the Inquisitor continued, gesturing toward Soren with a pale, long-fingered hand. "A common-born fighter elevated beyond his station, who aided the heretic Naeria Veyl in her flight from sacred justice."

From his position on the floor, Soren could see only the front rows of the audience. Knights of various houses sat rigid and attentive, their faces betraying nothing.

Clergy leaned forward in their seats, some with expressions of righteous certainty, others with something closer to unease.

"The flame will show what lurks within," the Inquisitor declared. "If he is pure, he will endure. If corrupted, he will burn."

Ser Calvian stepped forward, each movement precise as a clockmaker's gear. Sunlight caught his golden hair, forming a halo that made him seem more icon than man. When he drew his sword, the sound cut through the chamber's tension like a physical blow.

Solbrand emerged from its scabbard trailing fire, pure golden flame that wrapped around the blade like a living thing, hungry and eager. Heat washed across Soren's face, drying the sweat on his brow in an instant. The audience gasped as one, several nobles in the front row leaning back involuntarily.

Two Inquisitors approached, carrying between them a bronze vessel filled with fine gray powder. With methodical precision, they poured it around Soren in a perfect circle, the ash settling on the white stone in an unbroken line.

"The ward of revelation," the lead Inquisitor announced. "Through which no falsehood may pass unmarked."

The chains around Soren's wrists suddenly constricted, metal biting into flesh with renewed malice. Fresh blood welled around the cuffs, warm droplets spattering onto the immaculate floor. The pain was immediate and overwhelming, forcing a hissed breath between his clenched teeth.

The shard against his chest pulsed violently, a surge of cold so intense it burned. Valenna's presence crystallized within his mind, sharp and clear as broken ice after hours of muted silence.

'Do not yield,' she whispered, her voice stronger than it had been since their capture. 'His fire is borrowed. It cannot pierce the truth of the root.'

Ser Calvian approached the circle, Solbrand held before him like a torch. The golden flames cast his face in stark relief, shadows gathering in the hollows of his cheeks, light gleaming in eyes that burned with absolute conviction.

"Solmir's flame reveals all," he said, voice carrying the resonance of deep bells. "No corruption may hide from its blessed light."

He raised the sword high, its golden fire stretching toward the vaulted ceiling. When he brought it down, the blade did not touch Soren, instead, it hovered at the edge of the ash circle, point directed at his chest.

"By Solmir's will," Calvian intoned, "let truth be revealed."

The flame leapt from the sword, crossing the barrier of ash as if it were nothing more than a line drawn in sand. It engulfed Soren in a cocoon of golden light, searing heat that stole the air from his lungs and sent pain lancing through every nerve.

His body screamed for relief, for surrender, for the mercy of unconsciousness. The chains burned colder in response, as if fighting the flame with their own bitter chill. Somewhere distant, he heard voices raised in shock or prayer, the audience witnessing his torment with religious fervor.

Through the haze of agony, Soren felt something stir within him, not Valenna's voice this time, but her presence, surging forward against the chains' restraint. The shard pulsed against his chest, a rhythmic cold that countered the flame's relentless heat.

'Resist,' she hissed, voice cutting through the roaring in his ears. 'His fire is not pure. It is stolen light, hollow at its core.'

The golden flames pressed closer, seeking entrance through eyes, mouth, every pore of his skin. But where they touched, something pushed back, a faint blue glow emanating from beneath his shirt, so subtle it might have been imagination.

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