The Church came at dusk.
Not with torches. Not with swords.
With bells.
Their procession wound up the estate road, silvered robes fluttering like gutted sails in the twilight. At their head walked a figure Lucien had only heard whispered of—the Second Inquisitor, her face hidden behind a mask of polished child-bone, her fingers trailing blood-red ribbons that squirmed against the cobblestones.
Lucien watched from his window, his injured knee pulsing in time with the bells.
They shouldn't be here.
The hostage pact forbade it.
Unless—
Unless Kael was dead.
The thought sent something cold slithering down his spine.
The greeting hall stank of decay.
Lord Virell had ordered the braziers lit, but the flames burned too blue, too hungry, casting shadows that twitched when unobserved. The Second Inquisitor glided forward, her bone mask expressionless.
We bring comfort, she intoned.
Her voice was wrong—layered, echoing, as if multiple throats worked in unison.
Lucien's hand drifted toward his sword. His father shot him a warning look.
My son, Lord Virell croaked. The… hostage?
The Inquisitor tilted her head. Ribbons coiled around her wrists like living things.
Altered.
A pause.
Alive.
The humming in Lucien's blood spiked.
They called it a vigil.
The household knelt in the chapel as the Inquisitor's acolytes circled, chanting in a language that itched against the skin. Lucien kept his eyes open. He saw what the others missed:
• The way the candle flames bent toward the bone mask, as if begging.
• The black veins creeping up the servants' necks where the ribbons brushed them.
• His father's lips moving in silent prayer—but the words were backwards.
Then—
A discordant note.
The Inquisitor's head snapped toward Lucien.
You resist, she observed.
All chanting ceased.
Lucien's mouth went dry. I don't—
Her mask split open vertically, revealing not a face, but a gateway of teeth.
Liar.
The dream was not a dream.
Lucien stood in a vast hall of mirrors, each reflection showing a different version of himself:
• One armored in light, sword raised.
• One kneeling, crownless, weeping black tears.
• One with Kael's hollow eyes.
A whisper from everywhere at once:
You were never the heir.
Lucien whirled. Behind him stood Kael—but not Kael. This version wore the crown like it had always been there, his features sharper, his smile edged with something older.
Brother, Lucien choked.
Kael reached out, pressing a single finger to Lucien's sternum.
Listen.
Beneath the heartbeat—
A second pulse.
Lucien woke vomiting black bile.
The chapel was empty. The Inquisitor gone. Only his father remained, slumped against the altar, his mouth sewn shut with crimson thread.
His eyes were wide. Pleading.
Lucien stumbled back. His knee gave out.
The floorboards breathed beneath him.
And from the shadows, Kael's voice echoed:
Run.
Final Line:
Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed.
Some shouldn't have been opened at all.