The sanctuary was colder than the village beyond air thick with incense dust and silence that hadn't moved in years.
Alberta knelt before a cracked mosaic of a forgotten goddess,
her fingers tracing weather-worn tiles
like she was trying to remember a prayer she'd never learned.
Francesca stood guard behind her
eyes alert, one hand resting near her hidden blade.
Then footsteps.
Calm.
Confident.
Familiar.
"Alberta."
She turned.
Ceasare Montagne stood in the doorway.
Cloak half-draped. Hair windswept from the road.
His voice was velvet.
His smile too warm for a room so cold.
"You're alive," he said.
Her lips parted. "Ceasare…?"
Francesca stepped forward at once, protective.
"We didn't send word. How did you find us?"
"I've been looking," he said smoothly.
"Since the attack. Father wouldn't stop until he was sure."
A beat.
"And Mercedes… she's waiting."
The name struck like lightning.
Alberta stood too fast. "You know where she is?"
Ceasare's smile curved.
Just slightly. Just enough to unsettle.
"Would I lie to you?"
Francesca's hand inched toward her blade.
Her silence said more than any threat.
Then another voice shattered the stillness.
"Step away from her."
Boots echoed against stone.
A sharp cloak of navy and gold swept into the chamber like a stormfront.
Cornelius Crieur De Lion.
His presence cut through the air—commanding, furious, uninvited.
He didn't slow. Didn't ask.
"What in the hells do you think you're doing?" he snapped, eyes blazing toward Alberta.
"You left without guards. Without word. Disguised and wandering through Wane-infested territory!"
Alberta rose fully now veil stained, hands steady.
"We had no choice."
"No choice?" he echoed.
"You risked your life. Francesca's life.
You ran headfirst into danger without telling anyone!"
He turned sharply to Francesca.
"You enabled this?"
Francesca tensed
but Alberta stepped between them.
"Don't blame her."
Her voice was calm.
Steel under pressure.
"I gave the order. I left. Because I had to.
Because the Church was watching.
Because I couldn't trust the silence."
Cornelius faltered.
Just for a breath.
Then Ceasare stepped forward again, all sweetness and silk.
"She's safe now."
And with that, he wrapped his arms around Alberta.
Too sudden.
Too familiar.
She stiffened.
Francesca's eyes narrowed.
He held her a moment too long.
"You don't have to run anymore," he whispered.
Alberta pulled back slowly.
"Ceasare don't."
The tension cracked.
"Well," Dantes drawled from a cracked pillar, arms crossed.
"This is a touching reunion. Who's next? Childhood dog?"
Cornelius turned, bristling.
"And you. Who even are you?"
Dantes gave a lazy bow.
"Dantes Lamolet. Professional meddler. Savior on occasion. Depends on the day."
"He's been with us since Guria," Francesca said flatly.
Cornelius turned back to Alberta, jaw tight.
"And you trusted him?"
"He saved our lives twice."
Her voice was unwavering.
"So yes."
Ceasare frowned.
"Still. I don't recognize the name."
"Good," Dantes muttered. "Means I'm doing it right."
Cornelius stepped forward, bristling.
"You're speaking to a prince."
Ceasare nodded, joining him.
"Prince Cornelius Crieur De Lion. Show some respect."
Dantes didn't blink.
"Sorrydo I kneel now or later?
I've been out of touch with the etiquette manual since I stopped giving a damn."
Francesca let out the faintest exhale
half a laugh.
Cornelius advanced a step.
Dantes didn't flinch.
But Alberta raised a hand.
"Stop."
She didn't shout.
She didn't need to.
"The next person to draw a blade loses the right to speak."
"We're not doing this not here."
Even the silence listened.
Cornelius looked at her.
Really looked.
Blood on her.
Dirt at her hem.
Veil loosened.
But she stood tall.
Not a runaway.
Not a victim.
Not a pawn.
Something more.
"She's changing," he thought.
"And not even the gods are ready for what she'll become."
Ceasare's smile no longer reached his eyes.
And Dantes
Dantes just watched.
Not with suspicion.
Not with awe.
But with the quiet knowing
of someone who's seen fire
become something sacred.
CHAPTER 11: THREADS PULLED TOO TIGHT P.1 END