The grand cathedral's inner sanctum was dimly lit, but far from silent. Golden chandeliers flickered above, casting restless shadows across the polished marble. The tension in the chamber was heavy—so heavy it dulled the scent of incense that normally reigned over the holy hall.
Bishop Aldric, aged but shrewd, sat at the head of the council table, fingers drumming quietly on the armrest of his ornate chair. Around him, voices murmured in restrained panic.
"Another inquisitor missing," one priest said, voice low, nervous. "That's the third within the city walls."
"And two more haven't reported from the outposts," said another, younger, less guarded.
The discussion shifted between hushed panic and cloaked accusations. Some blamed rogue demons. Others questioned whether heretics had infiltrated the clergy. The smarter ones stayed silent, letting the storm pass over their bowed heads.
Behind one of the heavy velvet curtains near the altar, a pair of eyes watched.
Lucien stood perfectly still, his breath controlled, his heartbeat steady. His presence here was as uninvited as it was dangerous—but necessary. He wasn't simply eavesdropping.
He was orchestrating.
The fear coursing through these men hadn't blossomed on its own. It had been nurtured, day by day, fed by rumors Lucien had quietly seeded among temple guards, humble altar boys, and careless priests. Whispered secrets left on parchment. Conversations just loud enough to be overheard.
This? This chaos?
This was his doing.
He didn't need to lift a sword. He didn't even need to lie. All he had to do was guide their fears. Tilt the narrative. Suggest.
Power wasn't always a blade. Sometimes, it was a whisper.
As the council session adjourned, the holy men began to filter out—murmuring, arguing, crossing themselves. Lucien slid back into the dark hallway like a passing shadow and made his way down through the servant quarters, where his face was just another unimportant blur in the background.
By the time he reached the outer courtyard, the sun had dipped low behind the city's jagged rooftops. Lanterns sparked to life, and the cobblestone paths glistened with the dew of nightfall.
He didn't notice the figure waiting under the withered archway until she spoke.
"You're working late again," Sera said, her voice soft, her silhouette framed by the arch's crumbling stone. She wore a simple gray shawl over her habit, though the breeze tugged at it like a child wanting attention.
Lucien offered a warm, sheepish smile. "I stayed to polish the altar steps. Father Galen said they weren't shining enough."
"You're too diligent," she replied with a faint chuckle, but concern crept into her gaze. "But be careful. The streets... there are rumors."
He tilted his head, a picture of curiosity. "Rumors?"
"About disappearances," she said, lowering her voice. "They think someone—or something—is taking inquisitors."
He blinked innocently. "Why would anyone do that?"
She sighed, brushing hair from her face. "I don't know. But the city feels... different lately. Colder."
Lucien let the silence stretch before replying, just enough to let her feel the weight of her own words. "Maybe the gods are warning us," he said quietly.
Sera's eyes widened slightly, then softened. "You always speak with such care. You remind me of the old stories—of the quiet knight, the one who didn't draw his blade unless he had to."
Lucien looked down with practiced humility. "I'm no knight."
"No," she said, "but I think you'll do something great someday."
He didn't answer. He just nodded and walked away, back into the winding alleys. Her words echoed behind him, sincere and misplaced.
She thought she was looking at a lost soul with kind eyes.
But what she didn't know was this: she was looking at the architect of their undoing.
When Lucien returned to his dimly lit room at the rundown inn—little more than a cot, a cracked mirror, and a desk cluttered with faded parchment—he sat in silence. Then, from under a floorboard, he retrieved a scroll inked in a language long purged by the Church.
Demonic script.
But not instructions. Not curses.
These were contracts.
Agreements with those on the other side. Terms of cooperation.
To the outside world, Lucien appeared to be another soul ensnared by dark forces.
But if they knew the truth—that the demons did not control him, but rather, followed his plans—they would tremble more than they already did.
Lucien leaned back, eyes scanning a new parchment. A guard captain's schedule. Another piece to move.
A priest would go missing tomorrow. No blood. No body. Just gone.
And the Church would panic. Again.
It was time to twist the knife just a little deeper.
---
End of chapter 6