Aldric lifted the scorched parchment closer to the lamp.
The brittle paper trembled faintly between his fingers as his eyes traced the uneven lines of ink—names written hastily, some half-erased by fire, others barely legible. His brows knit together, deeper with every word.
"…These people…" he muttered.
His lips pressed into a thin line.
"…don't they all hold rather high positions now…?"
His finger slid down the list.
Council aides. Treasury overseers. Shrine administrators. Envoys who now walked openly through the cathedral halls, wrapped in silk and authority.
And then—
His breath caught.
"…They all interacted with…" his voice dropped, disbelief seeping in, "…Bishop Truce."
The name sat there like a wound that refused to close.
Aldric's hand tightened. Slowly, deliberately, he folded the burnt parchment and slipped it into the inner pocket of his robe—close to his chest, where his heart hammered too loudly.
Then he turned back to the archives.
He did not stop.
