Kael did not sleep that night.
The wooden puppet rested on his table, at hand, like a silent witness.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw this letter A.
And whenever he tried to remember what she meant, thought was broken like glass.
In the morning, he took a banal pretext - inspecting the archives of the Valemyr house - and descended in the registers room.
The air smelled of dry paper, wax and withdrawn.
Maître Sorell, the archivist, looked up with his rollers.
- "What are you looking for, Messire Kael?" »»
- "Staff lists. Old censuses. Those of it is ... seventeen or eighteen years. »»
- "It's precise," replied Sorell, suspicious.
Kael forced a smile.
- "Let's say I'm interested in the history ... family. »»
The registers were dusty.
Kael unrolled one, traveling the names with the trembling glow of an oil lamp.
Soldiers, cooks, stewards ... Nothing unusual.
Until he notices one thing: a page torn off.
- "Who tore that?" He asked Sorell.
- "It was already when I regained the charge. I was told that the Duke had burned part of the archives to ... purify the registers. »»
Kael put the roll, his face closed.
Purify. A word that his father used when he wanted to erase something.
Leaving the archives, he met his mother in the corridor.
Elaira wore a purple dress and held a half-open notebook.
-"You get up early," she said without stopping.
- "I was looking for a name," replied Kael.
- "A name? »»
- " Yes. Whoever starts with an A ... and that I can't finish. »»
Elaira had a polished smile, but her eyes ... hardly harden.
- "So stop trying. Some names are not made to be pronounced. »»
Then she passed, leaving him alone with this sentence.
A sentence which, instead of extinguishing his curiosity, ignited him.
Kael returned to his room.
He sat down, fixed the puppet and whispered:
-"Whoever you are ... Why do I feel like you were torn from my story? »»
And, for the first time for a long time, Kael felt a touch of mixed ... concern.
The carriage was still rolling, but Ashen no longer listened to the noise of the wheels.
His fingers played mechanically with the madman's mask, placed on his lap.
The gray light that entered the small window gave the object an almost alive air.
In front of him, the seer looked at him as if he was leafing through an invisible book.
- "Do you know why I made you go up?" Asked the man, his soft but deep voice.
- "I imagine it's not to talk about time. »»
- " No. It's to talk about yours. »»
Ashen raised an eyebrow.
- "My ... time? »»
- " Yes. The one you have already burned. The one you lost. And the one you still have to destroy. »»
The seer leaned forward, his face in the shade.
- "You died ... a hundred thousand billion times. »»
Ashen fixed him, impassive.
- "And you, do you count like others count the coins? »»
- "This is my work. But you, your work ... starts now. »»
A long silence fills the carriage.
Ashen ends up asking:
-"Who are you to know that?" »»
- "Someone who sees you even when you have not yet been born. »»
The indicator came out a sealed envelope of black wax and placed it on Ashen's lap.
- "Inside, there is a first task. Simple, but decisive. Complete it, and you will enter a game that goes beyond the crown and the altar. fail… and you will return to your loop. »»
Ashen caressed the fingertip seal.
- "What if I refuse?" »»
- "So ... you will die again. As always. And you will be reborn elsewhere, as always. But by force, even hatred wears out. »»
The seer straightened up, his eyes shiny like sand heated by the sun.
- "You always wear your mask, Ashen ... but this world needs you know when removing it. »»
Ashen put the mask on his face.
-"So tell me to hit. »»
A thin smile crossed the seer lips.
- "Edelstadt is not made up of stone. It is made of lies. Find one… and make him bleed. »»
The carriage slows down.
Ashen descended, the envelope in the hand.
The light launched a last sentence through the open window:
- "What you are looking for is not your revenge. It's your place in a war that started before you. »»
The horse -drawn carriage left, leaving Ashen alone in the middle of the paved street, with the strange impression that the ground had just opened under its feet.
The street felt winter.
Not the white and immaculate winter that we painted in the tales, but the one that flows from the roofs in brown drops, which infiltrates the bones and which blackens the hands of the beggars.
Ashen stayed there, motionless, the envelope of the indicator in her palm as if she burned.
The red seal still seemed hot.
Passers -by frightened him.
No look.
In this city, ignoring someone was more than a gesture: it was a habit, almost a politeness.
But he knew that what was in this letter was nothing polite.
He broke the seal.
Inside, a carefully folded leaf, of a thicker paper than the average, almost velvety.
The writing was fine, leaning, regular.
She looked like that of the Haut-Temple scribes.
"Look for the bass room under the iron library.
You will find a letter that was not intended for you.
Read it, then choose if she has to live ... or die. "
No signature.
Only a symbol drawn in black ink: an eye barred with a cross.
Ashen remained for a while to fix this drawing.
Somewhere in his memory, it sounded like an old song, but of which he no longer knew the lyrics.
The iron library.
He knew her.
All the children of the capital had heard of it, even those of the Bas-Quarters.
A massive block of black stone and metal, placed in the heart of the city as a fortress of knowledge.
Its doors only opened to those who had the authorization, or to those whom no one suspected of being dangerous.
And a madman ... was never dangerous.
At least, that's what everyone believed.
The journey to the library was long.
Ashen crossed the scribes district, where the walls were lined with royal proclamations and religious verses.
Each poster bore the same sentence in small characters:
"Nothing is sacred, except for the king's gaze. »»
He had already heard that at the temple ... and it always sounded like a threat.
In front of the facade of the iron library, two guards in a monk dress and armed with short blades stared at him.
One of them sneered.
- Is it to make a number?
"No," replied Ashen, without slowing down. I come to look for a lost joke in the archives.
- Hey, do quickly, we close to the last death knell.
They let him pass.
The madman's mask made a pass ... and condemnation.
The interior felt old ink, aged leather and cold wax.
Colossal shelves rose to the vaulted ceiling.
Each corridor seemed to lead to a dense shadow than the previous one.
Ashen moved towards the bottom, where a velvet curtain masked a low door.
He slipped behind, found a spiral staircase and went down.
The steps cried out under his steps.
The air became damp, heavier.
The bass room was only a circular room, lit by a single candle placed on a raw wooden table.
On this table, an envelope ajar.
She seemed to wait for days, maybe weeks.
Ashen took it, drew the sheet inside.
It was not a long letter.
Only a few lines.
"In order of His Majesty Maelrath and with the Haut-Temple seal,
All the non-believers identified in civil registers should be eliminated before the end of winter.
The bodies will not be buried.
Grace is in fire. "
Ashen remained frozen.
The candle was flickering, projecting the shadow of words on the wall.
Each line sounded like a hammer blow.
Maelrath.
The name struck his temples as a slap of the past.
And the high-time ... Their inverted prayers, their justice sold ... All of this already had a blood taste.
He reread three times, then folded the paper with an almost sickly treatment.
He slipped him into his sleeve, where the lining of his coat was disjointed.
He knew this feeling: it was not simple information.
It was a weapon.
And a weapon, in the wrong hand, could kill an entire city.
Going back, he met an old monk who was going down.
Their looks met for a moment.
In the eyes of the monk, no surprises.
As if he knew exactly what ASHEN had found.
"We shouldn't read what is not ours," he said gently.
"We shouldn't kill what we don't understand," said Ashen.
The old monk smiled, but it was not a friendly smile.
Ashen continued to climb without turning around.
When he came out in the light at the end of the afternoon, Edelstadt seemed more gray, narrower.
The roofs seemed to be leaning towards him.
Passers -by, usually indifferent, now seemed to avoid it even more.
He had only one thought:
If this letter is true, then it is not only my life that is at stake. It is the whole city.
And he already knew he was going to have to choose ... between saving it or letting it burn.
Ashen left the place of the iron library along the arcades.
The cold stone returned the echo of its own steps, as if the city memorized each of its movements.
He felt like the letter was still burning in his round.
Under his fingers, he felt the rustling of paper.
A paper that could condemn a king ... or a people.
The evening market was in full swing.
The smells changed to the rhythm of the stalls:
Wet wood smoke, grilled meat, beeswax ... and further on, a more bitter fragrance.
Incense. The one used by the priests of the high-time during the funeral rites.
Ashen stopped net.
Under an arch, he saw two men in black coats speak to a merchant.
One of them showed a register.
The other drew a crushing cross on the counter.
The merchant looked down.
Not a word.
Identify. Mark.
Exactly as the letter described.
Ashen resumed his walk, but more slowly.
He observed.
Symbols appeared on the doors - tiny, almost invisible, but regular: a circle crossed by a line.
He saw three in less than one street.
The tension in its belly grows.
He knew this kind of mechanics.
It was always the same: we note the names, we mark the place ... then we hit.
Not immediately.
We are waiting for people to feel safe.
And then we hit.
At the corner of rue du Ningle, a voice stopped him.
- Hey, you.
An old man with knotty hands, seated against a wall, stared at him.
His pale eyes seemed to look through Ashen rather than towards him.
- You walk like someone who already knows what is happening.
- ... And you speak like someone who knows too much.
- Enough to say that the fire always smells the same, no matter the century.
Ashen fixed him, uncertain.
The old man had a little laugh, dry like a bone.
- Kings change, priests age ... But the smell remains.
Remember that.
He did not ask who he was.
Not here.
Not now.
He continued south.
Heaven turned to copper.
The roofs projected long shadows that cut the street as blades.
Each shadow reminded him of a scar.
In the distance, the Dome of the Haut-Temple captured the last light.
His dark stained glass windows shun like predatory eyes.
The bells sounded, serious.
Three strokes.
Nothing unusual ... but the sound seemed heavier than usual.
By approaching the hostel where he lived, Ashen noticed a black carriage parked in front of the door.
No coat of arms.
No visible check.
He stopped a stone's throw away.
A window was lowered.
Inside, the shadow of a face.
A low voice:
- You found the letter. GOOD. Mounted.
- What if I refuse?
- So you will watch the city burn, again, and again ... and again.
And believe me, Ashen ... You don't know what it is to see it for a thousand billions of times.
Ashen did not move.
- Who are you ?
- The one who can prevent you from dying again.
A silence.
Then Ashen Monta.
The door closed behind him.
The carriage started.
The carriage rolled slowly on the cobblestones of Edelstadt.
Inside, only the tuning of the wheels and the regular breath of the horses filled the space.
- You read.
It was not a question.
Ashen did not answer.
The mad mask stared at him in silence.
- So you know they prepare something.
Not just King Maelrath ... but those who whisper behind his orders.
The priests. The Haut-Temple. The circle they call the white choir.
Ashen made a slight head movement.
He did not like to give free confirmations.
- You think this letter is an order to kill.
It's true ... but it's just a step.
The fire they prepare is not only for non-believers.
It is for all those who do not comply.
Ashen spoke for the first time.
- And me, in all of this?
- You ... you are the anomaly.
The one they did not expect.
The one they have never recorded ... neither in civil registers, nor in the temple archives.
For them, you don't exist.
And that's precisely why you can hit where nobody expects it.
A silence weighed.
Then the man resumed:
- But you won't be able to do it alone.
There are two walls in front of you.
Two men who, together, hold the keys to the upcoming massacre.
He raised two fingers.
- Kael Valemyr. The king's blade.
And the big prior of the white choir. The language of the temple.
Ashen clenched his fists.
- Kael ...
- Yes. Your past with him does not matter for the moment.
In this life, he knows nothing about you.
And that, believe me, it's an advantage ... but not for long.
Man leaned slightly.
- If you want to stop what is coming, you will have to face them.
Not at the same time ... but almost.
Kael will fall, or you will fall with him.
And if you fail, the prior will not only bless your death ... It will make sure your name is erased forever.
Ashen says nothing.
The carriage sank into narrower alleys, as if they had closed behind them.
- Do you want to know why I chose you?
Because you've already seen this world die.
Because you've already seen the city burn.
And because, even if you still ignore it ... you have already died a hundred thousand billion times.
Ashen felt an icy tension go down along his column.
The man's voice was calm ... but each word sounded like a verdict.
- We have twenty movements, Ashen.
Twenty… before the flames get up.
And each movement will have to count.
The carriage stopped.
- Go down here. Think.
The next time we see each other, I will give you your first real work.
Ashen went down.
The door slammed.
And the carriage disappeared in the fog.
Ashen stayed in the alley for a long time after the carriage departure.
The air was more humid, the slippery pavement.
We barely heard the distant rumble of the city.
He looked up: Edelstadt seemed motionless, but he knew that under this calm surface, the cogs were already turning to crush those who did not believe.
He gave the mask of the madman.
Not out of taste ... But because here it offered perfect camouflage.
People never stared at too long.
Ashen walked to the Haut-Sceau district, where administrative buildings and officers of the officers were located.
The walls were white, almost too clean.
The imperial flags slammed in the wind.
Soldiers were on the custody in groups of two.
Il ne fallut pas longtemps avant qu'il aperçoive Kael Valemyr.
Standing in the center of the square, surrounded by men in armor, he gave short, precise orders, without raising his voice.
Even at this distance, Ashen could read the coldness in his gaze.
In my first life, he was already like that ... but not yet also established.
Ashen won a low wall, pretending to have parts for a street number.
He observed.
Each soldier who passed in front of Kael bowed slightly.
He was not only a captain - he was the blade that no one contradicted.
When Kael left the place, Ashen followed him remotely.
The destination was surprising: the large temple of the threshold.
The priests greeted Kael as a longtime ally.
And there, Ashen lives it: the big prior of the white choir.
A tall, dry man, his face hidden under a veil of white linen, but whose deep voice carried even in the hall.
- "King Maelrath appreciates your ... methods, Lord Valemyr. »»
- "And I appreciate your information. We are moving towards the same goal. Kael replied.
These words were enough to make it clear that it was not a simple circumstance alliance.
Kael and the prior were linked by something deeper ... and probably older than current shenanigans.
Ashen fell in the shadow of a column.
He couldn't hear everything, but he grasped enough to understand:
The church provided the king with names ... and Kael supplied the steel to execute the royal will.
Two pillars. If one falls, the other chancelle. But they would have to hit them almost at the same time ... otherwise the survivor will shoot the whole city.
Ashen inspired deeply.
The mask grinned slightly when he clenched his jaw.
Leaving the temple, he knew one thing:
The way to them would be long, dangerous, and each step would be watched.
But the carriage man was right.
There were twenty movements left.
And everyone should be precise.
Ashen was not yet ready ... but he had seen their faces.