The golden light of afternoon slanted across the high windows of Castle Edelstein's study, turning the dust motes into drifting embers. Count Aurelius von Edelstein stood there in silence, one hand resting on the carved sill, his eyes locked on the departing carriage below. Its lacquered panels gleamed with the symbol of the Holy Church—the obsidian sunburst, an emblem as domineering as it was sanctimonious. Each turn of its wheels on cobblestone seemed less like departure and more like the lingering hiss of a serpent, leaving the courtyard as though it had already staked its venom in the house behind.
"She was buying time," Aurelius murmured, his voice so low it might have been mistaken for thought.
Across the room, Rose turned her head. The commander of Edelstein's guard had always seemed carved from iron: tall, broad-shouldered, auburn hair pulled tight, a scar slashing across her cheek like a badge of defiance. She folded her arms, plate gauntlets creaking. "The nun?"
Aurelius shook his head slowly, blue eyes never leaving the shrinking carriage. "No. My wife."
The words hung heavy in the chamber.
"The Countess," Rose said at last, as though naming the dead was a ritual in itself.
"She knew," Aurelius said. His jaw clenched, the muscles of his face twitching with restrained fury. "Every reform she pushed, every doctrine she upended, every hour she spent drilling common men into squads instead of leaving them as ornamental knights—it was all preparation. Insurance. Not vanity, not eccentricity. Strategy."
Rose let out a dry laugh, humorless as flint. "Strategy against the Church?"
Aurelius finally turned from the window, removing his glasses with careful deliberation. "You think it was coincidence that she replaced the knightly charge with disciplined ranks, that she made mana a measurable resource instead of a holy gift? Those ideas didn't come from this land. They were imported—like smuggled fire from another world."
His eyes, sharp and cold, bored into his sister-in-law's.
"She knew the Church would come for her."
For a moment, Rose said nothing. Her boots clicked faintly against the wooden floor as she shifted her stance, jaw tightening. Then, quietly: "And you believe what Regina told you. About her mother. About being from… elsewhere."
"I believe the evidence," Aurelius replied, tone clipped. "I believe that no scholar of this kingdom, nor of its neighbors, ever dreamed of such doctrine. I believe that what she built here could have reshaped the entire realm."
He slid his glasses into his coat pocket, fingers trembling ever so slightly—not with weakness, but with restrained conviction.
"And I know," he added, "that if the King himself had seen the fruits of her reforms—if even one royal campaign had marched under her system—he would have raised me to Duke. And a Duke does not kneel to the Church."
Rose's scarred brow furrowed. "But the King never came."
"No." Aurelius' lips pressed thin. "Because the Church moved first."
The fire crackled faintly in the hearth, filling the silence.
"They did not strike openly, of course," he went on, pacing now, steps measured as if marching to an unseen cadence. "That is not their way. They whispered. They sowed rumors of heresy. They painted her reforms as blasphemy. They armed lunatics with holy writ and knives, sent cultists masked as zealots, assassins that leave no trail to Rome. They cut her threads in the dark, so that when she finally fell, the world saw only a noblewoman crushed by her own hubris."
Rose's hand clenched on the hilt of her sword. "Cowards."
Aurelius stopped before the hearth, staring into the flames. "And now they circle again. Testing. Probing. Seeking to pluck another piece from the board."
Silence stretched, filled only by the low pop of burning wood.
At length, Rose spoke. "What of the girl? Luna?"
Aurelius turned his gaze to her, the firelight throwing shadows across his sharp features. "She is… a variable." His voice was measured, cautious. "A piece not yet understood. But Regina has bonded to her. And that may be our best shield for now."
"You'd gamble the safety of this County on a child?" Rose's tone was sharp, but beneath it lay concern rather than reproach.
"Not gamble," Aurelius corrected. "Leverage. If Regina—my daughter—sees value in the girl, then she will guard her with a ferocity even I cannot command. And as long as the girl remains under Regina's wing, she cannot easily be seized by the Church without cost. That bond might be the thread that holds this family together."
Rose's eyes narrowed. "Threads fray."
"They also bind," Aurelius countered, his voice rising like a blade drawn from its sheath. "And in times like these, every binding matters."
The two stood in silence, the weight of history pressing upon them both. Outside, the last echo of carriage wheels faded into the distance, leaving the air heavier for their absence.
Finally, Rose asked the question that lingered like smoke: "And the Church?"
Aurelius looked back to the window, to the horizon beyond. His eyes were not the tired eyes of an aging noble—they were the eyes of a man staring across a battlefield he alone could see.
"We are in check," he said simply.
He let the words hang, final as a tolling bell.
Then, quieter, with the steel of oath rather than despair:
"But not checkmate. Not yet."