The cathedral vault was built to make people feel small.
Stone arches soared overhead, each rib veined in gold that caught the dim light through stained glass. Incense clung to the air—sweet, heavy—while the choir's slow hum rolled through the chamber like a heartbeat.
A chandelier the size of a carriage hung at the center, silver frame crowded with crystal and candlelight. Its chains disappeared into the shadow above.
Beneath it lay Lord Ardent's coffin, draped in gold cloth, flanked by smoking braziers. The lords of Schlager stood before it, clad in white for mourning.
Kleitz kept his hunting knife at his belt, silver hilt flashing. Aurum wore only two rings instead of his usual gems. Garath looked like he'd been dragged from the stables before dawn. Lady Corna glittered faintly, rare perfume spilling into the incense, her violet hair a living crest of House Corna.
Beside her, her daughter—Alzein's age, all sharp features and sharper eyes—stared at him without blinking. Not warmth. Not approval. Just the kind of silent warning that told him this body's past had left more enemies than friends.
Red realized that hair here wasn't just hair. It was heraldry. Brayl's deep lake blue, Corna's royal violet, molten gold, moonlight silver, Alzein's unblemished white. In his old world, colors like that meant disguise or bait. Here, it was bloodline on display.
His eyes shifted back to the coffin. No open lid. No proof. Just smoke, gold, and ritual.
"I still have my doubts," he murmured to Glade. "Never saw the body."
Glade's jaw tightened. Brayl's gaze never stopped sweeping the crowd.
The priests moved like clockwork, voices rising in the rites of Passing. Lords bowed. Vassals waited.
Then Baram called him forward.
Applause rippled, polite at first, then warmer—like his presence meant the kingdom hadn't died with Ardent.
From the chandelier's halo, Red took in the whole field: Kleitz's hunter's focus, Aurum's weighing stare, Garath's stubborn straightening, Corna's mask, her daughter's glint of hostility… and the guards at the doors, their heads starting to droop.
Drugged.
His voice carried clear. "We gather to commemorate Lord Ardent—a man who bled for this soil, who kept the kingdom standing after my father's death."
He let the pause stretch, eyes scanning the room. "To lose him is to lose a leader. To lose a comrade. And comrades are always taken from us by the same kind of people—those too afraid to face their enemy in the open."
Gasps flickered.
He didn't lower his voice. "I know who you are. I know your plan. And I know what you've done to our guards."
Heads turned. At the doors, the guards slumped fully to the floor.
"The enemy dares to strike during Ardent's rite," Red said, sharp as drawn steel. "They want you to think we're blind. But we are not blind. And I…" His gaze cut to Corna, then Kleitz. "…am not the man they thought I was."
He stepped toward Baram. "I'll keep you alive. But I'll need your cooperation."
"Give me the chalice."
Baram passed the silver cup. Red lifted it high. "For the Light Goddess."
The lords echoed the words.
And then he threw it.
The chalice screamed through the air, silver flashing before it vanished into the shadows above.
A metallic crack. A grunt. Crystal rained down.
A black shape dropped from the chandelier—cloak flaring—just as the candles went out.
Light magic flared from the lords, cold and pale. The assassin sprawled in the center of the circle, a crossbow at his side, bolt tipped in green poison.
The chalice was buried deep in his chest. Blood pooled black on the marble.
Red's voice was ice. "Amateur."