The air was thick with a suffocating weight, the kind that always comes before a storm. Word of an upcoming "public trial to terrify the unruly and purify the faith" spread like ripples through the town's hushed whispers. The atmosphere grew taut and brittle. Clergy hurried about with solemn faces; even the gossiping women in the back courtyard instinctively avoided certain subjects.
No one reflected this terror more vividly than Lucien Croft. He moved like a man bound tighter each day by invisible cords. His face had grown pallid, and during prayers he sometimes faltered, his mind slipping away. More than anyone else, he understood what this trial meant—not merely the display of authority, but a performance of cruelty, meant to crush one soul so that countless others would bow in obedience.
Eleanor observed quietly. She knew her moment had arrived. In such times, the Inquisition needed every hand it could find; the tighter the machine was wound, the more likely a seam would split.
One evening, Lucien dragged himself home, exhausted, eyes shadowed with barely contained panic. Preparing for the trial had drained him, forcing him to glimpse up close the cold, crushing power that he so dreaded.
"It seems the preparations for judgment are wearing you thin, Father Croft." Eleanor's voice broke the silence, calm and even—yet it made him flinch violently.
He looked up to see her seated at the table, the candlelight flickering in her pale gray eyes, unreadable.
"Just… too many tasks," he muttered weakly, fumbling for a cover.
"Is it for the case of the old farmer's wife? The one accused of 'using witchcraft to heal her livestock'?" Eleanor's words cut straight to the heart. She had already pieced together the truth from the murmurs of townswomen.
Lucien stiffened. His face darkened, but he did not deny it.
"I recall that low-level clerks are sometimes permitted to apply for an assistant—especially during trials requiring extensive documentation." Eleanor's tone was light, as though she were discussing an ordinary household errand. "You need an assistant, Father Croft."
Lucien recoiled, horror flooding his green eyes. "No! Impossible! You can't—no one like you can set foot there! That place is—"
"What is it?" Eleanor interrupted, her voice still steady, but with a pressure that brooked no refusal. "A holy chamber? Or a beast's den dripping with blood? Whichever it is, surely I am more 'trustworthy' than some unfamiliar acolyte who might blunder—or talk too much." She lingered deliberately on the word "trustworthy," reminding him of the chain that bound them: secrecy and fear.
"But… your identity… what people will say…" Lucien flailed, scrambling for excuses.
"A frail wife, eager to assist her husband's sacred duty, seeking piety through humble service?" Eleanor tilted her head, her excuse ready and smooth. "A poor soul grateful for recovery from illness, longing to serve the Church more? There are countless reasons, Father Croft. Unless, of course, you need me to remind you of why you must be willing?"
Her gaze held his, not fierce but piercing, cutting through his defenses to the secret shame rooted deepest in him—what she had seen in the grove.
Lucien sagged into his chair, drained of strength. He knew he had no choice. Refuse her, and ruin would fall on him at once. Accept her, and though the risk was vast, at least the façade of safety remained.
"…I'll… apply…" He croaked at last, each word rasping dry in his throat. "But I can't promise it will be approved…"
"You will succeed," Eleanor said with quiet certainty, as though she had already foreseen the outcome. "In such times, when hands are scarce, a priest choosing his reliable wife over a careless stranger is the most reasonable choice of all."
Events unfolded exactly as she had predicted. Overworked and undermanned, the tribunal accepted Lucien's trembling request, reading it as tender concern for his new wife. Approval was granted—though with limits. Eleanor would be confined to peripheral clerical work, always under Lucien's supervision, and forbidden to wander.
The day of judgment came.
Eleanor dressed in a dark, unremarkable gray gown, hair drawn tightly back, her face deliberately pale and subdued. She followed Lucien step by step toward the stone edifice of the Inquisition's hall, its walls radiating cold authority.
The nearer they drew, the thicker the air became. Faint sobs, the flat tones of judges' interrogation, and even a faint scent—burnt, acrid—seeped from within. Lucien's hands trembled so badly he nearly dropped his writing board.
Eleanor's own heart beat faster—not from fear, but from the sharp, intoxicating mingling of hatred and exhilaration. This place, this stench, dragged up her deepest memories of agony.
They were placed in a corner where most of the hall was visible, but they themselves were scarcely noticed. Eleanor bent her head, fussing with ink and quills. But her eyes, sharp and measuring, swept the room.
She saw the judges high above, faces expressionless, like statues wearing holy masks.She saw the accused: a frail old woman, bewildered and terrified, unable even to grasp the absurd accusations hurled at her.She saw the crowd of priests and officials—some fervent, some blank-eyed, some turning away faintly, unwilling to look too long.
Look at this, the icy voice whispered inside her again. This is the machine that guards 'faith'—crushing a defenseless old woman as easily as stepping on an ant. And yet, within these same walls, how much men's filth is hidden away in silence?
The trial blurred with Eleanor's own memories of her condemnation. Her fingers chilled, but her eyes only sharpened.
Her duties were menial: passing papers, refreshing ink, and noting down Lucien's trivial margins. But her mind raced, memorizing every detail—questions posed, witnesses' tones, the jurors' reactions, the flow of documents, and the guards' positions.
Lucien was nearly useless, shaking, blotting his work with sweat. Eleanor, calm and precise, covered his mistakes—slipping him blotting paper, murmuring reminders so softly no one else could hear. Her presence, far from suspicious, soon seemed indispensable. A few higher clerks even glanced over with approval at Father Croft's wife: timid, perhaps, but diligent.
The trial was as cruel as it was absurd. At last, under unbearable pressure and a handful of "proofs" (neighbors' suspicion, a few dead chicks), the old woman broke, mumbling a shattered confession.
The judgment came cold and flat: execution by fire, to be carried out on the public square in three days.
A murmur stirred through the hall, swiftly silenced.
Eleanor lowered her gaze, her face impassive, locking every trace of emotion beneath ice. She saw Lucien's body jolt at the verdict, his complexion ghostly, on the verge of retching. His fragile faith and frail humanity were being broken apart.
Eleanor, by contrast, felt her resolve harden. To beg this system for mercy was pointless. Only by understanding it, exploiting it, and eventually destroying it from within could she hope for justice—or survival.
When the ritual ended and the hall began to empty, Lucien staggered, so weak he had to cling to the wall.
Eleanor packed away their materials with calm, steady hands, as though she had seen nothing more than an ordinary proceeding.
She followed her faltering husband out into the evening air. The heavy doors closed behind them, sealing despair within.
The sunset washed their faces with gold, but the warmth could not drive away the chill that clung to bone.
Lucien turned toward her, his eyes an uneasy mix of terror, confusion, and a strange new dependence. For the first time, he seemed to grasp what kind of vessel he and this woman now shared—a ship bound for the abyss.
Eleanor did not return his look. Her gaze lifted instead to the tribunal's tower, stabbing upward as though to pierce the sky.
She had succeeded.
She had stepped inside the tiger's den.
It was only the outermost circle, the edges of the pit—but she was in. And the board for her revenge was finally set upon the most dangerous of fields.