Eleanor Warren—no, deep in her soul, she was still Eleanor Fleming, the revenant who had clawed her way back from the shadow of the gallows—linked her arm with her nominal husband, Father Lucien Croft, stepping into the stone corridors of the religious tribunal.
The air was thick with a strange, unsettling mix: aged parchment, dust, cold stone, incense, and a faint, elusive scent of something scorched that sent chills down the spine. Lucien's body felt stiff under her fingertips, as rigid as the collar of his starched clerical robe. His steps were cautious and restrained, his emerald eyes deliberately avoiding the scattered black-robed or gray-robed figures they passed. He nodded slightly, whispering low explanations about each room, as if afraid to disturb whatever dwelled within these walls.
"There's the archives… entry without permission is forbidden. The interrogation chambers… are usually… very busy," he murmured, his Adam's apple bobbing. "The senior inquisitors' offices are upstairs."
Eleanor's ice-gray eyes were precise instruments, coldly scanning everything. She noted Lucien's tension in detail, yet her own mind remained still, even carrying a faint, frigid amusement. His fear stemmed from the potential loss of rank and reputation. Hers had been burned away on the noose, leaving only sharpened hatred and purpose.
The walls were thick enough to muffle any scream. Heavy oak doors, reinforced with iron, stood sealed. Occasionally a door opened, a low questioning voice or the faint clink of metal making Lucien's arm tremble against hers.
A tall, black-robed inquisitor with a sullen expression appeared around a corridor corner, his hawk-like gaze sweeping over them. Lucien froze and bowed slightly.
"Inquisitor Aldridge."
The man's eyes flicked over Lucien's face, then fixed on Eleanor with an icy scrutiny that seemed to probe beneath her neatly pinned hair and plain gown, searching for the truth beneath.
"Father Croft. And this is?" His voice was hoarse, carrying the authority formed by years of command.
"This is my wife, Eleanor," Lucien replied flatly, lacking any warmth a newlywed might display—though his tension masked it, making him sound merely awkward. "Eleanor, this is Inquisitor Aldridge, a… respected senior of the tribunal."
Eleanor lowered her gaze, executing a flawless curtsy. Her posture was obedient, her voice calm and clear, perfectly portraying a novice priest's wife, slightly in awe: "Good day, Inquisitor Aldridge. It is an honor to meet you."
A faint, almost imperceptible snort escaped Aldridge's nose—whether disdain or acknowledgment, Eleanor could not tell. "Croft, your duty is to serve God, not indulge in worldly affections. Bringing family here requires knowing one's limits." With that, he swept past, his black robe trailing, carrying a cold draft in his wake.
Only after the footsteps receded did Lucien exhale, almost imperceptibly, a sheen of sweat appearing at his temple.
Eleanor, however, whispered by his side, a voice so soft only he could hear, yet steel-strong: "He is correct, Father Lucien. Remember your 'duty.' And remember, I am here to ensure you never 'indulge' in any warmth that might damn you eternally."
Lucien's face paled further. He did not answer, stiffly continuing down the corridor with her.
They crossed a narrow courtyard, the sky framed as a gray-blue square by towering stone walls. Eleanor's gaze flicked to a blackened scorch mark in a corner, the soil oddly darkened, stark against its surroundings. Her step faltered for barely a fraction of a second. Deep in her ice-gray eyes, a reflection of past flames flickered.
How many "heretics" and "witches" had been burned there?
And among them, did the embers of her and Seraphina's crimes still linger?
She forced herself to look away, her heart beating steady and heavy, each pulse echoing a single name: Seraphina.
Finding her was the purpose of this journey—but also the most dangerous. The tribunal could never harbor an unnamed, unclaimed girl. Seraphina's reincarnated identity—Cecily Green—was most likely hidden somewhere at the margins of the city, dependent on the church or nobility: a laundress, a kitchen hand, or an apprentice to a craftsman.
Eleanor needed information, a pretext for movement, and eyes that could see through this labyrinth.
"Lucien," she said, her voice almost bland, "as your wife, should I not appear dutiful and devout? Perhaps offering regular mending or cleaning for the brothers of the tribunal? Or assisting with food distribution at the church's almshouse?"
Lucien paused, clearly unprepared for the suggestion. "That… might be… unusual…"
"Customs exist to be broken, especially when they reinforce the image of a 'pious and harmonious' household," Eleanor said lightly, her gaze passing a plainly dressed older woman wiping a candelabrum. "A priest's wife who devotes herself, who is close to the poor, always hears more… of God's faithful hearts, does she not? This may bring you unexpected favor as well."
Her words were an invisible thread, tugging precisely at the deepest recesses of Lucien's desires and fears—his longing for safety, his dread of exposure. He remained silent for a moment, then nodded stiffly. "I will… attempt to arrange it."
A subtle, unnoticed curve of cold satisfaction lifted Eleanor's lips.
The first step had been taken.
She stood amid the shadow-laced corridor like a ghost infiltrating enemy territory. The path of vengeance was long and perilous, yet every hallway, every door, and every seemingly lowly servant could become a signpost to her goal.
And finding Cecily was the first step—the only spark of warmth remaining in the icy blaze of her revenge. She had to find her before the noose of fate tightened again.