The return to the Inquisitorial Court was suffocating in its silence, as if a third passenger had climbed into the carriage and pressed the very air down upon them. Father Lucien Croft risked a glance at Eleanor Warren, seated opposite him. She sat with her back perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the grimy cityscape sliding past the window. Her face was expressionless, carved in stone, like some cold marble effigy.
And yet Lucien felt it—an aura of danger so potent it made his skin prickle. Not open fury, not grief, but something far more terrifying: an almost inhuman composure, a calm wound so tight it resembled the silence before a blizzard. Her knuckles had whitened from how hard she pressed her hands together.
His mind flicked back to the short, unpleasant conversation he had endured with Deacon Hammer in that stifling office. The man had been crude, impatient, dismissive of every mention of record-keeping or procedure. He had sneered at the very idea, speaking instead of the "sluggish girls" under his charge with the disdain of a man who believed cruelty to be discipline, derision to be leadership. Authority radiated from him like a foul stench, one laced with ownership.
Lucien had tried to probe delicately into matters of staff management, but Hammer had shut him down with a sharp, unceremonious retort, warning him to mind his own duties and not meddle in "effective methods."
And now, piecing that with Eleanor's reaction in the great hall—the glacial stillness, the tremor beneath her calm—Lucien was certain she had seen something. Something, or someone, that mattered to her in a way that eclipsed all else. Something bound directly to the cruelty of that place.
A fresh coil of fear tightened around his gut. He was sinking, drawn into a vortex far deeper than he had ever imagined. It was not only his own secrets he carried, but now hers as well—hers, vast and unknowable, secrets that seemed to blaze with a silent promise of destruction.
He wanted to ask. His lips parted, but no sound came. The questions clung to his throat, strangled by dread. To speak them aloud might invite her cold gaze, her merciless precision, her use of him for ends he dared not name.
So he swallowed everything—curiosity, suspicion, fear—and it burned all the way down. His stomach knotted in pain, twisting under the weight of his silence.
The carriage rolled back toward the oppressive high walls of the Inquisitorial Court, yet the sense of suffocation did not dissipate—it had only changed its form. The two of them stepped down in single file; Eleanor did not spare Lucien a glance, moving directly toward the remote side wing where they resided. Her steps were steady, quick, the hem of her skirt brushing over the stone slabs, leaving no trace of hesitation.
Inside the sparsely furnished room, perpetually steeped in a chill dampness, Eleanor closed the door behind her. Cut off from the outside world, the tension she had carried so tightly almost slipped, and her body quivered imperceptibly. She extended a hand, pressing her fingers against the cold stone wall. The hardness under her fingertips grounded her, anchoring her to the present and keeping her from losing control of the storm of emotions threatening to surge.
Seraphina…
The fleeting image replayed in her mind, searing itself anew: the narrow shoulder blades outlined beneath coarse gray cloth, the damp black curls slipping from the rough cap, and most of all, those eyes—violet, breathtakingly beautiful even through fear and tears, lifted for a brief moment in a mute plea. Eyes that had once been full of tenderness and wisdom, now replaced by numbness and terror.
Her heart felt as if it had been clutched by an icy hand, the pain so sharp it almost stole her breath. Her beloved, the one light that had guided her back from the brink of hell, was enduring labor and abuse in a place masquerading as a workshop, but functioning in truth as a prison. The rough shove of the overseer's hand, Deacon Hammer's cruel, arrogant expression, the deafening roar of the looms, the suffocating wool dust hanging in the air… each detail pierced Eleanor's nerves like countless needles, over and over again, and she felt them all with unbearable clarity.
The overwhelming pain and fury tore open the seals of memory, mercilessly hurling her back to a sunlit afternoon suffused with the scent of turpentine and linseed oil. It was the Flemings' painting studio, spacious and bright, the enormous windows framing a courtyard in full bloom. Tiny motes of dust drifted lazily through the sunbeams, dancing in the light.
Eleanor Fleming was distractedly mixing pigments, her brush poised above an unfinished still life. Her thoughts were not on the apples or the silver jug, but rather on the girl who was about to arrive—an ostensibly distant cousin. Her mother had mentioned her briefly, in a tone so flat it left little more than a shadow of expectation.
Soft footsteps echoed behind her. Eleanor turned.
Time seemed to slow, stretching each heartbeat. At the doorway stood a girl in a simple, white gown, nervously clutching the edges of her skirt. Her black curls cascaded like clouds over her shoulders, emphasizing the flawless translucence of her skin. And yet, what held Eleanor's gaze, impossibly, was the girl's eyes—a rare, crystalline, and profoundly deep violet, peeking out with a tentative curiosity, cautiously fixed upon her.
"Y-You… hello," the girl's voice trembled, soft as a feather brushing across a piano string. "I'm Seraphina. Madam asked me to come here…"
Eleanor found herself momentarily speechless, merely nodding in mute acknowledgment. She had never seen eyes like these—eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of starry nights and dawn's first light. An inexplicable, fierce impulse to protect, to draw near, quietly took root in her heart.
"I'm Eleanor," she finally found her voice, striving to make it calm, steady, ordinary. "Welcome… um, are you interested in oil painting?"
Seraphina pressed her lips together, offering a shy, tentative smile. "I… I don't really understand it, but I think it's beautiful."
That faint smile was like a pebble dropped into a still lake, sending gentle ripples across Eleanor's heart.
The memory played on. The studio became their most frequent place of shared moments. At first, Eleanor's guidance was purely courteous.
"Try to make your strokes lighter," Eleanor stood behind Seraphina, hesitating for a moment before softly taking her hand that held the brush, guiding it over the coarse canvas. "Feel the movement of your wrist, not just your fingers…"
Seraphina's body stiffened slightly, yet she did not pull away. The faint scent of jasmine lingered among her dark curls, drifting to Eleanor's nose. Eleanor could feel the delicate coolness of the skin on the back of Seraphina's hand, yet her own fingertips involuntarily grew warm. A strange, unsettling current of warmth quietly passed between them through that fleeting contact.
"Like this?" Seraphina asked softly, her voice trembling ever so slightly.
"Yes… exactly like that." Eleanor quickly released her hand and stepped back, her heart inexplicably racing. She dared not meet Seraphina's eyes, pretending instead to focus on the pigments on the palette, yet she found her own fingers betraying her, trembling against her will.
After that day, a subtle atmosphere began to settle over the studio. Their conversations slowly stretched beyond painting techniques, drifting into poetry, music, and the night sky. Eleanor discovered that, though shy, Seraphina possessed a sensitive, insightful mind, often expressing thoughts that left Eleanor quietly amazed. They shared their favorite books, reading side by side in the afternoon sunlight, occasionally exchanging a fleeting, knowing glance that conveyed thoughts left unspoken.
Every accidental brush of fingertips, every brief eye contact over the canvas, charged the air with a sudden density, almost palpable. They both reveled in this hidden closeness while tacitly avoiding labeling it. It was a sweet yet painful tug-of-war, quietly blossoming into something far beyond the bounds of familial affection, safely cloaked under the guise of "cousins."
Eleanor found herself anticipating each painting session, looking forward to that hint of purple in the studio, listening for that soft, tentative voice. She noticed herself remembering Seraphina's favorite colors without thinking, and whenever she saw a beautiful sunset, she instinctively wanted to be the first to tell her.
At that time, they had been far too absorbed in the carefully stolen sweetness, far too trusting that this hidden bond could last forever, to notice the venomous serpents lurking in the shadows, to underestimate the cruelty of worldly rules. This time, she would never make the same mistake again.
A violent surge of impulse coursed through her veins: to rush back immediately, to use every means at her disposal, even at the cost of exposing herself, to snatch Seraphina from that infernal pit! The flames of anger threatened to consume her reason entirely.
But the next moment, memories from her previous life crashed down like a vice: the suffocating choke of a rope around her neck, the scorching heat licking at the hem of her dress, the frenzied curses of the watching crowd, and the last, desperate look Seraphina had cast toward her as she was dragged away… These recollections, like ice-cold water poured over blazing fire, instantly extinguished that reckless impulse.
Calm! Eleanor Fleming! she screamed at herself inwardly, using her true name. Had she forgotten? Forgotten how they had mocked her love, trampled on her dignity, how easily they had labeled them as sinners? Forgotten why she had clawed her way back from hell? Rebirth was not a license to die foolishly again! Impulse is the shortest path to ruin!
The deadly lessons of her past life were etched into her bones. The beauty she once had now only served to amplify today's pain. Precisely because she had known such pure light before, she could not endure seeing it mercilessly snuffed out again. This time, she must be colder, more cunning, and more patient than her enemies. She would wield the chill brought from hell itself to protect the fragile, flickering flame that remained.
She drew in several deep breaths of the icy air, forcing her wildly racing heart to slow. A direct confrontation with Steward Hammer or the apparatus of the Tribunal would be suicide. She needed a plan—meticulous, careful, and foolproof. She could not merely rescue Seraphina; she had to ensure that both of them could escape safely without arousing any suspicion. Otherwise, all previous disguises and efforts would be rendered meaningless, and falling back into their hands would end far worse than the last time.
First, she needed more precise information: Hammer's background, the operational details of the workshop, the guards' rotation schedules, the exact circumstances of Seraphina—now Cecily Green—inside, and why she had been sent there in the first place. Every detail was critical. To act blindly would be to court certain death.
Her gaze fell on the modest desk in the room. A quill, ink, rough sheets of paper… In her past life, she had used them to write love poems and journals, capturing every heartbeat spent with Seraphina; in this life, they would record only plans of vengeance and icy schemes. From painting beauty to plotting life and death—this was the price of her rebirth.
She sat down at the desk, spreading out a sheet of paper, but did not write immediately. She needed to think: how to obtain the necessary information without arousing suspicion? Old Martin? That grizzled servant? Or… Lucien?
At the thought of Lucien, a flicker of calculation passed through Eleanor's steel-gray eyes. He had just returned from the workshop, his fear and unease at their peak. This was the perfect moment to apply pressure, to further manipulate him—but she had to maintain balance, ensuring he neither completely broke down nor acted rashly. Exploiting another's weakness, in her past life, would have seemed vile and shameful—but in this life, she no longer cared. Morality was merely a veneer for the victorious; she was a revenant from hell, concerned only with results, regardless of means. Especially when it involved manipulating a priest—there was a twisted satisfaction in it, a small revenge against those who had persecuted her in her former life.
Meanwhile, in the adjoining room, Lucien was experiencing his own inner storm.
As evening settled, Eleanor knocked on his door…
Her words carried the kind of chilling calm that only comes from having been utterly destroyed and rebuilt. She looked at him as if he were a naive child, still clinging to illusions about the world—a fool, much like Eleanor had once been in her past life.
She moved to the window, watching the creeping dusk outside. "There is a girl in that workshop," she finally disclosed a fragment of information. This was something the straightforward, diary-bound Eleanor of her past could never have done—falsehood and calculation born from survival and vengeance had honed her into a poisoned dagger.
Lucien froze.
This discomfort, once something the past Eleanor might have empathized with or amplified, was now merely a recorded data point for the present Eleanor, noted without emotion, as if tallying livestock losses. She even thought, coldly, that the magistrates who once sentenced them probably used similar clinical terms.
"Subordinate of Audridge…" Eleanor jotted down the name.
"And… any other details? About the girls' origins? Punishments?"
"He didn't say much… only that those who misbehave get 'time for solitary reflection'… in a small stone hut behind the workshop…" Lucien's voice dropped, a chill creeping over him.
Eleanor's heart clenched. Had Seraphina ever been locked inside that place? The girl who had once mixed paints with her in sunlight, who had smiled with delight at a streak of beautiful cloud… confined to a cold, stone cell?
"Very good, Father Lucien. This is useful," Eleanor said, her tone softening slightly.
"Now… let's eat," she commanded.
Lucien stared at the food on his plate, utterly without appetite, yet under Eleanor's unwavering gaze, he mechanically nodded. He felt himself sinking deeper into a mire, every step dragging him further, and there was not a single straw within reach.
Eleanor turned from Lucien's room and returned to her own cold chamber. She closed the door behind her, pressed her back to the wood, and slowly sank to the floor. The sturdy façade she maintained began to show a faint crack in the solitude.
She lifted her hand, as if she could still feel the delicate, cool touch of Seraphina's wrist when she had guided her brush over the canvas. And now… those same hands were coarse, calloused, perhaps even scarred from the toil in the workshop.
A tide of grief and longing surged through her, threatening to overwhelm her entirely. She bit down hard on her wrist to stifle any sobs, but the tears would not be contained, falling coldly into the darkness below.
To reclaim that lost warmth, she would first have to embrace an even deeper darkness.