The Temple's council chamber sat like the belly of a sleeping beast beneath the city: vaulted stone, cold marble, and the slow, patient drip of water from an unseen seam. Torches guttered in sconces, throwing long faces into shadow and brightening robes of white and gold that smelled faintly of incense and old oil. On the curved dais, the inner circle of the Temple argued in voices pitched low as if the very air could carry words down to the masses and set fire to them.
At the head of the semicircle sat High Priest Maelor — old enough that his fingers trembled when he tapped the table, but young enough in mind to be dangerous. His robe was embroidered with a single ouroboros the size of a man's palm; he presided with the patient cruelty of someone who believed that destiny bent to ordered hands.
Opposite him, a younger man in darker trim watched everyone with the flat smile of a blade waiting to be drawn. Cardinal Sereth — unremarked in his youth but ascendant now — let his tongue sharpen words instead of politeness. He had eyes like wet pewter and the sort of confidence that made men either follow or flee.
Between them, Priestess Liora sat veiled, a small glint of gold at her wrist. Her hands were folded, and when she spoke, her voice came like quicksilver — polite to the point of threat.
"The Archlight affair grows into question," Maelor said, voice honeyed and slow. "A child with no past lives, taken into the protection of a stubborn lord. Our envoys walk away with their fingers singed and their robes barely clean. This cannot continue."
Sereth tapped his fingers against the polished wood. "They flaunt him," he said. "Stage him as a hero. It will become a legend. Legends breed sympathy, and sympathy erodes obedience." His smile glinted. "Symbols are contagious. We snuff the symbol, the contagion dies."
Liora's veil tilted. "Crude solutions cost us more than they save. The court watches. The nobles chatter. If we move too openly, the Archlights may rally, and the king's courtiers are as fond of scandal as of vengeance." Her voice softened, venom wrapped in velvet. "We need subtlety. The people must be guided away from pity—let us redirect their gaze, rewrite the tale."
Sereth's laugh had no warmth. "Redirect? We could spend seasons redirecting stories and still see the boy lauded at festivals. No. The boy's usefulness to Varenthal will wither once his roots are cut. The parents are in our hands. They served a purpose; now, they do not. Remove them—quietly—and the rest follows."
A murmur circled the chamber like a cold wind. One of the older magistrates, a man with eyes like ceramic, shifted uneasily. "To kill prisoners we hold is not without consequence. The House of Archlight may not be the meekest of our concerns, but the public—"
"The public thinks in chapters," Sereth interrupted, leaning forward so the torchlight carved his profile into a sharper thing. "They will remember the rescue and the hero's feat. They will not remember a pair of obscure laborers locked away in the Temple's dungeons. We do not need spectacle; we need finality. Dispose, erase, and let the lesson stand: defiance has a cost."
Priestess Liora folded her hands a moment longer, then tapped the table once, a sound like a knell. "We can accomplish both. Let rumor bloom that the parents were found guilty in a private inquiry—their judgment sealed for reasons of sacred security. Let the execution be framed as 'mercy;' a cleansing for their corrupt blood. We make their end seem pious; the people do not ask questions when the gods are invoked."
A younger acolyte piped up, nervous and small. "But what of the envoy? He failed to place our chosen as a suitor. If the Archlight lord refuses open offers, might he not suspect private ends? He is a proud man."
Sereth's smile became a blade. "Pride cuts both ways. Varenthal is grand in show, small in subtlety. He will rage loudly, then count his losses. Better the world believes his rage is empty than that he is seen as subject to the Temple. Let him rage. The important thing is that the line is severed."
High Priest Maelor lifted an ancient hand and let it fall. "We will not be reckless," he said. "Our power depends not only on strength but on the quiet effectiveness of our work. Sereth, you will oversee the removal. Keep it contained. No priests of public rank will be tied to the act. The Mirror and the rites of Final Absolution will be used to give the deed sanctity. Liora—plant the narrative. Let the people see mercy; let the houses believe the cause just."
Sereth bowed, eyes gleaming. "It will be done."
Maelor tapped the table again; the sound lingered. "And one more thing. Send another envoy to the Archlight houses—this one younger, more pliant. If we cannot place a hand within through marriage, we will place it through charm. The hearts of men are easier to open than the gates of a fortress."
Liora smiled, a small shark of a smile. "We will spin the suitor as a blessing. A youth devoted to the Cycle—pure and faithful. He will be their shadow until he is their ground."
Sereth's fingers drummed again. "And if Archlight accepts, we will have a watching eye at their hearth. If they do not, then the boy's roots are already cut." He looked down, cold. "Either way, Lord Varenthal will learn his place."
A heavy silence fell. The council's agreement hummed like a coiled wire waiting for a spark.
Below, in the damp cell block B, Raleth's ears had been keening like a hound's. He had been bound, bruised, and forced into the smallness of iron and darkness, but his mind was not dulled. The Council's words were a drumbeat he could no longer ignore.
His wife Mara sat on the cold stone by his side, thin hands folded around the scraps of cloth that had once been their few comforts. Their children's names were a bitter taste on her lips.
Raleth pressed his forehead to the cold wall and breathed out. He could hear them clearly. Final Absolution. Disposal. Mercy.
They meant to murder them in the name of godliness.
He closed his eyes, feeling the iron bite into his wrists. He felt the shape of the plan as if it were a blade at his throat. All the meekness drained from him, leaving a hunger he had never known. If they would erase their blood, he would carve a way out with his own hands.
Inside the dim cell he did not speak aloud—there was no need. The council's voices had given him his course: buy Mara's escape with his life, and in doing so, let their sons live to take the story forward. He breathed the plan into the dark and let it set like iron in his chest.
Outside, the priests rose, draped in robes and sanctimony, and departed like crows at dusk, each convinced the world would bend to their will.
The dungeon beneath the Temple was not a place for prayers. Its walls sweated damp, its torches burned low and starved, and the air smelled of mildew and iron. Chains rattled faintly whenever someone shifted, the sound echoing like whispers through the stone.
Raleth sat with his back against the wall, wrists bound in thick cuffs. Every word he'd overheard in the council chamber still rang in his skull like hammer-blows. Dispose. Absolution. Mercy. He could hear Sereth's voice most clearly — smug, certain, final. His blood boiled at the memory.
Mara sat beside him, her hands clasped, murmuring her children's names as if they were a litany against despair. "Shiro. Elira. Mirielle." Her voice cracked. "If they kill us here, the children—"
"They won't kill us," Raleth cut in, his voice hard as stone. His eyes burned in the dim light. "At least not both of us."
Mara looked at him, startled. He leaned close, lowering his voice until it was almost a growl.
"I heard them, Mara. They mean to erase us. But we are not gone yet. If one of us runs—one can make it out. You can make it out. Find the children. Find Archlight. Shiro needs you."
Her eyes widened, wet with fear. "Raleth, no. If you stay—"
"I've already stayed too long," he snapped, though his voice softened after. "Listen to me. The Temple thinks we're dirt. Tools. If they want to erase us, then let them try. I'll give them something to remember."
As if the gods themselves conspired to press his point, a noise echoed down the corridor — the heavy tread of boots. Guards. Two of them, voices low but steady, approaching the cell with casual arrogance.
Raleth's mind raced. He had no weapon. No magic. But he had his body, his rage, and one last chance.
The keys jingled. The lock scraped. The cell door opened, and torchlight spilled across the floor.
"Well," one guard muttered, voice dripping with disdain. "Looks like it's mercy day for the rats."
The other chuckled, stepping inside with shackles ready. "Get up, scum. Time to meet the gods."
Raleth surged forward like a wolf off its chain.
His shoulder slammed into the first guard, knocking him against the bars with a cry of pain. Before the second could react, Raleth swung his bound wrists like a hammer, the iron cuffs smashing into the man's temple. The guard crumpled, the shackles falling from his hands.
"Raleth!" Mara gasped, scrambling to her feet.
"Go!" he barked, snatching the keys from the stunned guard's belt. He fumbled with the locks at her wrists, finally freeing her. "Take the corridor north. There's a servant's stair. You'll find your way to the city."
"And you?" Her voice shook as she gripped his arm.
"I'll hold them." His eyes blazed. "Buy you time."
She shook her head violently. "No! Not like this! We can both—"
A shout rang down the hall — more guards, alerted by the noise.
Raleth shoved Mara toward the open door. "Go! For Shiro!"
She staggered, caught herself, then turned and ran, her bare feet slapping against stone.
Raleth spun, grabbing the fallen guard's baton. The first man had regained his footing, rage in his eyes, but Raleth met him head-on, slamming the weapon into his gut.
Boots thundered closer. Shadows filled the corridor.
Raleth planted his feet in the doorway, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles. He could hear Mara's footsteps fading into the distance, the sound a lifeline against the roar of his own pulse.
"For Shiro," he whispered, and when the next wave of guards rounded the corner, he bared his teeth like a beast.
Mara ran through the twisting corridors beneath the Temple, heart pounding like a war drum. Every echo of her bare feet seemed deafening, as if the walls themselves were conspiring to reveal her. She clutched the keys Raleth had pressed into her hands, her fingers slick with sweat, and glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting the guards to be there already.
They were gone. At least, for now.
The servant's stair Raleth had mentioned was narrow, carved from stone worn smooth by countless feet over centuries. She descended two steps at a time, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. The city beyond the Temple gates glimmered faintly, lanterns swaying in the morning wind. Somewhere in the distance, the market would soon awaken; she hoped none of the city guards had been alerted.
Her thoughts were on the children. Shiro, Elira, Mirielle. She had to reach them, had to make sure they were safe.
At the base of the stairs, Mara slipped into a shadowed alley. The sun hadn't fully climbed, leaving long, twisted shapes between the buildings. She slowed, listening. Silence. She adjusted her cloak and began to move through the streets, memorizing the twists and turns, every corner and doorway.
Hours felt like minutes. Every step carried both hope and fear, the memory of Raleth's sacrifice heavy in her chest. She had no time to mourn, no time to look back.
Finally, the familiar outline of the Archlight estate emerged between the city walls, its gates glinting gold in the morning light. Mara's pace quickened, legs burning, lungs screaming. Guards patrolled the perimeter, and for a terrifying moment, she feared they would not recognize her in the disheveled cloak and the mud on her boots.
Then, the gates swung open. Selene appeared, her expression a mixture of shock and relief, eyes scanning Mara from head to toe.
"Mara!" Selene ran forward, dropping to her knees beside her. "Shiro! The children—where are they? Are they safe?"
Mara dropped to her knees as well, the tension finally breaking. "They… they're hidden. Safe for now. But your father's house is being watched. The Temple—" She paused, shaking her head. "Raleth stayed behind to buy us time. He… he may not make it."
Selene's hands trembled as she reached for Mara, holding her tightly. "No… we'll worry about that later. Right now, you're here."
Footsteps echoed behind them. Mara tensed but relaxed as she recognized the sound of Shiro's cautious approach. His eyes were wide, scanning the estate as if expecting an ambush. When they settled on Mara, relief swept across his face, mixing with exhaustion.
"Mom!" he exclaimed, sprinting to her side, dropping to his knees. "You made it!"
She smiled weakly, letting him hug her tightly. "We all made it," she whispered, voice quivering. "Thanks to your father, and you. You all have to be careful."
Selene stepped forward, taking Shiro's hand gently. "He saved us. All of us. That's what matters." Mara expressed, exhausted from her escape.
Shiro, still catching his breath, allowed himself a small, tired smile. For the first time since the chaos began, the weight on his shoulders felt a little lighter. Mara and Selene's presence anchored him, gave him hope that maybe—just maybe—they could endure the storm to come.
He noticed Selene's fingers tightening around his hand, her eyes searching his for reassurance. "You're going to be alright," she murmured softly, her voice carrying both authority and care.
Shiro nodded, drawing strength from the warmth of their hands and the shared relief. "We'll get through this," he said, and this time, he believed it.
Above them, the estate's gates glimmered in the sun, a fortress of safety for now. The shadows of the Temple still loomed in the distance, but for a brief, precious moment, the family—fragments reunited—breathed.
And somewhere in the depths of his mind, a whisper returned. Soft, teasing, sharp.
"The game has only just begun."