The silence after battle was never clean.
The square had been erased of its crimson dome, its cultists fled or dead, yet Kael could feel the residue clinging to the stones. Runes left scars that bled faintly even after the light was gone, like the echo of a scream still vibrating in the air.
Kael knelt, pressing his palm against the cracked cobblestone. His shadows seeped into the fissures, drinking in traces of power. The runes had been carefully crafted, not the work of common acolytes. That silver-haired woman had woven them herself.
He closed his eyes briefly, recalling her movements: precise, deliberate, her blade humming with the resonance of the dome. Not a pawn. Not expendable.
A commander… perhaps even higher.
Kael straightened. His mind was a blade turning over the same conclusion: to understand the Cult, he needed to understand her.
The silver-haired woman had left with her surviving followers, but no one disappeared without leaving a trail.
"Arise."
The whisper summoned four shadows, smaller than knights but lean, swift, eyes glowing faintly. Spies. They bowed wordlessly.
"Follow her. Learn her name, her allies, her purpose. Return unseen."
They sank into the cobblestones and vanished, their forms weaving into the fabric of the city.
Kael turned toward the rooftops, where moments earlier he had felt another presence watching. Nothing remained now but the faintest disturbance in the air. He could not yet place it. Another shadow, perhaps. One unlike the Cult.
For now, it did not matter. He had larger prey.
The cathedral was empty, but Kael's shadows filled it, rows of silent figures kneeling as he stood before the fractured altar. The Eye of Dusk pulsed faintly at his chest, the beat almost in time with his heart.
"The Cult tests me," Kael said softly, his voice echoing in the vast ruin. "They believe me a pretender. But their leader showed herself tonight."
The shadows shifted, restless.
"She wields knowledge. Knowledge I need. Every mask she wears must be stripped."
He paced slowly before his army, violet eyes gleaming. "We will not crush them in one blow. That would invite chaos, draw eyes I do not yet wish upon me. Instead, we will peel their layers, thread by thread, until the whole fabric unravels."
His knights bowed their heads in unison. Their whispers bled together: By your will, Sovereign.
Kael raised his hand, and silence fell.
"Tonight we prepare. Tomorrow we hunt."
It was past midnight when his spies returned. Kael sat alone in the ruins, the faint glow of moonlight spilling through broken glass. The four figures emerged from his shadow, bowing low before speaking as one.
"We followed the woman. She walked with five vessels. They entered the noble quarter."
Kael's eyes narrowed.
"She entered a manor belonging to Viscount Daren Vellor."
The name was not new. He had already linked Vellor to shipments for the Cult. But the silver-haired woman visiting his estate confirmed it: the noble was not just a pawn but a host for their gatherings.
The spies continued.
"She is known among them as Selene Varadis. Title: Hand of the Veil."
Kael rolled the name across his tongue. "Selene." A name like moonlight, fitting for someone who wielded darkness with such elegance.
The title, though—Hand of the Veil. Not head, not voice. A hand acted on orders. Which meant there were higher authorities above her.
Kael dismissed the spies, shadows reclaiming them. He leaned back against the altar, fingers brushing the orb beneath his cloak.
The game was widening.
The next day, Kael shed his hood. He wrapped himself in the attire of a common scribe, ink-stained fingers, humble posture. His shadows concealed his aura. To the eyes of Midgar's nobility, he was invisible, another servant amidst hundreds.
Through this guise, he walked among the noble quarter. Grand estates rose like fortresses of wealth, their banners embroidered with family crests. Servants hurried between gates carrying baskets, wine, scrolls.
Kael's gaze fixed upon the Vellor estate. Guards patrolled with rigid discipline. Too disciplined for a mere viscount.
He slipped closer, mingling with a group of merchants entering with a delivery. The gates opened. For a heartbeat, Kael passed through.
Inside, the manor radiated indulgence. Marble floors, chandeliers dripping with crystal, corridors lined with portraits of Vellor ancestors staring down in smug arrogance. But beneath the veneer, Kael felt it—the same humming resonance as the crimson dome. Runes, hidden in the walls, cloaking the estate from outside eyes.
Selene Varadis was inside.
Kael's lips curved faintly. Then let us see what truths you keep, Hand of the Veil.
That night, as the estate's halls filled with the muffled sounds of a secret gathering, Kael crouched high within the rafters of the main chamber.
Below, nobles in jeweled cloaks whispered nervously. Cult emissaries in crimson robes lingered by the walls. At the head of the long table sat Viscount Daren Vellor, his smile too wide, his hands trembling slightly as he poured wine.
And there—entering without hurry, clad in silver-threaded black—was Selene Varadis. Her hair shone like pale fire in the torchlight, her eyes glimmering with measured steel.
She moved with absolute authority. Nobles lowered their heads. The robed emissaries parted. She sat at the table's end, her presence eclipsing the viscount's entirely.
Kael watched from the shadows above, violet eyes unblinking.
For the first time since awakening, he felt the thrill of true prey before him—not a pawn, not a vessel, but a mind as sharp as his own.
Selene raised a cup of wine. Her voice carried clearly through the hall.
"The Monarch has awakened."
Gasps rippled.
She set the cup down.
"And the Veil will either claim him… or shatter beneath him."
Kael's smile was razor-thin.
The hunt had truly begun.