The Church did not build its empire on sermons alone — it built it on fear.
Lucien stood at the edge of a marble staircase, his eyes tracing the ornate statues of saints lining the Grand Archive. Gold-leafed, towering, blindfolded. He found that part ironic — they preached justice, yet never saw the blood behind the veil.
He had slipped into the Archive disguised once again, this time as a scribe's assistant. The robes were stifling, the ink bottle heavy on his belt. He moved like he belonged, posture casual, head slightly bowed. No one questioned him. That was the trick: be invisible by acting visible.
He entered the restricted section through a door left ajar, courtesy of a bribe paid to a sleep-deprived page boy two nights ago. The candlelight flickered across shelves of ancient records. Some scrolls hadn't been touched in decades. Others reeked of rot and mold.
Lucien wasn't here for theology. He was looking for names — old donors, secret projects, unexplained fund transfers. And maybe, just maybe, the trail that would lead him to the puppet masters behind Father Mierel.
---
Back in the lower district, Rivak waited in their hideout, sharpening a curved blade.
"Heard there's unrest in Southridge," she said as he entered, not looking up. "Food shortage. Some riots."
Lucien slipped off the disguise and stretched his neck. "The Church will crack down, make examples."
"Thought you'd enjoy that."
"I will. Just not yet."
Rivak raised a brow, finally meeting his eyes. "You're delaying again."
Lucien sat down, pulling out the scrolls he'd taken. "No. I'm stacking the kindling."
---
Later that evening, Lucien watched a sermon in the main cathedral, hidden among the crowd. High Inquisitor Belros was preaching — a tall, silver-haired man with a voice that could lull an army. He spoke of purity and righteousness, of sin and judgment.
Lucien noted how the man never once said "mercy."
The poor in the back rows clutched their hands and nodded like puppets. The wealthy near the front smiled and whispered behind lace fans. Lucien, in the middle, simply watched. Every time Belros raised his voice, Lucien imagined a noose tightening around the audience's necks. Shimmering and gold, but a noose all the same.
> "When people worship fear, they forget how to resist," Lucien whispered to himself.
---
After the sermon, he walked out with the crowd, letting himself be swept by the tide of believers. But Seraphine was waiting again, leaning against a pillar, arms crossed.
"You're either deeply faithful," she said, "or you have the worst luck of always showing up where I am."
Lucien offered her a half-smile. "Perhaps it's divine intervention."
She snorted. "Divine? You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I haven't," he replied honestly. "Too much praying."
"Right."
They walked together again — not quite allies, not quite strangers. She didn't ask where he was going, and he didn't offer. But she said one thing before they parted:
"Be careful. The Church isn't kind to secrets."
Lucien stopped. "Neither am I."
---
That night, beneath the flicker of their single lantern, Lucien spread out the stolen documents and began connecting dots. Mierel's reassignment order was forged — he'd known that. But the real document he found tonight was more damning:
> A list of "cleansing projects" — entire districts silenced, families removed, witnesses burned in the name of order.
Lucien traced one name with his finger. A child's name. Ten years old.
He didn't smile.
Instead, he stared.
And then he began to write.
---
End of chapter 5