The bells of Vireloch rang no more.
Not because the city had fallen—but because Zareena had ordered them silenced.
The great iron tongues, once used to summon prayer or signal danger, now stood still as stone. The silence sent a message: faith would no longer be dictated by fear, nor truth by hollow sound.
In the heart of the city's chapel district...
A gathering of cloaked figures whispered in the shadows. The once-venerated Priest-Inquisitor Vellian, representative of the Church's Central Council, stood beside broken pews and weeping icons.
"The girl has disrupted our roots," one priest murmured.
"She closed our tithe offices. Disbanded the Order of Silent Vigil. Burned records."
"She allowed street healers to outnumber ordained Brothers," said another.
"She turned the people from us."
Vellian's jaw twitched. He looked toward the great bell tower, where cracks now laced the stones like veins.
"No," he said coldly. "She didn't turn them. We lost them."
Zareena's reforms had revealed decades of hoarded grain, hidden taxes, and false blessings sold to the poor. The people did not riot. They simply walked away.
The silence of the bells echoed louder than any sermon.
Elsewhere, in the estate court...
Rashid Alimov stood near a tall marble column, watching as another letter from the northern capital was burned by one of Zareena's aides. She hadn't answered the Church's last three summons. Nor the Crown's call for a "spiritual audit."
"They're afraid," he said softly.
The man beside him, Nasir, nodded.
"Afraid of silence. Of losing control."
Rashid's eyes drifted toward the northern window, toward the wind-battered city that had begun to bloom under her leadership.
"They built their empires on obedience. But she's not asking the people to kneel. She's asking them to stand."
At the ruined bell tower...
Zareena stood alone, hand resting on the rusted bell cord.
The wind stirred her cloak as snow drifted down like ash. She stared at the tower—not in sorrow, but with purpose.
"Let the bells stay silent," she whispered.
"Until they ring for justice. Not control."
Behind her, a quiet voice spoke. It was the new magical advisor—the girl from the refugee camps, now one of her closest confidants.
"Another letter came from the Church."
"This one wrapped in gold thread."
Zareena didn't turn.
"Burn it."
"They say they'll come themselves next time."
Zareena smiled faintly.
"Then let them walk into silence."
In the capital's cathedral vaults…
A secret meeting of Church Elders commenced in firelight. Wax dripped from candelabras onto stone. In the center, a scroll lay open: Zareena's name underlined in red.
"She dismantles doctrine and dares call it mercy," one snarled.
"She has the loyalty of the people, and worse—mages and mercenaries."
"Then it's time," another said, eyes glinting.
"We don't send letters."
The high elder leaned forward.
"We send a shadow."
And somewhere in the mountains, a rider in black robes began the descent to Vireloch.
He carried no banner. Only a brand burned into his palm—a forgotten mark of the Church's Silent Redeemers.
Their bells made no sound.