Amber heard the bells first.
Not the usual chime of vespers, nor the slow toll of mourning, but something wrong — hollow, sharp, as if struck against bone. The sound ran through the convent halls like a blade through silk. Every nun paused mid-step. Every prayer faltered.
From her narrow window, Amber saw crimson banners rising over the basilica spires — blood-red cloth bearing the insignia of the Inquisition.
Her stomach dropped.
"The bishop…" she whispered. "He must have done it."
The air outside was trembling — not with wind, but with the hum of armored boots against the stone road. She hurried to the cloister walk, her sandals slapping against the marble.
Below, in the courtyard, black-armored soldiers drove halberds into the earth, the ground vibrating with each strike. Their armor gleamed like oil under the gray light. And behind them rolled a carriage of dark gold, its wheels carved with thorns that dripped faint trails of incense-smoke.
