The Church called it observation.
The Covenant called it a loaded question.
Isaiah stood at the center of the Basilica of Celestial Veins, a structure suspended in orbit like a wound stitched with gold. Light flowed through its veins, literal channels of solar energy and ancient biotech, pulsing in rhythm with prayer.
This was not a battlefield.
That was the point.
"Remember," the Smiling Gentleman said quietly as they walked, hands clasped behind his back, humming an off-key tune, "Guardian Knights don't test strength. They test alignment."
Seraphiel led them forward, wings of sculpted light folding neatly behind their back. Other clergy watched from elevated balconies - priests, scribes, junior Oracles whose eyes glowed faintly with restrained DOMA.
Isaiah felt it.
The weight.
Not oppressive.
Evaluative.
Like the room itself was asking whether he belonged in the equation.
They stopped before a circular dais etched with the symbols of the Four Gods.
"Isaiah Saul," Seraphiel said, voice echoing cleanly. "You will demonstrate your DOMA under doctrinal parameters."
Isaiah's throat tightened.
"What parameters?"
"No harm," Seraphiel replied. "No interference with divine judgment."
The Smiling Gentleman snorted softly.
"That's cute," he muttered. "Interference is literally the product feature."
Isaiah stepped onto the dais.
The floor reacted instantly - sigils igniting, mapping his emotional state, projecting probability arcs only Oracles could read.
Seraphiel raised a hand.
From the shadows, a man was brought forward.
Bound.
Bruised.
Alive.
"This man," Seraphiel said, "is accused of inciting a House rebellion that resulted in civilian deaths."
Isaiah's pulse spiked.
The man lifted his head.
He was young. Terrified. Broken in a way Isaiah recognized.
"Your DOMA delays consequence," Seraphiel continued. "Apply it. Allow the truth to surface without obstruction."
Isaiah understood.
They weren't asking him to save the man.
They were asking him to prove that mercy didn't distort justice.
Isaiah closed his eyes.
Interstice stirred - cautious, heavy.
He focused not on stopping the outcome, but on creating space.
Between accusation and punishment.
Between fear and confession.
The air shifted.
The man gasped, sobbing as words spilled out. Not denial. Not defense.
Truth.
He hadn't orchestrated the rebellion. He'd been coerced. Threatened. Used.
The sigils flared.
Oracles murmured.
Isaiah exhaled.
Then
Pain.
A sharp, searing backlash tore through his chest. He staggered, knees buckling.
Blood hit the dais.
Interstice recoiled.
Seraphiel's voice cut through the noise.
"Enough."
The man was taken away.
Isaiah collapsed to one knee, gasping.
The Smiling Gentleman was at his side instantly, one hand on Isaiah's back.
"Hey," he said softly, grin gone. "Easy. Easy."
Seraphiel turned to the gathered clergy.
"Observation complete," the Knight declared. "The DOMA introduces unacceptable variance. Recommendation: containment."
Containment.
Isaiah laughed weakly.
"Translation?" he rasped.
The Smiling Gentleman answered instead.
"They want you leashed."
That's when the lights dimmed.
Not ritually.
Wrongly.
A ripple passed through the Basilica - subtle, surgical.
Seraphiel stiffened.
"Guardian protocols..."
Too late.
A figure dropped from above, landing silently behind Isaiah.
House Lion armor. Old design. Ceremonial.
An assassin, cloaked in sanctified writ.
The blade moved fast.
Isaiah didn't think.
Interstice flared instinctively.
The moment stretched - not stopped, not frozen - but thinned.
The blade hesitated a fraction too long.
Enough.
The Smiling Gentleman stepped forward.
He didn't strike.
He laughed.
A warm, genuine laugh - full-bodied, unguarded.
The sound rippled outward.
Joy - pure, resonant, contagious.
The assassin faltered, eyes widening as something inside them cracked - grief surfaced, then memory, then unbearable relief.
They dropped the blade and collapsed, sobbing.
The room was silent.
Seraphiel turned slowly.
"What was that," the Knight asked, voice tight, "Commander?"
The Smiling Gentleman shrugged, smile gentle but tired.
"Stress relief," he said. "Highly underrated."
Isaiah stared at him.
That wasn't distraction.
That was override.
The Quiet King's voice echoed suddenly through the Basilica - calm, absolute.
"Enough."
He stood at the threshold, cane grounded, Nocturne bleeding softly into the space.
Silence answered.
The assassin was removed.
The clergy retreated.
Seraphiel faced the Quiet King.
"This changes nothing," the Knight said.
"It changes everything," the Quiet King replied. "You simply lack the metrics to see it."
As they departed, Isaiah felt it.
A presence brushing past reality.
Not hostile.
Not benevolent.
Administrative.
A memory flickered - then vanished.
Someone in the Basilica had never existed.
Later, aboard the Covenant skimmer, Isaiah lay back, chest bandaged, exhaustion deep in his bones.
"That pain," he said quietly. "That was the cost, wasn't it?"
Kaveh nodded.
"Interstice delays consequence," he said. "But the universe always collects."
Isaiah turned his head.
"And him?" he asked, nodding toward the Smiling Gentleman, who was humming again, utterly unfazed.
Kaveh's voice dropped.
"Joy," he said. "Unburdened joy. Weaponized hope."
Isaiah closed his eyes.
The world wasn't built for gentle men.
But somewhere between delay and laughter,
between silence and joy,
Verden's Reach had just revealed a flaw in its design.
And the Forgotten were already filing the report.
The Cost of DOMA
Every DOMA answers pain.
Some delay it.
Some amplify it.
Some-rarely-transcend it.
But none escape its price.