The bells did not stop ringing until morning.
By then, the village square had been scrubbed clean—not of ash, but of certainty. The pyre still stood, unburned, its wood damp and warped, ropes cut and discarded like shed skin. No one spoke of the girl who had run. Her name vanished first, swallowed by relief.
But fear lingered.
Fear always did.
In the cathedral city of Halveth, fear was recorded.
Brother-Adjudicator Malrec stood beneath a vaulted ceiling painted with saints who had never bled. Light filtered through stained glass, casting fractured colors across the stone floor—red, gold, blue—each shard resting briefly on his boots before sliding away.
He listened.
The kneeling messenger spoke quickly, breathless, voice cracking under the weight of having seen something that prayer had failed to stop.
"—the fire would not take," the man said. "The blade cut flame itself, Your Grace. And the woman—her eyes—"
"Enough," Malrec said softly.
The word carried.
Silence fell like a held breath.
Malrec was old, though his body did not advertise it. His hair was iron-gray, tonsured neatly, his robes unadorned save for a thin strip of crimson sewn along the collar. He wore no jewelry. He did not need symbols to be recognized.
He walked slowly down the steps of the dais, each footfall measured, echoing just enough to remind the messenger where he stood.
"You saw no witch," Malrec said. "You saw heresy."
The messenger swallowed. "Yes, Your Grace."
Malrec knelt.
The act alone unsettled the room.
He placed his palm flat against the cold stone floor, eyes lowering, lips moving in silent prayer—not to ask, but to confirm. When he rose, there was resolve where doubt might have lived.
"Prepare the Liturgists," he said. "And summon the Order."
A ripple of unease passed through the lesser clergy.
"The… Order?" one dared ask.
Malrec's eyes lifted.
"Yes," he said. "The Men Who Pray With Knives."
They rode before noon.
Seven figures clad in muted steel and blackened leather, cloaks marked not with sigils but scripture—verses sewn into the fabric so closely they resembled scars. Their horses were quiet, disciplined, bred for war and pilgrimage alike.
At their head rode Sir Edrin Vael.
His helm was open, revealing a face too calm for the work he did. Brown hair tied back, eyes steady, mouth set in a line that rarely shifted. His sword was plain. His shield unmarked.
The only thing that distinguished him was the rosary wrapped around his wrist—not beads, but links of sharpened iron.
"They spared the girl," one of the riders said. "That's unusual."
"They wanted to be seen," Edrin replied. "Or they wanted us to follow."
"And which worries you more?"
Edrin's gaze lifted to the treeline ahead. "That they didn't bother hiding."
Caelum stood at the edge of a ravine, watching fog curl through the lowlands below.
Dawn had come and gone without ceremony. The forest was quiet in the way that came after disruption—not peaceful, but alert. Birds kept their distance. Insects waited.
Seraphaine emerged from the trees behind him, her form settling back into human shape with a soft exhale. Blood-dark feathers faded into pale skin. She rolled her shoulders once, grounding herself.
"They're organized," she said. "Not villagers."
Caelum nodded. "Church."
She stepped beside him, close enough for their Veinscript to stir faintly, answering proximity. For a moment, they stood without speaking.
Then—the Crimson Regard.
No words passed between them, but understanding did. Her eyes searched his, not for reassurance, but alignment.
"They'll bring specialists," she said.
"Yes."
"They'll try to separate us."
"Yes."
Her mouth curved slightly. "Good luck."
A sound drifted up from the valley.
Hooves.
Seven of them.
Caelum's hand settled on Threnody's hilt. He did not draw it yet.
"They're not afraid," Seraphaine observed.
"No," he agreed. "They've been taught what to fear."
The riders emerged from the fog like figures carved from intention. They stopped at the ravine's edge, forming a loose line. No prayers were spoken. No challenges issued.
Edrin dismounted first.
He removed his helm and set it aside, then took a single step forward.
"We are not here to burn," he said calmly. "We are here to bind."
Seraphaine laughed softly. "That's new."
Edrin's gaze flicked to her, lingered for half a heartbeat too long. "You should cover your eyes," he said. "Men do foolish things when they feel seen."
She smiled. "I was about to say the same to you."
Caelum stepped forward.
The air changed.
Not dramatically. Not visibly.
It simply… tightened.
"You followed us," Caelum said. "That was your mistake."
Edrin shook his head once. "No. Thinking we came alone would be yours."
At his signal, the Liturgists moved.
They did not charge.
They spread.
Steel rang as blades were drawn—not glowing, not enchanted, but prepared. Scripture etched along the flat of each weapon caught the light.
Blood-resistant steel.
Seraphaine's smile faded.
"They've learned," she murmured.
"Yes," Caelum said. "A little."
Edrin raised his sword—not at them, but skyward.
"By oath and iron," he intoned, "we claim what bleeds blasphemy."
The world answered.
Not with fire.
With stillness.
Caelum drew blood.
Threnody awakened, red veins crawling through the blade as pain sharpened his focus. Seraphaine's twin weapons followed suit, humming low and eager.
The first Liturgist moved.
Caelum stepped aside, precise, controlled. His blade rose and fell once.
The man's sword split—not shattered, not dulled. Cleanly divided.
Shock crossed the Liturgist's face a heartbeat before Seraphaine ended him from behind, her blade whispering through the gap in his armor.
Blood struck the ground.
And did not move.
Edrin frowned.
"Interesting," he murmured.
He advanced.
Not afraid.
Not eager.
Certain.
Caelum met him halfway.
Steel rang.
Once.
Twice.
Their blades locked.
Edrin leaned close, voice low. "You're not a demon."
"No," Caelum agreed.
"You're worse."
Caelum's eyes darkened, then bloomed red.
"Careful," he said softly. "You're starting to sound like a believer."
The ground shook as blood answered authority.
And the hunt began.