She lowered her blade. I opened my mouth to respond.
BWOOM
A horn sounded from the inner gate.
It sounded once, deep and absolute.
Not alarm. Summons.
Alex's eyes shifted to me immediately. "Praetor."
The word struck differently than my name. Her smile flattened, not cold, not distant, but formal. There it was. I was no longer her brother. I was the title.
I straightened without haste, brushing dust from my sleeve as though I had simply finished stretching. A man summoned should never look as though he has been summoned.
A messenger hurried through the archway, boots skidding slightly against the stone. Young. Broad-shouldered. Nervous. John, if I remembered correctly. He bowed too quickly, breath still uneven.
"Praetor. The Church is here. They are requesting your presence. They do not seem pleased."
I allowed myself a small smile. "They never are."
The effect was immediate. The yard eased by a degree. Guards shifted to steadier footing. Even John's shoulders dropped a fraction.
Confidence flows downward.
I turned to Alex. "Tragic, truly. I have worked so tirelessly for their approval."
"They will never be happy."
"No. But they will be correct."
John cleared his throat again. "There is also a message for you, Lady Alexandria. The Synod representative requested your presence as well. Specifically."
That was not routine.
"They requested us both?"
"Yes, Praetor."
Not the regional cleric, then. Someone senior enough to demand attendance. Someone confident enough to make that demand public.
I rolled my shoulders once, easing the lingering ache from her earlier impact. "Very well."
I met Alex's eyes again. This time she did not smile. Neither did I.
"Let us not keep them waiting."
We walked the corridor together, and it was only then that I began to notice what I had missed while sparring. The guards were tense, their stance set wider for combat rather than patrol. Servants moved carefully, trays rattling in unsteady hands. It was in their eyes most of all. Quick. Searching. Uneasy, like mice trapped in a bowl.
Fear spreads faster than fire in stone halls.
And then my sister. She will never be good at this. Her face betrays her. Every thought rises to the surface and she wears it proudly, as if honesty places her above the game.
I think it places her beneath it.
Through the window, stable boys struggled to quiet restless horses. Messengers were running across the lower courtyard.
It looked like we were preparing for war.
They aren't. I am.
And so I relaxed my shoulders.
slowed my stride.
Smiled.
Alex calls me pretty when I do. She is not wrong. And while beauty does not win battles, in these corridors it is sharper than any sword.
Confidence flows downward, I remind myself.
The guards look to me for command. The servants look to me for guidance. And Alex, whether she admits it or not, looks to me for direction.
Naturally, I cannot disappoint them.
So I do what is required. I let my gaze drift, searching not for the loudest fear but the most useful, someone young, someone new, someone whose name I know, someone who would never expect to be chosen.
There.
She stands near the eastern alcove, Beatrice was her name. Dusting a vase older than I am, her hands trembling just enough to betray her. She has been in the keep less than a year. Still careful. Still eager to be invisible.
Her eyes lift when she feels my attention settle on her. Nervous. Perfect.
I change direction without breaking stride, toward her as if that were my original destination Alex sees through that.
Bee realizes only when my shadow falls across the vase she is polishing. Her hands freeze. The cloth slips. The porcelain wobbles.
I steady it before it can fall.
"You are going to break history," I murmur, adjusting it back onto its pedestal. "And then I will have to pretend I did not see it."
A small laugh escapes her before she can stop it. The tremor in her hands eases.
"Tell me," I continue, lowering my voice, "do they look frightening?"
"Yes, my lord. They arrived with twenty men."
"Twenty robes. Men come in many costumes."
A faint, uncertain smile tugs at her mouth.
Good.
Fear is loud. I am louder.
"They are guests. Guests who will speak. Guests who will leave. That is all."
Her shoulders lower. Not fully. Enough.
I step back, smoothing my sleeve. "Finish your work. If the Church sees dust in my halls, they will think poorly of me."
This time she laughs, small but real.
When I turn away, the corridor feels different. Guards ease their stance. A maid straightens her back. No one speaks of it. They do not need to.
Confidence flows downward.
And now, with the keep steadier behind me, I walk toward the Church.
The doors to the council chamber were already open. No herald announced me. No steward called the room to order. They had not waited to be received. They had arranged themselves.
Intentional.
I stepped inside without breaking stride. The first thing I registered was the seating. The High Priest occupied the central chair opposite my father's. The one reserved for the heir. For me.
Intentional.
Silver-threaded robes draped across his narrow frame. At first glance he seemed small, almost delicate, like a tall child dressed in ceremony. The upper half of his face was masked, polished metal concealing his eyes. Below it, cracked lips and deep lines carved into pale skin told a different story. He was an unsettling fusion of youth and decay, as though age had forgotten to choose a direction.
Two ecclesiastical scholars flanked him. They appeared ordinary. At least at first glance. One wrote without pause, quill moving as though even silence deserved documentation. He did not look up when I entered. The other watched me openly, not the room, not Alex. Me. Measuring posture. Breath. Reaction.
Intentional.
Behind them stood four armored attendants in full plate, seamless and severe. No heraldry of noble houses. Only the sigil of the Church. They did not shift. They did not blink. I knew what they were. Not a knight. Not a priest. Something in between a Paladin. Failed heirs. Disgraced scions. Criminals offered absolution through obedience. Most who undergo the rite die. Whatever they were before is carved out and replaced with devotion.
They had not come alone.
Intentional.