At last—blessedly—the Mass ended.

  Jericho rose from his knees with effort, stiff and aching, but upright all the same

  Merchants and citizens filtered out of the hall while priests moved to their designated exits, ready to assist with the collection rites.

  Solenna gestured for Jericho and Jore to follow her, leading them toward the rear of the Church where the faction heads were already disappearing into the shadows.

  “They’ll expect updates from us tonight, before they mingle with the public,” she muttered as Jericho opened a side door for her.

  Behind them, Jore chuckled.

  “Let me guess—you need more stone for your walls. Or more of our men to help you mine and harvest. As if our storehouses aren’t already full. As if our cities aren’t permanently tied to the Wellsprings.”

  He smirked. “Maybe try something new this cycle, eh?”

  “The father did not attend the Festival” Jericho noted.

  “ he went to the free cities”sneered Solenna, “ to preach to the heretics”

  As they turned down the side corridor, the last echoes of Mass fading behind them, a pair of rugged figures stepped from a shadowed alcove near the incense well. Dusty cloaks, worn boots, and sun-split skin marked them as plainsmen—not pilgrims. Poachers.

  Jericho’s eyes narrowed.

  One of them tilted his head toward Solenna. “A moment, Sister—”

  Solenna didn’t break stride. Her gaze snapped to the man like a whip.

  Whatever he’d planned to say died in his throat. Both men hesitated, then slinked back into the shadows.

  Jore snorted under his breath. “Well. That’s a wrinkle.”

  Solenna said nothing

  They entered a wide, dim chamber lit by the soft glow of a candlelit chandelier. At its center stood a large circular table, surrounded by towering bookcases that lined the walls like silent sentinels.

  A staircase curved upward to a second-floor balcony that overlooked the meeting space—a place once crowded during public debates. On such days, the gallery buzzed with murmurs and tension as citizens argued over city policy, trade rights, and factional claims.

  But today, the balcony stood empty.

  Only the heads of the three factions sat in the chamber below, silent and waiting

  The trio approached the table in practiced silence. Jericho stepped ahead of the other too and gave a nod as he began to speak.

  “My lords Vicar…” Jericho began, but a sudden cough cut him off.

  Between Infernus Vicar Maedran Tal of the Pyric Communion and Granite Vicar Dorn Halvek of the silent stones—the only head of the Scourged Hand to ever reject the title of Vicar—sat Red Mother Drazhira.

  She raised a single brow at Jericho, saying nothing.

  He faltered under her gaze.

  She was a giant of a woman, nearly a match for Jore in size. Her hair was cropped brutally short, and her face looked as if it had been broken and sewn back together by a butcher’s hand. Her left eye, a pale, sightless orb, stared ahead with unsettling stillness. The Butcher of Mekhaus, leading all the world’s armies in battle against the northmen of the mountains.

  Dorn Halvek chuckled, gesturing toward Jericho with a gloved hand.

  “Let’s get on with it then. We’ve all traveled a ways to be here today. What’s the word? I heard we had another attempt made at the heartscale recently?”

  Jericho nodded, regaining his composure as Solenna and Jore Bask took their seats around the long stone table.

  “Yes, my lord. An adventurer made the attempt this last cycle. He did not succeed. His companion was killed by the guarding shade walker during the descent.”

  Dorn snapped his fingers in mock indignation.

  “So close. They always get so close. Some reach the edge, some even go beyond—but none of them ever find it, do they?”

  “It is what adventurers do,” the Red Mother muttered, her voice heavy with disdain.

  “Waste their lives on myths and treasures. And the bards—gods-damned bards—keep the next generation just as stupid as the last, filling their heads with stories”

  She grabbed a goblet of wine and drained it in a single, heavy gulp.

  “I don’t care about heartscales or shade walkers. We need men in the north.”

  Vicar Maedran Tal shook his head with practiced sorrow.

  “What we could do with the savages—if only you would let us convert them. You kill where you should save.”

  The Red Mother slammed her mailed fist against the table, the sound cracking like a war drum.

  “The savages care nothing for the Great Flame. They call us thieves and deceivers. They refuse the Wellsprings, yet raid our cities and take what they please”

  “If only they could see their place in mighty Tharumm’s plan.”

  “Even then… some don’t take well to realizing they’re just kindling for the blaze.”

  The two locked eyes, their expressions hard and unyielding—faith meeting fire, each unwilling to bend.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Across the table, Jorel and Solenna exchanged glances—not of fear or awe, but of exasperation, the weariness of clergy long used to hearing the same old arguments repeat with every cycle.

  Jericho glanced toward Dorn Halvek, who nodded with an air of amusement—masking a smirk as if his fellow church leaders hadn’t just been bickering like children.

  “As our letters stated, the past cycle was a good one. Easily one of our better yields… however—”

  Dorn’s eyebrows rose, but it was Maedran Tal who spoke first.

  “However what, man? Out with it.”

  “The Count and Countess of Duskwatch recently submitted abnormally large requests—for stone, iron, and alchemical ingredients. They seemed intent on buying out everything they could. And they had the salt to pay for it.”

  The three heads of the Church turned to one another, puzzled. The Red Mother turned to Jorel, seated at her left.

  “What’s happening at Duskwatch? I haven’t heard a thing from the Berikan encampment.”

  Jorel waved her off with a flick of his hand.

  “The people there have found themselves… newly motivated. They had an exceptionally strong yield last cycle. I believe I heard something about long-overdue repairs to the city.”

  Newly motivated.

  There it was again. That phrase.

  Jericho’s brow furrowed. Something wasn’t right. He just couldn’t see how Duskwatch could mine the Wellspring so efficiently—not without drawing more attention. Or blood.

  The Red Mother looked troubled.

  “Find out more. Look into it.”

  Jorel gave a lazy nod, as if she’d asked him to fetch a loaf of bread.

  Seizing the pause, Solenna leaned forward.

  “While your lordships are here, I was hoping we could discuss bringing in more soldiers.”

  Maedran Tal sighed, eyes drifting to the ceiling.

  Jericho let out a quiet exhale, somewhere between annoyance and fatigue.

  “Sister Solenna,” he began, voice firm, casting her a glance before bowing toward the Red Mother,

  “…feels a firmer hand on the people would be beneficial. Brothels and bars grow like weeds, and the people care more for their next drink than their soul.”

  Solenna’s lip curled.

  “That’s not it, and you know it. The poachers have gotten out of hand. More tithes are stolen every year, and less of it makes it back to the Stone Room.”

  Across the table, Dorn Halvek raised a brow.

  Jericho met his gaze and gave a slow, regretful shake of his head. They’d investigated. Solenna’s numbers didn’t lie, but her solution always came wrapped in iron. She wanted soldiers in the streets—not just to fight poachers, but to secure the city. For the Church. For herself.

  And giving her that? That would only stoke unrest.

  He kept his thoughts to himself.

  Jorel gave a dramatic sigh and stretched his arms behind his head.

  “Maybe the poachers are just… newly motivated.”

  He grinned at Solenna’s glare.

  “Besides, the city’s fine. Bit of smuggling, bit of drinking—better than starving in the mountains.”

  Jericho didn’t answer.

  He was just doing his job.

  Ten years from now. Twenty. None of this would matter. The arguments, the politics, the endless tide of bickering masked as governance—it would all be dust.

  The Red Mother gave a nod to Maedran Tal.

  “The concern has been noted. I’ll discuss it with the Stones, but we’re spread thin across the mountains as it is. More of us die every year, and fewer men volunteer to take their place.”

  She shifted her weight, resting one mailed hand against the edge of the table.

  “Now… this business at Veilrend.”

  At the mention of the name, Solenna and Jorel both perked up, interest flickering across their faces.

  “Yes,” said Dorn Halvek, folding his hands. “The business at Veilrend.”

  So. Even the Grand Granite Vicar was waiting on news. Jericho watched him closely. So much for indifference.

  The Red Mother gave a slow, deliberate nod.

  “Another reason our forces are stretched thin. The situation has both the Church and the nobility worried. To lose one of our soul stone Wellsprings is no small matter. Lives depend on the rune magic those witches use.”

  The chamber exploded in noise.

  Solenna rose halfway from her chair, throwing her arms up in outrage.

  Maedran Tal pounded a fist against the table, voice rising in righteous fury.

  “Blasphemy! To credit witches with survival is to spit on Tharumm’s flame!”

  Even Jorel, normally so flippant, leaned forward and barked:

  “They can take their rune magic and shove it into the void for all I care!”

  Jericho didn’t move. This was the cycle.

  Outrage. Fire. Noise.

  He’d heard it all before. It was always the same.

  But Veilrend… Something was different. Something had changed.

  And change—in a place like this—was the beginning of doubt.

  And doubt, whether they admitted it or not, was always the first sign of fear.