Chapter Text
It does not take long to locate Crick, even though the tavern is filled with Sanctum Knights. For one, he’s among the few wearing every piece of his armor. But what truly sets him apart is the book in his hands. The rest of these meathead soldiers wouldn’t dare bring a book to the tavern. What are they, scholars?
But Crick isn’t like his fellow knights. In his letters, he spoke of a childhood spent in the Leaflands, enjoying a life of luxury–for a few years, at least, until the family’s fortunes drained. He never gave Ophilia more detail than that. Would he have shared the rest of the story with Temenos? Or would he have kept his origins away from the hound?
Crick isn’t alone at the massive table he reserved, either. She supposes this must be Ort, practically his only friend. Ort is a valuable ally, though. He is a fantastic swordsman handpicked by Captain Kaldena herself to serve as part of her personal guard. Ophilia must tread lightly around him; Ort’s friendship with Crick suggests his morals may be too righteous to blindly follow his superior’s orders.
Ophilia furrows her brow. Wait, why would she need to worry about Ort? From the way Crick described him, he’s very nice.
She feels dizzy again.
Hurry along, dear. Yes, she shouldn’t linger in the doorway like a fool. Ophilia is here to greet her penpal and keep up appearances. She is fine and healthy and totally, completely normal.
“What poor manners,” Temenos loudly declares, strolling over to his favorite victim, “leaving one’s guests to invite themselves in!”
Crick startles, dropping his book and losing his place. But that doesn’t matter, because a bright smile unfurls on his face. He leaps to his feet and eagerly cries, “Temenos! You’ve arrived!” He grabs the Inquisitor’s hands and shakes them. Though just as quickly, his brow furrows. “What do you mean, poor manners? We are in public, not a private home.”
Temenos sighs, slapping the back of his hand against his forehead. “Alas, I had hoped our soul-bonding dalliances and personal correspondence made us closer than acquaintances, especially since you yourself rudely chastised me for not taking this relationship seriously, but I see now my fond feelings for you are unrequited. I shall forthwith remove myself–”
“I cannot believe I forgot how truly insufferable you are,” Crick mutters. He shakes his head, turning away from Temenos’s cackle and locates Ophilia. “Sister, I am so relieved to see you again.”
Ophilia chuckles. “It has been far too long, Crick. I’m glad to see you well.”
They spend the next few agonizing minutes introducing everyone. There are so many moving pieces on this board, so many extraneous actors clogging up the stage. Ophilia doesn’t need to bother herself with them, so she doesn’t. What does it matter to her if Alfyn met Ort in Canalbrine, or that Crick remembers briefly running into Primrose, Agnea, Olberic, and Hikari? They aren’t here to make friends. In fact, if anyone in this room were to recognize Olberic and Hikari, all thirteen of them would be arrested and placed in Clan Mei’s custody.
Wait. Isn’t meeting an old friend exactly why they are here? Ophilia rubs her forehead. Her thoughts are so jumbled. It’s so difficult to focus on anything, as if her attention strays every few seconds. She does not feel well. Grin and bear it, she thinks, taking a deep breath. Everyone else is having so much fun, sharing stories and drinking. Ophilia doesn’t want to ruin their nice evening.
Cyrus goads H’aanit into sharing stories about her most impressive hunts. Olberic and Ort engage in a horribly boring discussion about swords. Temenos mercilessly teases Crick, yet leaves himself open for a quick rebuttal–if Crick were brave enough to retaliate, that is, which he is not.
Ophilia thinks of a story she could share, but when she tries to pick which one–her mind goes blank. You’ve always been a better listener, she figures. That sounds right. Ophilia likes to sit there quietly and unobtrusively. Isn’t it better that all of her companions are happy, even if she isn’t?
She blinks, and the next thing Ophilia knows, she is outside. The wind howls about her, circling like an animal on the hunt. Beside her, Temenos clutches his staff close. His eyes are so pale, they almost glow in the dark. His gaze is as sharp as a knife. “I was out of line,” he sighs.
Ophilia looks around, but they are alone. It must be the middle of the night. She thinks she saw her companions and Crick leave to turn in for the night, but the actual memory evades her. Ophilia has no idea what Temenos is talking about, though.
“I should not have presumed your feelings about Aelfric, nor made assumptions about your faith,” Temenos continues. Ophilia doesn’t know what’s happening. How did she get here? She was listening to H’aanit’s story, wasn’t she?
Ophilia doesn’t remember.
Her head hurts.
She stops thinking about H’aanit and asks Temenos what he’s talking about: “It’s fine. I forgive you.”
No. No, that’s not what she said. What’s going on? Why–
Temenos frowns. “You certainly didn’t sound so eager to forgive and forget earlier. I know I oft sound facetious, but this is a genuine apology, Ophilia. I understand my words were cruel. Though I did not intend to hurt you, I clearly did.”
He said it was your fault. That the gods are disappointed in your conduct. He is an authority on the subject, is he not? The right hand of the Pontiff, the keeper of the church’s secrets. Who else can determine with such certainty that you failed?
Ophilia cannot believe he would say that. But… but if that is what happened, then–
Something still seems off. She is unsteady on her feet. Her head is a battlefield. The wind bites at her face. It hurts. No wonder he wanted to apologize outside, away from the others. He isn’t sorry. He wants her to feel wretched. The Inquisitor is cruel and merciless. He demands perfection, and if he cannot find it, he excises the unworthy. Such is his divine purview. If he showed his true colors in front of the others, they would abandon him and his hateful crusade.
“...I would prefer that you were angry with me,” the Inquisitor says. “Pardon my bluntness, but you are unwell. If this isn’t a matter of struggling with your faith, then it must be something else. You cannot continue ignoring your problems.”
Ah, there it is. The truth at last! She laughs. There is no bigger hypocrite in all of Solistia, is there? “You would preach to me about deflection? Where is your anger, Inquisitor? Where is your grief? The Pontiff is dead. Your brother is dead. Do you truly think solving their murders will grant you catharsis? They’ll still be dead when the journey is over.”
Ophilia doesn’t need to entertain his games any longer. She has one last task to complete. She brushes past him, continuing on her way, leaving the Inquisitor standing alone in the cold.
Next, she stands in the inn. She doesn’t need to think. Her feet obediently carry her to a room. Her knuckles rap against the heavy wood door.
The Apothecary warmly greets her and invites her inside. He and the Thief are concocting potions and salves for tomorrow, he explains. He wants everyone to be prepared. Look how many things they’ve already made–isn’t the Thief’s work impressive? Ophilia nods. She couldn’t care less. Their little craft club is inconsequential. She just needs–
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Ophilia apologizes, smiling sweetly.
The Apothecary’s mouth pops open in an O-shape. “Hey, it’s no bother at all! Shucks, I just started runnin’ my mouth. What’s up? Everything okay?”
Ophilia sighs. Her feet walk into the room. She doesn’t need to worry about what to do. She lets her mouth do all of the talking. She recites, “I haven’t been sleeping well. I think the stress is getting to me.”
The Apothecary hums. He pats the bed beside him, inviting her to talk, but she must decline. She is tired, and they are busy. “I wanted to ask if I could have some sleepweed. Primrose suggested it could help.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course. Um, let me get it for ya–”
“It’s alright. I know where it is,” she interjects. His satchel sits on the floor, leaning up against the nightstand on his other side. “If you don’t mind…?”
Of course he wouldn’t mind. He trusts Ophilia implicitly. He trusts all of his friends. They would never do anything to hurt each other. If he has anything they need, they are welcome to it.
Ha. Did he learn nothing from Miguel? The Thief, too, seems to have forgotten everything Darius taught him. Don’t they know friends never last? That eventually, one way or another, they will end up broken and alone?
Well. If she must teach them the lesson again, so be it.
Ophilia grabs a wad of sleepweed, tucking it into her sleeve. A dosage this high will swiftly knock out her party tomorrow. With everyone else distracted by Clan Mei and the legendary beast, she can continue on her way unimpeded.
“You’ve been awful tired for a while, huh?” the Apothecary asks. Glass vials rattle and his mortar and pestle scrape as they continue working. “You were pretty out of it on the way up here. I know you said everything was okay, but it also kinda seems like things aren’t so okay.”
Her hands pause, fingers twitching. Maybe Alfyn is right. She isn’t okay. Why does she need so much sleepweed? Ingesting this much would make her sick. She should put it back, but her fingers won’t move. She swallows hard. She tells him that he is right and she is not okay: “I’m sorry I made you worry. It’s just… Flamechurch reminded me so much of Flamesgrace. And now that we’re here… I miss Lianna. I feel so homesick. Don’t you?”
She stands, the sleepweed hidden. She wrings her hands. She is merely anxious. There is no bigger issue. He needs not worry.
The Apothecary’s shoulders sag. “Yeah,” he sighs. “I get ya. I miss everybody, too.”
The Thief scratches the back of his head. “You could’ve told us,” he accuses. “You can tell us whenever something like that is bothering you. We’re… well, we’re all in this together, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we’re all in this together! You can talk to us whenever. Everybody else, too. We love you, Phili,” the Apothe–no, Alfyn says.
His voice rings in her head. They love her. That’s right. Her friends love her. Ophilia knows that. She loves them too. She should tell him that. She should talk to her friends. She needs to tell them that something is very wrong, and she is very afraid.
I love you too.
I love you too!
Tell them!
“Thank you,” she says. “Good night.”
She leaves.
She returns to her room.
She goes to sleep and waits for the morning.
Darkness hangs thick throughout the tavern, drenching every inch of this familiar place in ink, seeping into every crevice. The floor is sticky with it, clinging to Ophilia’s boots, making it difficult to move. Her robes are stained and filthy; her skin feels oily, like she’s been marching through humid heat all day.
She feels dozens of eyes staring at her from every angle. Their gazes weigh against her like a diamond under pressure, pushing the air out of her lungs. She leans against the table, taking big, gasping breaths. “What,” she begins, heartbeat thundering in her ringing ears, “is happening to me?”
When she closes her eyes, scenes flash before her: roasting fish around a fire pit as Agnea wonders aloud if the others have made it to the ferry yet, standing to the side with Cyrus as their friends fight a pack of mountain apes, sitting awake in a dark tent and eavesdropping on Primrose and Tressa as they discuss how weird she’s been acting, deflecting every attempt from her friends to ask what’s wrong, what’s happening, how can they help her–
Ophilia doesn’t remember any of that happening. She doesn’t remember anything between leaving Flamechurch and arriving in Stormhail. She has no idea how long the trip even took. How long was she gone, locked up in her own head? How long was this… this puppeteer stringing her along?
If she had anything in her stomach, she thinks she’d puke.
“You couldn’t have done anything to stop this, you know,” Matthias tells her. Ophilia can barely see him through the dark. Whatever this terrible substance lingering everywhere is, he’s soaked in it.
Like it’s eating him alive.
He offers a dull laugh. “‘Alive’ is a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”
Matthias rests his elbows on the table. It creaks like it’s moments away from falling apart. “Do you ever wonder how much of these visits is her doing, and how much is in your own head? I’m curious. Perhaps this situation isn’t all her doing. Perhaps it was your own weak heart that allowed her in.”
Her. The woman she saw so long ago in that first nightmare, the one where she lay dying in Galdera’s realm–Ophilia has seen her before, she knows she has, but she can never remember what she looks like. If she could remember, she could bring that knowledge with her into the waking world. She would make sure of it. She could warn her friends, she could ask them to stop her, she could–
“I think we’re well past fixing this,” Matthias laughs. “Galdera’s darkness flows through your veins. You’d bleed ink were they to cut you open. You and your sorcerer aren’t so different, are you? Both of you fought so hard against Galdera only to end up on a silver platter.”
Cyrus. He’s in trouble, too, isn’t he? That spell he cast, right before the light flashed before them, right before they ended up in Solistia–what did he say? Ophilia squeezes her eyes shut. Remember. Remember, she pleads, taking deep breaths, trying not to succumb to the poison seeping out of her. He wouldn’t let Galdera take us. He said he would banish Galdera. He said–
Ophilia’s skin prickles. The darkness presses in a little more. It’s all she can do to stay sitting upright. She grits her teeth. No. She’ll fix this. She will! The Puppeteer will not hurt her friends!
Matthias sadly sighs. “Oh, Sister,” he laments, holding out his hand. His skin is pale. She doesn’t need to touch him to know he’s cold as ice. In his palm rests a knife. Ophilia recognizes it, of course. It’s the very same dagger Therion gave her in Wellgrove before she left to infiltrate Mother’s orphanage. Just in case, he’d said. Always trying to give others the strength to fight for themselves. Never had anyone seen a more magnanimous, caring thief.
She feels cold. Ophilia grips the edge of the table. She swallows hard.
Ophilia has never been so afraid.
“Denial doesn’t suit you,” Matthias says. He easily tugs her hand out of its death grip and gives her the knife. Of their own volition, her fingers wrap around the hilt. The leather is so cold it’s biting, like touching bare metal in the heart of winter. If she tries to pull away now, it’ll rip her skin away. If she doesn’t try to drop it, hypothermia will eat through her hand. It’s a lose-lose scenario no matter what she does.
Tears well in her eyes. “No,” she says, but the strength of her conviction is waning. “No, I won’t let her hurt my friends. Even if… even if I can’t stop her completely, I will not allow her to hurt them.”
Matthias leans closer. Out of the darkness, his horrid face shines through. He’s as pale as bone. The gash across his throat is vibrant red, staining his neck, his chest, half of the table. She cannot look away just as she can’t drop the knife just as she can’t escape the Puppeteer. “You had no qualms letting your friends hurt me,” Matthias snaps. “You had no qualms setting me ablaze. Do not preach to me about kindness and mercy, you hypocrite. You earned this fate. You deserve everything that follows. And when you are left with nothing as I was left with nothing, you will march to Galdera and give yourself willingly to its dark embrace.”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe she is a hypocrite, and maybe she brought this cruel fate upon herself. But there is one thing of which she is certain: “I hate you,” Ophilia whispers.
Wearing a wide, broken smile, Matthias grabs the collar of her robes, tugging her closer, closer, closer. The corpse before her begins to change. His red hair fades to blonde. His features soften. Before long, Ophilia almost forgets she isn’t staring into a mirror.
“Have you ever considered how alike we are?” he mocks, stealing her voice. Her ears ring. She feels like she’s on top of the highest mountain in the Highlands, teetering on the edge, about to fall– “We were both devoted to the gods. We were both loved by the gods. And when we called upon Aelfric in our hour of need, thinking that he would reward our faith with salvation, he threw us away! If Light will not have us–”
Ophilia tries to pull free. She tries to drop the knife. Ophilia tries screaming out for her friends, for the gods, for someone, anyone, please––but her mouth simply finishes, “Then to Darkness we will belong.”
She and the mirror image smile.
In the blink of an eye, the darkness swallows them whole.
“You look like sh*t, Detective,” Throné says. That particular phrase is almost a greeting between them nowadays. Throné does not wait for a response, jabbing her arms through her thick coat. She flips up her hood. A halo of warm fur eats her face.
“Well, you look ridiculous,” Temenos intones. He’s one to talk. On top of looking like he didn’t sleep last night (the veracity of which is neither here nor there, and of no concern to her anyways), Temenos dons an identical coat. His usual cloak is warm, but it is insufficient for the blizzard raging outside.
The inn is quiet. Temenos and his companions were the only occupants last night. And since Hikari and Ochette’s groups left at dawnbreak, the building feels empty. Lonely. Save the fierce wind shaking the windows, Stormhail itself is just as silent. Temenos knew the moment they passed through the gates last night that Stormhail is an unhappy, solemn sort of place. It almost makes Crackridge seem welcoming and inviting.
Only Sanctum Knights and Clan Mei soldiers prowl the streets, dressed in cold silver and dull navy. In the distance, Fort Mei looms over the back end of the city, blocking all view of the picturesque matte sky.
Crick doesn’t belong here. Nobody belongs here. The ground would sooner see them dead than treading its surface. If there was ever a place to house Brand’s holy knights, however, the northern Winterlands fits the bill. One must be strong to survive here, and what is the patron god of warriors but strength personified?
Ha. Temenos doesn’t believe that for a second. Hikari would not last a moment here, and neither would Olberic. Their strength isn’t only physical; both are kind and strong-willed. They fight to protect, not to subdue. In Temenos’s humble opinion, those qualities better fit the divine mold. The Sacred Guard is not righteous. They are not defenders of the faith. They are merely the sword, not the one who wields it.
Throné huffs, falling back against the wall. “What’s taking them so long?” she mutters. She tries to cross her arms, but her sleeves are too thick, so she sullenly drops them back to her side. Temenos chuckles, earning a glare. “What.”
“Nothing, my dear,” he quickly says. “You just seem rather comfortable.”
“I’m not,” she sullenly complains, sliding a little further down the wall like a petulant child. “I hate wearing restrictive clothing. Makes me feel trapped. The guards swarming the place don’t help either.”
“Take solace in the fact that we will not remain here long,” Temenos offers. He wishes he could do anything else to help her feel more secure, but Temenos feels just as apprehensive.
They wait a few moments longer. If Temenos could find his pocket under all of his layers, he’d check the time. Perhaps he should knock on Ophilia’s door? See if… she’s still joining them?
He absently rubs his chest–or as best as he’s able, what with this horrible wall of wool blocking the way. Throné’s inquisitive glance feels like a portend of disaster, so before she can ask, Temenos softly mutters, “Indigestion. I fear I ate too much last night.”
“I don’t see how, since you wouldn’t shut up. You are awfully fond of Crick. And it’s not just because he’s prime bullying material,” Throné adds, closing off that excuse before he can make it. She tries (and fails) to cross her arms again. Under her fur hood, a smirk peeks out. “I think you like him.”
Temenos would rather have tea with Kaldena than entertain this nonsense. “I’ll see what’s holding them up,” he announces, sticking to the moral high road.
“Didn’t think you’d be into the wholesome golden boy type,” Throné loudly says.
Temenos is having an awful time at Stormhail.
He takes a deep breath and turns down the hall. Despite his best efforts, Temenos doesn’t make it to Ophilia’s room, because Therion and Cyrus choose that inopportune time to burst out of their room, arguing in hushed tones. They freeze upon catching Temenos.
Therion recovers first, jabbing a finger at Cyrus. “Tell him he’s not f*cking coming,” he demands.
Cyrus waves off his ire and declares, “My deductive skills can only prove beneficial to your investigation. In addition, your mission seems the safest, least eventful option–”
With a groan, Therion raps his knuckles on the wooden door frame. “I swear to the gods, Cyrus, if you jinx us–”
Temenos does not have the wherewithal to deal with this right now. He is exhausted, he’s starting to get a headache, and he knows Throné is still in the lobby laughing at his misfortune. Not to mention the feeling of… unease, he will say, when he thinks of spending the day with Ophilia.
He would rather not think about that right now.
“I’m sure it will be perfectly safe,” Temenos says, pinching the bridge of his nose. It is so unlike him to fixate on an issue like this. He has pissed off countless people before, and often on purpose. Their poor opinion of him means nothing. All of the Sanctum Knights (save Crick) hate Temenos, yet he has no qualms brazenly strolling into their nest!
He just…. Well. Temenos thought he was helping. Everyone else had extended a helping hand, trying to surmise what had Ophilia so out of sorts. When they were the last two remaining at the tavern, waiting to see Crick off, Temenos thought his turn had come.
He tried to empathize. Temenos knew a few things about the gods disappointing him. He understood how hopeless it feels to realize that gods do not care. This matter of losing connection with Aelfric–the blame lay not with her, but with the gods. A caring god would have responded to her prayers by now. She should try to place faith in herself instead.
Ophilia did not, in fact, share his opinions. And that is perfectly alright. Just as Temenos knows his personality can be daunting for some people, he understands that his religious views likewise are… disagreeable.
So, this should not bother him. And once they head out, it won’t bother him, because Temenos will focus on interrogating Vados. He will get answers. He will unravel this plot. And he will–
Do you truly think solving their murders will grant you catharsis?
That uncomfortable weight in his chest returns.
They’ll still be dead when the journey is over.
“Good morning, everyone!” Ophilia says, smiling bright. She is dressed and ready to go, perfectly at ease in her massive parka. The bulk does nothing to slow her down as she strides down the hall.
“Ah, Ophilia!” Cyrus says, falling into step with her. “Good morning! You seem in good spirits! I thought that I would join you today and–”
“Oh, you son of a bitch,” Therion seethes under his breath, stomping after them.
That saves Temenos some trouble, at least. He gathers fortitude and follows them to the lobby. Therion’s protests go ignored, and Cyrus strikes up a constant undercurrent of chatter, keeping the pep in their step as they brave the blizzard to march towards the Sacred Guard Headquarters.
Once again, gleaming like a beacon in the diffused morning light, Crick waits for them at the entrance. He’s dressed to the nines in his armor again. He is very conscientious with polishing each piece of metal. Even the bright blue tabard looks freshly steamed. He likely tried to style his hair nicely, but in this weather, that particular attention to detail went to waste. Still, he looks very handsome. Very storybook hero, like he’s about to set forth on a journey to slay a terrible dragon and save a princess or two.
Crick’s potential is wasted here.
“My, you didn’t need to dress up for me,” Temenos teases.
A greeting dies on Crick’s lips as he adopts a delightful red shade. “T-Temenos!” he bursts, utterly scandalized. “I didn’t–you–this is how I always dress!”
“Hmph. So it appears! Well then, would you like to invite us inside? I recall you promised me a meeting with one Vados the Architect,” Temenos says. He doesn’t wait for an invitation while Crick recovers his composure and strolls right on in.
The Headquarters are warmer, of course. The stone walls are likely double-layered with some form of insulation between them. Yet Temenos still feels a chill settling in his bones. The cathedral in Flamechurch is by no means loud, but there is still a life to it. This dreadnaught could not be more different. The knights and clerics clustered about speak in hushed tones, as if afraid to infringe upon the lingering silence. All decoration is muted and sparse. Nearly everywhere he looks, he sees only pale gray stone and silver armor. How miserable.
Throné and Therion twitch at the rear of their group, no doubt scouting out points of access and escape routes. Cyrus seems content to openly stare at the knights they pass. Ophilia strides forward, unaffected.
“The Inquisitor is here with his party to see a prisoner by the name of Vados the Architect, apprehended in Canalbrine on charges of murder, conspiracy to murder, and heresy,” Crick announces to the receptionist on duty. She’s an old fellow, with a face withered from her time in Stormhail. She glances up and confirms Temenos’s identity. Of course she would recognize him on sight. Temenos supposes Kaldena has posters of his likeness hanging up in every breakroom and rec room, warning her knights of the dastardly Inquisitor, that famed nuisance.
Crick stands tall and valiant, showing off how competent and suave he is as a newly anointed knight, as they wait for the receptionist to shuffle through her papers. During the wait, Cyrus tries to wander off to poke his nose into something, but Therion pulls him back. Throné practically vibrates with discomfort but stays put. Ophilia remains unflappable. Surely the Headquarters don’t remind her of home? Temenos does not see how she could feel comfortable here, nor how she can act as though they didn’t have some falling out last night. Then again, she claimed it was fine and she forgave him, but–
“I’m sorry, we have no records of Vados the Architect,” the receptionist reports back.
Crick leans over her podium, peeking at her papers. She irritably pulls them to her chest, and he sheepishly draws back. “I’m sorry, but can you check again? I was on-site in Canalbrine for his arrest. I wasn’t informed of any transfers for this prisoner. He should be in the dungeons.”
Temenos has an inkling something corrupt is afoot. Before the receptionist can pick a fight with his knight, Temenos intervenes, “Thank you for checking. I greatly appreciate your assistance. Come along, Crick.”
“But he must be here,” Crick protests. Nonetheless, he allows Temenos to grab his arm and maneuver him back outside to the courtyard.
“So did we lose the guy or are they hiding him?” Throné asks, breathing easier now they’re out in the open.
Temenos taps his chin. That’s the question of the hour, isn’t it. “Crick, were you present when the guard entered Vados into the system? Did you witness his admittance into direct custody here?”
He presses his lips in a line. “What are you suggesting?” he challenges.
“That someone amongst the Sanctum Knights is allied with, or at the very least, invested in this fellow,” Cyrus says. Oh, he’s completely lost in the sauce, already pacing through the snow, mind racing a mile a minute. No wonder he wanted to accompany them. This is some kind of enrichment for him, isn’t it? Temenos understands, of course. He likewise enjoys the allure of a good mystery. “The lady inside showed no recognition when you mentioned Vados by name, nor listed his crimes. I am to assume that is a position she has held for some time?”
He waits for Crick to nod, then continues. “I propose then that Vados was not processed according to protocol upon his arrival in Stormhail. Where else could they house him? Could he still be somewhere in town, kept hidden from prying eyes?”
Throné slips away. Something must have caught her notice, or she tired of the back-and-forth. Either way, Temenos expects she will return with new information.
“I’m sure the Sacred Guard has other dungeons,” Temenos says. The cathedral had more than its fair share of secret chambers and hidden routes, after all. “Vados did not strike me as someone willing to quietly lie in wait, seeing as how he revealed himself and his intentions when attempting to assassinate Hermes. The apothecary he murdered lay dead on the steps of the church in Canalbrine, and the Pontiff’s murder brazenly occurred within the sanctuary. Only Lucian’s death was the least bit subtle, having been killed within his own home.”
“Perhaps there is conflict within the Moonshade Order and not all of his allies agreed with his fervor,” Cyrus proposes. His tireless pacing wears a track in the snow, digging through to the dead, frozen grass beneath. It’s almost impressive. “The few members I met acted with circ*mspection–excepting Harvey, though I figure his allies generally kept him out of the loop unless they directly required his assistance. It was horribly easy to get him talking, after all.”
Temenos hums. “Since our visit to Crackridge, I suspected the Sacred Guard had some ties to the Moonshade Order, whether that relationship be cooperative or antagonistic. If they are allied with the cult, then Vados is a loose end to tie. If opposed, then–”
“–Vados was likely executed, and quietly,” Cyrus finishes.
“What are you two talking about?” Crick finally interjects. His skin adopts that lovely crimson blush again, but he isn’t embarrassed now. He is furious. “The Sacred Guard is not allied with a heretical cult! How can you make such a claim? And to suggest that we would not properly bring Vados to justice–I will not stand for this! As Sanctum Knights, we take holy vows to uphold honor and justice, serving the will of the gods faithfully!”
Good grief, Temenos wearily thinks.
Before he can shake Crick’s whole world by explaining the concept of “lying,” Throné returns. “Hey,” she says, drawing attention back to herself. Crick jumps, and Ophilia briefly looks shocked, but quickly smooths her face. Temenos narrows his eyes. She’s still acting so strange. Just what is happening? Is she– “I found our guy.”
What.
“What?” Cyrus asks, finally stopping in his tracks.
Crick takes a deep breath. “Well? Let’s see him,” he says, walking off.
“Wrong way,” Throné calls.
Crick freezes, shoulders stiff. He spins on his heel down another path. When Throné doesn’t stop him, they follow.
“I don’t suppose this is good news,” Temenos asks around the sinking feeling in his gut. Already, his plans have fallen apart spectacularly. Vados is a key witness and their only direct link to the Moonshade Order.
Throné shakes her head. “No. He’s dead.”
What an unfortunate end for the wicked Vide’s servant.
They wander into a cemetery lined with pristine, identical headstones. This is where Sanctum Knights are laid to rest, forced to spend eternity sleeping in the oppressive cold. At least the graves are well-tended to. There’s some solace in that, he supposes. Temenos doesn’t want to stare at the impersonal tombstones, so he scans the treeline and unused plots further into the cemetery. He catches the trail Throné found easily.
Blood glimmers so vibrantly atop snow.
“That’s him alright,” Therion intones. He draws his dagger and cautiously kicks Vados’s leg, just to make sure he’s really dead–as if the large puddle of blood below him wasn’t a good enough indication.
Temenos will not fault his caution, however. This seems too perfectly timed. The blood is fresh enough that the snow hasn’t yet covered it. Until very recently, Vados was held captive by the Sacred Guard. He was only killed now to prevent Temenos from questioning him. Why was he kept alive for so long then? Because someone else kept him around for their own interrogation. Temenos will assume, then, that the Sacred Order is not aligned with the Moonshade Order.
At least not purposefully. There is still something he is missing. Where is the connection? The Kal, the Moonshade Order, the Sacred Guard, Captain Kaldena–
Wait. Kaldena. In Canalbrine, she reacted to Therion’s appearance just as the people of Crackridge did. She seemed surprised to see him. Though Temenos only has circ*mstantial proof, he believes the Kal people shared similar features: white hair, tanned skin. Temenos inherited the telltale hair. He infers from Inquisitor Mia’s report that the “benefactor” who sheltered him and his mother was in fact likely his father, explaining the pallor of his skin. Kaldena then wouldn’t have assumed Temenos was of the Kal line.
After all, she shares the same features as the Kal. It’s in her very name. Kal-Dena. Temenos does not know for sure how old the Captain is, but she was likely a child during the massacre. She must have survived. She must know that the Moonshade Order called for the genocide of her people, and that is why she imprisoned Vados off the record, interrogating him personally about the cult’s dealings.
But why go through the trouble of killing Vados now? Why would Kaldena want to prevent Temenos from getting information? Does she so distrust the church? Does she suspect Temenos of working with the cult instead? She would have every right to think so. After all, the church did nothing to save the Kal. Temenos himself isn’t sure if the church is blameless.
That does not explain why Vados killed the Pontiff, though. His ritual did not require the Pontiff’s death specifically; any representative of Aelfric would have sufficed. By selecting the Pontiff as his first victim, Vados sought to make a statement against the church. Kaldena, as much as Temenos loathes to say anything positive about her, is a viciously intelligent woman. She would know that with his death, the Pontiff, at least, was not allied with the Moonshade Order. He did not willingly offer up his life. With that line of thinking, she would have no real reason to think Temenos was with the cult either–she calls him hound for a reason. She knows that Temenos is loyal only to the Pontiff, and that he is unafraid to root out corruption, no matter in whom and from where it stems.
In short, Kaldena and Temenos should be allies, but they are not.
Why? Kaldena must hate the cult. She must. So why would she not even consider allying with Temenos?
What is he missing?
“Temenos!”
Temenos returns to himself just in time to see Crick jump in front of him, sword drawn, blocking an attack. Therion and Throné jump into action just a step later, tugging Cyrus and Ophilia out of harm’s way.
Their attacker is light on their feet, hopping back after striking the steel of Crick’s sword, out of reach for a retaliating attack.
Ah. So it isn’t enough to deny Temenos his interrogation, is it? They mean to eliminate him as well.
“Fear not,” Crick says, practically bursting at the seams with confidence. “You may rely on a Godsblade such as I to protect you, Temenos!”
“He says, newly anointed,” Temenos simpers. Very well then. If Crick would like to show off for his guests, then by all means, Temenos will gladly sit this one out. He was not made for fighting.
In the meantime, he examines their assailant. He can make out few of their features, as they wear a high collar and scarf wrapped around half of their face, but the hood of their cloak seems familiar. Then again, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out this is some Sanctum Knight. Clan Mei keep to themselves. The civilians are even more private. Just which knight is brazen enough to try and assassinate Temenos is broad daylight, while accompanied by another knight and a gaggle of fellows?
They either must be incredibly stupid or incredibly desperate.
Something significant must be happening, or about to happen, and the Sacred Guard does not want to risk Temenos finding out about it.
The attacker bolts, valuing their life over completing their mission. So they aren’t a complete fool.
“Stop!” Crick yells.
“We must not follow them too far, Crick,” Temenos says.
Crick swirls around, eyes wide. “But Temenos–”
“Someone ordered this done,” Temenos says. If things are moving so swiftly, they do not have time to beat around the bush any longer. “This attempt and Vados’s murder. Someone connected to the Sacred Guard, if not within the Sacred Guard.”
And I suspect her name is Kaldena.
“S-surely not,” Crick balks.
Crick swallows, looking to each of them. When he finds no one willing to jump to his side, he declares, “You’re lying. I–I don’t believe you.” He steps back, lips pressed into a tight line. “The Sacred Guard would never!”
Temenos pities him. He really does. It is no easy thing to learn the truth, especially when the truth is so antithetical to what one wants to believe. But Temenos cares too much about Crick to let him drown in this hopeful fantasy. If he continues down this path of denial, Crick’s hero’s journey will not end in fanfare. It will end abruptly and unfairly when the dragon swallows him whole.
They’ll still be dead when the journey is over.
…They will. Ophilia was right. Temenos cannot save Jorg and he cannot save Roi, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to save Crick. It’s fine if he gets upset with Temenos too. It’s fine if he hates Temenos. Just so long as Temenos doesn’t get any more blood on his hands. So long as he doesn’t lose someone else.
Sister Mindt said it herself: he only has her left to turn to. These people he travels with, these people he cares for–eventually, Temenos will say goodbye to them, too. Then… then he will be–
No.
There is no benefit in worrying about something so frivolous. Temenos is stressed, yes, he will admit to that, but he cannot allow that anxiety to inflate his feelings and compromise this investigation. This plot is much bigger than Temenos. It is bigger than any of them. The fate of the world rests on his ability to solve this mystery.
And so, he stays on task.
“You must find for yourself if your faith is warranted,” Temenos says. Look at the evidence. The truth lay before your eyes, if you only look at it, Crick! “Though I must warn you, there are few things worthy of our faith.”
Few things indeed, Temenos thinks, holding his staff close. But he doesn’t think about it.
He can’t.
Crick stares at him. Temenos stands fast. Behind them, his friends shuffle awkwardly, silent and unsure of what to do. Let them. It’s fine. This is Temenos’s responsibility. It is up to him alone to save Crick, if we will allow himself to be saved.
After a tense eternity, Crick’s shoulders droop. “You don’t even have faith in your own gods, do you? You doubt anything and everything in this world.”
He’s right. Temenos will not apologize for it. “Doubt is what I do,” he softly reminds him.
“I hail from a noble house,” Crick begins. He moves to rub his arm, then remembers he’s wearing armor, so simply lets his arms hang at his side. “Albeit one fallen from grace. My parents taught me to steal. To use other people as a stepping stone to my own success.”
Throné wanders off again. This is not a story she needs to hear. The same plot is buried deep in her heart like a thorn that won’t come out.
Crick stares at his hands. “But I couldn’t bring myself to believe that is the sum total of this life. Then the Inquisitor paid me a visit and told me something I’d never forget.”
…Roi.
“‘A noble flame burns within you,’” Crick quotes.
That sounds like something he’d say, yes.
“Those words gave me something to believe in for the first time in my life,” he says, closing his fists. “So I left home and joined the Order of the Sacred Flame.”
Crick sighs. He meets Temenos’s gaze. “The world is a cruel and irrational place. I wanted something to believe in. Something to hold fast to. I want to extend a hand to the weak and cleave wickedness from this world. I wish to be that sword for the people.”
How noble. How naive. “You would be the sword,” Temenos repeats, “and not the one who wields it? You would make yourself a tool, blindly putting all faith in someone else to direct your swing?”
“Temenos!” Ophilia admonishes.
His grip on his staff tightens. It does not matter if she or Crick or anyone else is angry with him. He knows that what he says is true. Temenos continues. He pushes. “Even in the best-intentioned hands, a sword is still a weapon. What is the sword when those intentions become unconscionable? The world is a cruel and irrational place! You must learn to navigate it alone! We cannot always rely on another to hold our hand and lead us through the dark. A shepherd cannot carry all of his lambs–if they do not follow, they will fall behind and fall prey to the wolf.”
The wolf, a dragon, a murder of conniving crows lurking roosting atop their frozen palace–
“Do not mock me, Temenos!” Crick snaps. “I meant what I said!”
“You and Roi are so alike,” Temenos states. He sees the resemblance now. He squeezes his staff so hard, his fingers ache. “You both share a rigid morality that makes you honest to your own detriment. Roi was my predecessor.”
My brother.
He’s come this far. Temenos cannot stop now. “He embarked on an investigation into the church, and never returned.”
Crick winces. “Y-yes, I’m aware.”
“‘The church has secrets. Extraordinary, terrible secrets.’ Those were his final words to me. Those words cemented in me a distrust of the church and a desire to expose the truth.”
His hands, his chest, his heart hurts.
“And they are a dying wish I intend to honor.”
The hour grows long. They have spent too long outside in the elements. Even under his coat and gloves, Temenos is freezing. They’ll catch ill before long.
Temenos doesn’t want to be here anymore. He’s so tired. And… and there is work to be done. He needs to find Vados’s murderer. He needs to confirm his theories and discover what Kaldena is hiding.
“If…,” Crick pipes up. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “If the Sacred Guard is hiding something, who do you suppose is the mastermind? You must have a clue. We should review what we know.”
“Maybe we should take a break,” Therion proposes. Unlike Throné, he has mastered the art of crossing his marshmallow arms. He strikes quite the imposing figure. Very ferocious. Not at all silly. “It’s cold, I’m hungry, and we’ve been running around all day. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.”
Tomorrow, when the entire group will be together. There is safety in numbers, and the most vulnerable of the group were put in danger today. Therion fears that something bad will happen to Cyrus and Ophilia if they press onwards.
“He’s right. We should retire for the night and resume the investigation tomorrow. Is that alright with you, Crick?” Temenos asks.
“Are you joking?” he gapes.
Cyrus looks between Therion and Temenos. Then, in a fit of terrible dramatics, he unconvincingly announces, “I feel quite faint!”
Therion rubs his forehead. “Not helping, Professor,” he mutters.
Crick rolls his eyes. “Fine. We will… reconvene tomorrow.”
Their goodbyes are awkward and tinged with lingering animosity, but all in all, Temenos doesn’t think that went too poorly. Ophilia still remains quiet and reserved. Temenos supposes she is still rather upset with him. But at least Crick, he hopes, has learned to keep an eye out for danger.
The inn is still just as lifeless as when they left. It must not see much business. After all, Stormhail is not a city one visits for leisure, and most liturgical conferences are held in Flamechurch. They essentially have free reign of the place, for all that it’s worth. Temenos sits at the largest table in the lobby and pulls out the documents he uncovered from the vault. Ophilia announces she will borrow the kitchen to whip up some dinner. Therion and Cyrus wait until she leaves, then devolve into whispers that Temenos is too tired to eavesdrop.
It is some while before Throné returns, wearing a different coat. This one is more form-fitting and navy. It also bears the Clan Mei crest on the breast pocket. She plops into the chair beside him with a huff. “Took a walk around the perimeter. Didn’t find any soldiers planning to get the drop on us, but those Clan Mei guys are dicks,” Throné states.
“So you ganked their clothes?” Therion drily asks.
Throné shamelessly nods. “Oh, yeah. I stashed the uniforms across the street from the sauna. Serves ’em right. Oh. I also found a pack of playing cards. You guys can have them. I want to turn in early. I have plans for tomorrow morning.”
“Plans to harass Clan Mei further?” Cyrus guesses. He slides the cards towards him and cuts the deck. He isn’t half bad at it.
“Plans to teach them some manners,” Throné corrects. She glances around the room. “No one else is back yet? Where’s Ophilia? She, uh. Feeling okay?”
“She ran off to fix dinner,” Therion reports. He leans back in his chair until it props up against the wall, then closes his eyes. “She hasn’t acted like this since the thing with Lianna, and that maybe lasted a day or two. She told Alf and I that she wasn’t sleeping well or whatever. That she was homesick. I don’t want to cry bullsh*t, but… something isn’t right.”
Temenos rereads the page he just finished. He isn’t absorbing any information. It would have been wise to retire to his room and try reading there, yet here he sits.
He doesn’t think about it.
Throné hums. “I still have some jerky Ochette threw at me. Knock yourselves out. Night.”
They chorus after her.
Therion and Cyrus begin their game. Temenos doesn’t need to look to see that they’re both cheating. Cyrus counts cards and Therion pockets the aces. It keeps them entertained and out of his hair, at least. After two short-lived games, Ophilia returns, smiling sheepishly. She carries a pot of tea. “Um. My apologies, but dinner, ah, did not work out in my favor. There was a mishap with the salt.”
“That is no problem at all,” Cyrus quickly assures her. He tidies the deck of cards. “Would you care to join us?”
“Actually,” she begins, setting the pot and cups down in the center of the table, “I wanted to speak with you about something. If it’s no trouble.”
Temenos sets down his papers. Cyrus slides the cards back in their box. Therion tips his chair back on the floor and says, “Yeah, shoot.”
She twitters nervously for a moment. Then she pours them each a cup. “Um. I heard Throné come in, so I take it she has already gone to bed? Okay. It is rather late, so I will try to keep this brief.”
Ophilia finally sits. She takes a deep breath and cups her hands around her tea. Then, she says, “I have not felt like myself lately.”
Temenos takes a sip of his tea. It is… passable. Cyrus nods, encouraging her to continue. Therion awkwardly pats her back. Ophilia smiles, but it’s a wry, fragile thing. “I have had a very difficult time adjusting to life without Aelfric’s gift. I feel as though I have lost something integral to ‘me,’ and what remains is… something I don’t like very much.”
Temenos frowns. Right. And after he inadvertently threw that in her face last night, she likely hates him. Ophilia did everything “right” and lost her magic, while Temenos openly criticizes the gods and receives new gifts. He assumed she blamed the gods. This was surely their fault, yes? He thought she felt the same as he did: betrayed, disappointed, on her way to apathy. Clearly he was wrong. That kind of blasphemy crossed the line, she’d said. She wouldn’t have him drag Aelfric’s name through the mud like that. He shouldn’t foist his own problems onto her shoulders.
They’ll still be dead when the journey is over.
Temenos rubs his forehead as a headache blossoms. His eyes burn. How late is it? Surely they’ve not been talking too long. Perhaps all of today’s failures are finally weighing down on him. He is exhausted.
Cyrus drinks some tea, and poorly hides his distaste for the blend. Ophilia doesn’t call him out on it. Therion nervously tries it, ruminates on the flavor, then shrugs.
Ophilia continues, taking a deep breath. “I thought the issue lay in something we forgot about. Did I do something to lose the gods’ trust? Or did something else sever the bonds I had with the Flame?”
“I assure you, this was not your fault,” Cyrus says. He takes Ophilia’s hands, blinking heavily. “You did nothing wrong, Ophilia. I promise.”
She smiles, wiping at her eyes. Is she crying? Temenos cannot see clearly. His eyes are unfocused. The lack of sleep last night catches up to him. He rubs his eyes, willing himself to stay the course a little longer.
Cyrus opens his mouth to say more, but the words don’t come. Instead, he shakes his head. “I-I’m sorry, I feel….”
Therion swats at the tea pot. His fingers twitch, like he’s losing the fight for fine motor control. “Wha… what did you put in this?” he mutters, words slurring.
Temenos’s stomach cramps. His eyes are so heavy. The underlying panic and surge of wrongness are dim and numb, buried under a heavy wave of exhaustion. Oh. She laced the tea with something. Sleepweed, he suspects. It would prove very easy for her to procure. She must have taken some last night, when she visited Therion and Alfyn. Why would he deny her a small dosage of sleepweed if it would provide her comfort?
But this is no small dosage, Temenos thinks, sinking towards the table. Cyrus and Therion are soon to follow, wilting like flowers left out in the cold. His fears are so distant. Why would she do this? What is she planning? Temenos tries his very best to care, but his head carefully goes blank.
The last thing he sees before he succumbs to the dark is the glint of a knife in Ophilia’s hand.
Trusting fools, all of them.
First things first, she retrieves the incomplete Book of Night from Temenos. Such lengths to recover the damn thing! If only she’d been quicker that night, she could have lifted the book off the Pontiff before he hid it. But no matter. Over the centuries, she has learned patience.
The Puppeteer idly regards her victims. She expected more from them. Therion and Cyrus saw this trick before, after all. She merely copied Lianna’s old ploy, substituting wine with tea. She is very disappointed in Temenos though. Surely the good detective would have seen through such a paltry trick. The Puppeteer is almost upset that they didn’t put up a fight. They couldn’t have done anything to save themselves, of course. The dosage in the tea would have incapacitated them long before they could fight back. Ophilia’s frail body wouldn’t be able to stop them otherwise.
Speaking of their dear cleric! She dimly shrieks and pounds her fists in a cage made of her own mind, faintly wailing in the Puppeteer’s ears. This will hurt her very much. Will their deaths alone be enough to sway her? The Puppeteer is very excited to find out.
Who should she kill first? Therion, who handed her his very own murder weapon? What delicious irony. Temenos, who has made every wrong decision up to this point? Putting him out of his misery would be a mercy. The Puppeteer figures she should spare Cyrus. Though she is assured of her success, she appreciates a solid back up plan. This will only push him further to the edge too. How hopeless will he feel, watching his friends die a second time?
The Puppeteer taps the knife against her lips. This is the most fun she’s had in ages. All of her years of careful preparation, finally culminating in this single moment–it feels so good.
But she shouldn’t play with her food. She’ll start with… Therion. He’s been so kind to Ophilia, hasn’t he? The Puppeteer grabs his collar, rolling him to the side, opening his throat for an easy strike–
Her hand stills. Her ears ring. Ophilia’s voice swells with renewed strength. Stop! Don’t touch him! I’ll do as you ask!
The Puppeteer wrenches back enough control to roll her eyes. Allowing them to live might give her hope later on. No, she needs Ophilia to be well and truly broken for this to work.
STOP! she wails.
The Puppeteer drops the knife and slaps her hands over her ears, wincing in pain. Static swells in her head as their connection falters. Damnable cleric! The knife clatters to the floor. She quickly whips her head around, back towards the hall where the nuisance sleeps. Throné is a threat. If only she’d been the least bit more personable and joined her friends for a late night soiree–
It doesn’t matter. Once she does the deed, Throné will have enough problems on her hands to keep her distracted. The Puppeteer sneers, forcing Ophilia back into the corner. Her protests dim and quiet, muted once more. With a sigh, she retrieves the knife.
The Puppeteer’s control is absolute. This is her body now. Ophilia is nothing but an afterthought. An unfortunate side effect. She grips the knife tighter. The Puppeteer will make this worse. She will take it slow. If that’s what Ophilia wants instead, she will oblige. She presses the blade against his throat–
Immediately, pain stabs through her head as this godsdamn cleric kicks up a fuss. DROP IT, Ophilia demands. Her hand shakes with exertion. Where is Ophilia getting this strength? She’s been so pliable this entire time. How irritating, to have her resist now. Though the Puppeteer supposes this is all the more proof that her blasted hope hinges on these fools.
She angles the knife back down one last time, gritting her teeth against the swell in her skull and the phantom force tugging at her hand–
“No!” she yells aloud. The Puppeteer jerks back, throwing the knife across the room. It slaps against the wall with a dull thud and clambers to the floor, loud enough to wake their loose end.
She does not wait for Throné to emerge from her room; the Puppeteer takes off running out the door. Fine! If she can’t kill the blasted fools now, she’ll skip to the next step of her plan! What does Ophilia care for Kaldena? Surely she’ll have no power during that conversation! Besides, the Puppeteer can simply ask Kaldena to order the Sacred Guard to finish the job. Kaldena owes her for collecting the Book of Night. Once the Puppeteer reveals herself, she will have the captain wrapped around her little finger.
The Sacred Guard headquarters cuts through the dark night like an omen. Under the light of a dozen streetlamps stubbornly burning strong, its pale facade adopts a sickly orange hue, like a harvest moon. Its grim halls echo with harsh reverence. Truly, this building better represents the gods than the cathedral in Flamechurch. The gods are distant and austere, set high above Solistia on their golden pedestals, sleeping the rest of eternity away in their divine chambers.
The Puppeteer is eager to cast them out. If they so love the world, then they should perish alongside it.
Ignoring Ophilia’s dying protests, the Puppeteer winds towards her rendezvous with the good captain. Kaldena is so righteous in her fury. Her wrath cuts colder than any Stormhail bluster. With every step she takes towards enacting her “revenge,” she falls further and further away from the light of the Flame. There could not be a perfect soldier for their dark crusade.
She halts before the grand stained glass. This piece, too, puts the cathedral to shame. Of course, that might be her bias speaking. She is so sick of lovely little Flamechurch and its stupid sheep. She triggers the hidden lock, opening wide the path into the basem*nt. The door shuts securely behind her with a soft sigh.
Kaldena must have arrived early. Distant lights from the library flicker, and she hears the soft scrape of old book pages. The Puppeteer combs through her hair and smooths her robes. It wouldn’t do to look as if she just made a mad dash away from a vengeful assassin. No, she needs to look cool, calm, composed, and confident.
And she is very confident. One little hiccup in her plans won’t change a thing. Killing them isn’t her only option, of course. Though to a lesser degree than Cyrus and Ophilia, the rest of their friends have a bit of Vide’s magic in them as well. With the completed book soon at hand, the Puppeteer will be able to influence them as well. With all eight of them under her control, she can easily dispatch the rest of their merry little band. Ophilia’s rebellion changes nothing.
The Puppeteer slips the Book of Night into her hands and strides through the door–
Oh, what terrible timing! Though the Puppeteer supposes this is rather thematic. Temenos always called the knight a little lamb, didn’t he? And what good are lambs but sacrificial slaughter?
Crick, no! Ophilia cries, making her fingers twitch.
Crick looks up in alarm. In an attempt at stealth, he isn’t wearing all of his armor–merely the padding underneath, set over a warm, cozy sweater. How quaint. He calms somewhat, finding the face of his good friend Ophilia and not one of his superiors, yet he has the decency to show some suspicion. Temenos would be so proud. “O-Ophilia?” he whispers, carefully setting his papers on the table. Oh, dear, he found the Book of Night’s missing pages. What a shame. “What are you doing here? Are you here to investigate, too?”
Stop! Don’t hurt him! You can’t! He hasn’t done anything to you!
No, he hasn’t. Nonetheless, he committed the crime of sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. The Puppeteer had no intention of racking up any collateral damage tonight, but, well, when the opportunity presents itself….
“Something like that,” she answers, tracing her fingers along the edge of the table. Crick sensibly takes a step back, moving away from her.
“Oh. W-well, I must insist that you leave this investigation to me,” he says, puffing his chest and adopting a chivalrous tone. The Puppeteer almost laughs. He’s like a child playing pretend with a little wooden sword. “I appreciate your willingness to aid the investigation, but this is a restricted area of the Sacred Guard Headquarters. I cannot in good faith–”
“Surely this newly anointed knight does not himself have the clearance to galavant through the secret archives,” the Puppeteer interrupts. She stops when Crick’s back bumps into the bookcase behind him. He nervously looks around him and finds that he’s closed in. If he’d like more space, he’d have to push Ophilia out of his way. His naive code of ethics wouldn’t dare let him disrespect her like that!
No, no, no, Ophilia pleads. But Crick isn’t one of her brood. He’s nothing more than a penpal. An acquaintance. She doesn’t truly care for him, does she?
Stop, she tries once more, but her voice hardly reaches above a whisper.
Well. She supposes Ophilia cares enough, at least. Enough for this to hurt.
The Puppeteer sadly claps her hands. “I’d love to say this isn’t personal, Crick, but it very much is.”
“What are you–”
She swipes her hand, tugging on the strings of magic running through her veins. Vide’s magic sings the sweetest song, diving deep into the dead dirt at their feet. She tugs at a green, sleeping memory, and then rotten tree roots shoot through the ground and spear through his chest.
Ophilia screams.
“Such poor manners. It’s horribly rude to interrupt a lady’s monologue,” the Puppeteer tuts. Crick doesn’t have a retort for that it seems. Temenos would have a quip. Something righteous, something like Aelfric damn you to hell or some other such nonsense. The Inquisitor was always too dramatic for his own good. Too co*cky and reckless for someone as disposable as he is. Yet, like a co*ckroach, he continues to thwart death.
Crick is better at dying, at least. Maybe he can finally teach Temenos something.
Stop it, help him, save him, CRICK–
The Puppeteer winces. She shakes her head. Who is supposed to save him? He’s full of holes, gaping like fish, sliding down the bookcase in a puddle of his own filth. Really, Ophilia. She’s a smart girl! She knows that this will kill him, and that it’s all her fault!
Let her wail and cry and struggle all she wants. The Puppeteer impassively watches Crick reach out for her. Isn’t that hilarious, asking for salvation from the one who damned him. No wonder Temenos was fond of this idiot. He surely ate that right up.
“What’s going on?” a new voice demands behind her.
Oh, good! Kaldena is here!
The Puppeteer turns with a bright smile. Kaldena rightfully looks pissed–but not for long. “Oh, Captain! I’ve been waiting for you. I’m so glad we can properly meet. Here is the book, as proof of my identity.”
As expected, the moment the Puppeteer waggles the book under her nose, Kaldena loses all interest in her dying subordinate. She takes the Book of Night, carefully flipping through its pages, confirming for herself that this is the real deal. Behind them, Crick wheezes something or another, but he’s old news. Once she’s given the book a cursory examination, Kaldena flicks her eyes up to the Puppeteer’s face. “We met in Canalbrine,” she says. “You’re traveling with the Inquisitor. Why would you assist me?”
“Traveling with him was the simplest option,” she answers easily. “I am not a warrior by any means, and he was in possession of the book, besides. I apologize for the delay in its delivery.”
Kaldena searches her face–but not for long. What matters is the book. Everything else is secondary. The Puppeteer has proven her loyalty. She has played her part very well. Joy blooms in her chest. She almost can’t contain her happiness. Soon, soon, soon, she will unleash the Long Night. Soon, she will free Vide and tear down the heavens.
Soon.
“I’ll have Cubaryi clean this up after she makes preparations for our departure,” Kaldena decides, finally sparing a glance at Crick. The Puppeteer follows her gaze. She stares, ignoring the pain of Ophilia fruitlessly struggling, really imprinting this memory.
Don’t forget, she tells the weeping thing in her head, this is your fault.
Kaldena retrieves the other half of the book, reuniting the two halves for the first time in years. She has everything she needs to conduct the ritual. Without another glance behind her, the Puppeteer follows.
Nothing can stop her now.
