"Did you give him the quest?" I asked.

  Lumiere had not moved. I could feel her in the periphery of my attention, a presence held too carefully in pce. Her hands were folded. Her posture was composed. But the tension in her shoulders betrayed her.

  "Quest," Phymera repeated, tasting the word. "Is that what you call it?"

  "Did you tell him what you told us?" I pressed. "The rewards. And your conditions for obtaining them."

  Across the heatless circle, Phymera's borrowed mouth curved.

  "It is not often that I get visitors," she said. "Rarer still that they survive the approach. I cannot afford to be picky."

  I felt my stomach settle into a colder pce. "Where is he now?"

  Phymera opened her mouth, then paused, looking toward the chamber exit.

  I opened my mouth to press again, but the answer arrived before I could.

  Metal.

  The groan of hinges under load. The stressed compint of something built to be opened by bodies rger than ours.

  The double doors outside.

  The sound continued, irregur, like a breath forced through clenched teeth. Then came muffled voices, and the dull thud of boots.

  Evelyn's head lifted. Her spine went subtly straighter, like a cord had been drawn through her. Rocher rose partway from his seat, hand already near his sword.

  Seraphine did not move. She was still eating, methodical, chewing dried boar with the stubborn focus of someone determined not to let the world interrupt her meal.

  The rest of us spilled out into the hall.

  The doors shuddered. The groan became a grind.

  Three padins per door were braced with their shoulders against the metal, boots pnted, arms corded with effort. Their faces were red with strain. Their breath came in harsh bursts. Even so, the doors moved only by inches.

  Between those inches, a man stepped through.

  He didn't bother to look at the men bearing the weight. He simply passed through the gap they had made with their bodies, walking with the unhurried ease of someone entering a drawing room.

  Bishop Halbrecht.

  Several dozen followed.

  Priests in yered vestments, padins in armor stamped with Church iconography, acolytes carrying packs and poles and bundled fabric. Their pace was disciplined. Their spacing precise. A column that flowed into the hall like a poured line of ink.

  Within moments, the hall outside our chamber began to transform.

  Tents went up in rows, aligned to invisible standards. Lanterns were hung at equal intervals. A perimeter formed around the hall's central space, and then tightened, enclosing our rough circle of bedrolls and crates.

  Our camp had been practical. Improvised. And, in a way, honest: a handful of people doing their best to survive.

  Halbrecht's camp was a statement.

  It hemmed us in with such efficiency that it felt deliberate, almost mocking. Order surrounding disorder. The Church's neat geometry id over our ragtag sprawl like a shroud.

  Seraphine did not look up from her food. When a tent pole cnged against stone, she clicked her tongue in irritation. "Could they be any louder?"

  I ughed despite myself.

  Beside me, Lumiere drew a breath.

  "I'd better go pay my respects," she said quietly.

  She knew the rules of this world better than any of us. The Church respected hierarchy, and if she did not assert hers first, Halbrecht would fill the gap with his own.

  She started to move.

  I caught her wrist. Her skin was cmmy under my fingers.

  "Wait," I said. "You shouldn't go alone."

  She turned her head slightly. Her eyes held that old, familiar stubbornness, the one that had carried her through a life of being watched.

  "It's all right," she said. Her tone was gentle in the way she used when she was managing me. "He would not act so brazenly in front of others. Not with so many eyes on him."

  I watched the camp tighten another notch around ours. "Do you really think the people he brought down here would choose you over him?"

  "I think they can be fanatical about him," she said, "and still pay me due respect."

  The distinction mattered to her. It was the spine of her position. As Saintess. As a symbol. A figure the Church could not easily step over without making a mess of its own doctrine.

  But doctrine was flexible in the hands of men like Halbrecht.

  I let go of her wrist and forced myself to speak like a pnner, not a protector.

  "Take Seraphine and Rocher with you," I said. "If Halbrecht comes here in force, you should meet him in kind. It'll discourage anything... untoward."

  Rocher's jaw tightened.

  Seraphine swallowed and wiped her fingers on a scrap of cloth. "My meal's going to go cold," she mented, as if this were all an inconvenience.

  "It's what you get for being a slow eater," Evelyn teased.

  Lumiere's gaze flicked toward her.

  "Evelyn stays here," I said before she could ask. "She's not supposed to be down here. Halbrecht will use that fact against you. And I..." I felt my teeth want to grit. "He has already branded me a witch once. If he's looking for an excuse to undermine you, dragging me into your procession will only help him."

  Lumiere turned. "You won't be going?"

  "As he'd mentioned once before," I said, "there's a cost to associating with me."

  Her mouth twitched. "Sister—"

  A figure entered the chamber.

  A messenger in the colors of the Church, dust on his boots, cheeks flushed from exertion. He stopped just inside the threshold and lowered his head with precise courtesy.

  "Pardon my intrusion," he said. "Bishop Halbrecht requests an audience."

  Lumiere took a step forward automatically, already assembling her expression into something formal.

  Rocher and Seraphine shifted to fnk her as if they had done so for years.

  "Of course. Tell him we will be with him shortly," Lumiere said.

  The messenger lifted a hand, gentle but firm. "The Bishop will receive Your Holiness in due time. First, he requests a private conversation with Lady Cire."

  Seraphine's eyes narrowed. I felt Rocher's attention snap to me like a tether going taut.

  Lumiere's face did not change, but I saw the micro-tension in her jaw, the quick flicker of anger she did not permit herself to show.

  "May I ask what for?" I said slowly.

  The messenger shook his head. "He said you might ask, but declined to provide a reason. He only offered this assurance: should you attend him without disturbance, no harm will come to you or your friends."

  Lumiere and I gnced at each other.

  "Very well," I said.

  We rose.

  Evelyn stayed seated, lounging back on her hands with deliberate nonchance, like she was an observer at a py. But her gaze tracked the messenger. Tracked the door. Tracked the camp outside.

  As we stepped into the hall, the difference hit like a scent.

  Oil. Incense. Clean leather. Fresh cloth. The smell of men who had not been living off dried meat and fear.

  Padins moved with purpose. Priests murmured in low, organized clusters. Supplies were stacked in neat pyramids. Lanterns cast disciplined pools of light. Even the sound of footsteps was measured.

  We walked through it like intruders.

  A few heads turned. A few gazes lingered. Some were curious. Some were wary. Some held cold disdain.

  Lumiere held herself through it all.

  Rocher moved close enough that his shoulder brushed mine once, a subtle contact, a reassurance offered without sentiment. His voice came low, close to my ear.

  "However fancy it looks," he murmured, "tent walls are still thin. If anything goes wrong, just remember: a shout will carry."

  I didn't look at him. I only nodded once, minimal.

  We reached a tent that stood out from the others.

  It was not rger, exactly, but it was ornamented. The fabric was darker, edged with gold trim. A carved symbol of the Church had been hung above the entrance, catching the runelight like a verdict.

  Two padins stood guard. They did not regard us. They didn't move, either.

  The messenger lifted the fp and gestured for me to enter.

  I paused just long enough to look back.

  Lumiere stood with Rocher and Seraphine a few paces behind. Their faces were composed, but their attention fixed on me with the taut awareness of deliberate separation.

  I gave Lumiere a small nod.

  Then I ducked into the tent.

  The smell hit first.

  Smoke.

  Not incense. Something richer, heavier. A cigar, lit and burning in the enclosed space.

  Halbrecht sat in a chair that was too grand for a tent.

  It wasn't the only furnishing that didn't belong.

  Furs lined the floor. A low table held a decanter and gssware that gleamed in nternlight. A rolled painting leaned against one pole, carefully wrapped as if it were precious. Another was hung already, absurdly, on the tent wall: a pastoral scene of sunlight and wheat fields, pced here like an insult.

  Halbrecht rolled the cigar between two fingers, rexed. He did not rise to meet me.

  "Good evening," he said from his seat. Then, as if amused by his own phrasing, "Or morning. It is difficult to tell without sunlight. And the old clock tower of Marrud-Vael is broken, I'm afraid."

  An attempt at rapport. A shared inconvenience. A way to pretend we were equals in the dark.

  "What do you want?" I asked.

  He exhaled smoke, slow and deliberate, smiling at my bluntness as though I were a child acting out.

  "There will be time enough for that," he said. He reached for the decanter and poured wine into a gss with unhurried precision. "Please. Get comfortable."

  He held the gss out toward me, unwavering.

  I didn't take it.

  "What is that supposed to mean?" I said, folding my arms.

  He set the gss down on the table as if he had expected my refusal. "It means," he said, "that I expect us to be working together for a long time."

  My stomach tightened.

  "In my correspondence with His Highness," he said, "he mentioned you by name several times. A person of interest. A woman with unusual access to unusual events."

  His gaze dipped briefly, then returned to my eyes—not desire, but calcution wearing its shape.

  I kept my face still.

  "It is my sincerest regret," he continued, "to have accused you of witchcraft. We are all prone to errors when we ck information. I hope we may start again, on the right footing."

  I stared at him.

  He was offering an apology the way a king offers charity: to establish dominance, not to repair harm.

  "Person of interest," I scoffed. "You have no idea what that means."

  His brows lifted a fraction.

  "In the spirit of starting again," I continued, "let me advise you: Corveaux is not someone you should want to associate with."

  That got a real flicker from him. Not anger. Interest, sharper now.

  Halbrecht tapped ash into a tray. "It is always fascinating," he said, "how those who have what I covet so willingly squander it."

  I did not ask what he meant. I could feel the trap in the invitation.

  Instead I held his gaze and said nothing.

  Halbrecht's smile widened by a millimeter. "No matter," he said. "I had hoped to speak first as friends. On to business then, shall we?"

  Then, louder, toward the tent entrance, "Let them in."

  The fp lifted.

  Lumiere entered first, posture composed, expression formal. Rocher followed close behind her, eyes scanning the space instantly, checking angles and exits. Seraphine came st, gaze ft, taking in the furs and paintings with the detached contempt of someone unimpressed by luxury.

  All three of them looked at me. Their eyes said the same thing.

  Are you okay?

  I gave them a furtive nod.

  "Welcome, Saintess. Sage and Hero as well." He leaned back slightly, cigar smoke drifting around his head like a halo of vice. "I'm afraid this accommodation is inadequate for our collective greatness."

  He gestured to the chairs as if he were hosting a salon.

  "Even so, please make yourselves at home," he said. "We have much to discuss."

  Lumiere did not sit. Neither did Rocher. Seraphine hovered as if considering it, then decided standing was less effort than performing respect.

  Lumiere simply bowed her head. "The Goddess favors those who show consideration, Bishop Halbrecht. We do not intend to be long."

  She lifted her eyes to meet his. "Before you arrived, we were making good to turn in for the night. By all appearances, it's been a long day for both of us."

  He drew on his cigar and let the silence stretch until it belonged to him.

  "My apologies, Saintess. I hadn't realized," he said, conversational. "Then I shall endeavor to keep things brief."

  A ring of smoke left his mouth before dissipating. Seraphine grimaced.

  "I will be leading things from now until the Sun Court Jubilee. I expect to have your cooperation."

  The words were simple. The implication was not.

  Lumiere's voice was steady when she spoke. "To what end?"

  Halbrecht looked at her as if he were looking at a beautiful relic: valuable, symbolic, and ultimately something to be pced where he wanted it.

  "Do you truly need me to say it aloud?" he asked.

  Seraphine shrugged. "I for one always prefer it when men announce their delusions clearly," she said.

  Halbrecht ignored her.

  His gaze returned to Lumiere, and in that gaze was something clinical.

  "I'm going to make my mark on history," he said.

  Then he smiled, slow and certain, and the smoke curled around his face like a staged omen.

  "I am going to take the head of the former Demon Lord."