Her gaze drifted from the blur of lords, sharpening on the book. It sat in the center of the heavy oak table, thick and ancient. Halwen’s book. The one he had clung to like a dying man grasping a relic of salvation. The pages were closed now, bound tight by a heavy clasp, but Evelyne could feel it humming.
Her fingers itched for it.
Because the answers were there. In that book. Not in the way the High Chancellor insisted on referring to the ritual as a “political provocation.”
The Lord Justiciar shifted uncomfortably. “It’ll be sealed,” he explained. “Until the Assembly renders a judgment.”
“Of course it will,” Alaric muttered, loud enough to be heard.
Evelyne’s eyes flicked to him. She didn’t like it either. That the Celestial Assembly had already been to the ritual site. That they had seen the bodies. That their white-robed delegates had drifted like carrion birds through the ash and ruin, and no one had dared stop them from claiming what they wanted.
She didn’t like it one bit.
The doors opened without announcement. Just the slow, deliberate creak of ancient hinges and the soft rustle of robes against stone. A chill gust followed them in, the silence that accompanied them was worse than noise.
And then they came, cloaked in authority. The Celestial Assembly.
The Sanctoral of Vellesmere walked first—tall, draped in white robe with a high collar that rose behind his head. He was the governor of the capital’s Hall of Vigilance, and his gaze alone was enough to silence even the most boastful councilors. Beside him came his Eclipsants. Two figures garbed in the same stark white, their lips visibly sewn shut with black thread.
The council straightened.
No one spoke.
The Sanctoral's voice, when it came, was deep and oddly resonant. “The object is under ecclesiastical custody,” he said, gesturing at the book. “It will be transported to the central archives for examination.”
“By whose authority?” Alaric asked, his arms now crossed.
Sanctoral's bright blue eyes turned toward him. “By the authority of the Treaty of Ashenfell. And the judgment of the Threnarch.”
A colder hush followed.
The Threnarch. The supreme head of the Celestial Assembly. Spiritual and logistical commander of all branches. No one had ever seen him. His stronghold’s location was known only to inner Assembly members. But every order and cleansing began with his seal.
The Sanctoral continued. “The artifact in question bears signs of enchantment. Whether forged or residual, it is not for mortal courts to determine. The Assembly will decide whether it is to be destroyed or contained.”
“Destroyed?” Alaric repeated. “Without even discussing what it might be?”
“Thisis the discussion,” the Sanctoral cut in.
The Eclipsants’s heads turned, slowly toward the book. Their bodies remained still, but Evelyne felt it. The weight of their attention.
Evelyne wondered if they had felt her too.
The Sanctoral took few steps forward, and this time, she took him in fully. He was tall, his skin was dark and his head cleanly shaven. But it was his eyes Evelyne couldn’t look away from—blue and bright. Almost unnatural.
“The object will be taken to the central archives and the rite place will be burned,” the Sanctoral repeated. “Have any suspects been captured?”
Alaric opened his mouth again, but before he could speak, the High Chancellor leaned forward.
“If I may, Sanctoral,” the Chancellor began, “we were hoping the Assembly might share… any insight gathered at the site. Concerning the nature of the ritual. Its origins, perhaps? There are rumors—”
“You will not address rumors,” the Sanctoral interrupted. “And the Assembly does not speculate. It renders verdicts.”
The Chancellor hesitated. “But surely, as this took place within Edrathen’s borders, and the ritual—”
“The ritual was profane,” the Sanctoral retorted. “The symbols desecrated sacred ground. The specifics are irrelevant.”
Irrelevant.
