And possibly an opportunity. Evelyne was likely still in the Archives, pulling reports or ordering records. She deserved space to pursue her own answers. He saw that now.
Which left him free to investigate his part of the puzzle.
Politics could lie. But the bones of a place told the truth.
And Alaric had always preferred to hear it whispered through stone.
“I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” he remarked after a pause, brushing dust from his palm. “It wasn’t introduced properly during the last council session.”
The priest tilted his head slightly. “It wasn't meant to be.”
Alaric blinked. “Ah. Is that an insult, or a tradition I’ve yet to offend?”
The old man chuckled. “Neither, I hope. The servants of Orvath relinquish their birth names upon ordination. We take no pride in lineage, nor in individual distinction. Titles suffice. Simplicity purifies intention.”
Of course they did. Alaric resisted the urge to sigh.
“Then what should I call you, if not by name?”
“Adjudicant will do,” the man explained with a soft nod. “This is my role in the Doctrine. Or nothing at all, if that suits you better. I don’t insist on formality unless the audience does.”
Alaric immediately recalled the structure of the Doctrine—at the top stood the High Preceptor, the supreme head of the entire faith. Below him were the regional overseers, known simply as Preceptors. But here, in the castle, it was the High Preceptorhimself who held residence. Just beneath them in rank were the Adjudicants.
Alaric raised an eyebrow. “You're dangerously close to being reasonable. That might get you exiled from the clergy.”
The Adjudicant gave a faint smile, almost conspiratorial. “I won’t tell, if you won’t.”
They began walking slowly down the corridor together. Most of the castle seemed to be built more to withstand sieges than to house people. But in this particular wing the stone was smoother. It felt like someone had thought about comfort once, a hundred years ago, and then promptly forgotten.
The Adjudicant walked unbothered, like someone who had long since made peace with the shape of his life.
And then, casually, like one might ask about the weather:
“How do you feel about your upcoming marriage, Your Highness?”
Alaric huffed a short breath of amusement.
“Somewhere between well-prepared and morally kidnapped,” he replied. “Depends on the hour.”
“A fair answer. If nothing else, it shows you're thinking.”
“That’s my mistake,” Alaric explained. “I found out recently that thinking tends to complicate the illusion of peace.”
They reached the heavy stone doors of Orvath’s chapel sooner than Alaric expected. The hall leading to it was colder than the rest of the wing. The torches here were fewer, and their flames burned lower. But the corridor itself grew noticeably more crowded. Not with courtiers or servants, but with figures cut from an entirely different mold.
Members of the Celestial Assembly moved in clusters—silent, imposing, and oddly synchronized, like a storm that had learned to walk on two legs.
Alaric slowed slightly, letting his gaze drift over them without being obvious. He counted seven before he stopped trying.
“Is it always this cheerful in your halls?” he murmured, low enough for the Adjudicant to hear.
The priest gave a mild smile. “They are present more than usual, yes. The wedding draws attention. Normally, they remain in their Hall of Vigilance in the city. Now, they’re everywhere.”
Alaric hummed under his breath. “We keep a few in Solmara, but not inside the palace.”
“You are fortunate,” the priest said, without malice. “They serve Orvath with unwavering discipline, but… they are not easy company.”
That was putting it gently.
