They passed two more standing at the chapel entrance. No weapons drawn, but armed all the same.
He angled his head. “Would it be terribly improper if I visited the chapel? Just to have a look.”
Adjudicant paused mid-step, then offered a gracious incline of his head. “Not improper. Orvath welcomes those who seek clarity of purpose. Whether they find it… or not.”
That sounded vague enough to meanyou’re being watched, so behave, but Alaric gave a polite nod anyway.
“Clarity of purpose is a strong phrase for a man looking for five minutes of silence,” he said.
The Adjudicant’s smile returned, faint but unreadable. “Then you’ll find what you seek.”
He gave a final nod and drifted toward the chapel. The two white-robed figures of the Celestial Assembly flanking the doors remained perfectly still. Alaric followed and felt it: the pressing and almost physical weight of their gaze. He hated their presence. It always made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t quite rationalize. Theysmelledwrong, too. Cloying and too herbal, like incense trying too hard to cover rot.
He stepped into the chapel and instinctively veered toward the back, slipping into the last pew in silence. He settled on one ofthe backless stone benches and bowed his head, just enough to appear contemplative.
He lacked tact, true—but making the most of inconvenient moments? That was practically a talent.
The chapel was small by Varantian standards, almost severe in its restraint. No gilded panels, no painted saints—just bare stone walls, iron sconces, and the faint, metallic tang of cold dust clinging to the air like old breath.
Alaric didn’t bother searching for hidden sigils; there would be none here. The Doctrine of Orvath was not new. Orvath had once been one of the Old Gods, as had Ilmora and Rhyssa. Worshiped in the same halls that had crowned kings before the world cracked. During the Age of Aetherum, mortals wielded magic as a divine gift, until it began to turn against them.
Ilmora saw laws become cages. Rhyssa saw devotion twisted into chains. Orvath saw strength wasted in submission.
Together, they became the Triad of Rebellion, breaking the seals and giving mortals what they called the truth—that magic had never been a blessing, but a slow execution. First came the illusion of power. Then, the cost in flesh. The Triad urged mortals to stop using it before it consumed them entirely. That was the story.
Or at least, that was the one that had been told ever since.
Alaric was never a believer. Myths polished into doctrine always hid something ugly beneath. But if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that religions were excellent at hoarding knowledge. And Orvath’s faith, for all its severity, had been there before and after the Sundering.
Alaric glanced around slowly. The architecture gave nothing away, but Cedric’s notes had been precise. The irregularity in the northern wall, just to the left of the third torch. A hairline seam, invisible unless you knew where to look.
Alaric didn’t approach. Not now. That would be reckless and a little too on-the-nose, even for him. He rose and crossed to the Adjudicant instead, who was now arranging scrolls on the stone altar. Charm was always his favorite misdirection. If they were watching his mouth, they wouldn’t see what his hands were doing.
“Forgive the interruption,” he whispered, “but I had a question.”
The priest turned to him with that same serene gravity.
“I’ve been studying different forms of liturgical discipline,” Alaric continued smoothly. “Old structures. I’d be curious to observe one of Orvath’s rites firsthand. Are there any services being held this week?”
The Adjudicant considered him for a moment. “There is one,” he said. “In the middle of the week. The fourth day of Nyrix.”
“So, before the wedding.” Alaric bowed his head slightly. “I’ll stop by. Clarity before a wedding ceremony would be helpful.”
“May Orvath bless you with endurance,” the priest intoned, placing two fingers to his temple in ritual farewell.
“And you with silence,” Alaric replied smoothly, offering the traditional response, that he read in one scroll. He gave a final nod, turned, and strode out without another glance.
No congregation tomorrow. No witnesses. Just a locked passage and time. The first time in Edrathen his nosiness may have helped.
Perfect.
He stepped into the corridor and allowed himself a single, private smile.
Chapter 28
“What?”
Evelyne blinked, as if the pause might reassemble the sentence into something else, but Vesena didn’t take it back.
