Alaric watched him vanish around the corner, then pivoted to face his new companions.An awkward silence settled over the stone hall like morning fog. The High Preceptor regarded Alaric with the stillness of an icon before finally breaking the hush.
“I heard from my brother,” he said, voice as dry as an unwatered shrine, “that you’ve expressed an interest in the doctrine of service. Might we expect your presence at the next gathering?”
Ravik raised a brow, watching Alaric with a kind of idle curiosity that never quite felt idle.
He cleared his throat and tried to sound casual. “Yes,” he said, giving a slight nod. “I’ve always been interested in the structure of all faiths.”
The Preceptor gave a small nod. “Orvath welcomes all who are willing,” he said, as if quoting from scripture. “And the upcoming service is special. A Rite of Shar’Deren.”
Alaric tried not to visibly react, but he felt the tension in his jaw anyway.
Shar’Deren. The ritual of cleansing through discipline. Self-flagellation, in less delicate phrasing.
A shadow of a smile crossed Alaric’s face. “I fear I may not be worthy of such devotion.”
The High Preceptor returned the smile—or rather, a version of it. “All are unworthy,” he said, voice soft as a scalpel. “That is why we must be cleansed.”
That landed with the thud of judgment wrapped in blessing.
Then, with a final parting nod to Ravik—and none to Alaric—the High Preceptor turned and swept away down the corridor like a storm cloud retreating to sermonize somewhere else.
The silence that followed was heavier. Ravik didn’t move. Just watched Alaric, as if he were reading not the moment, but what came next.
At length, Ravik broke the silence. “Shar’Deren is not a performance. It’s not meant for observation.”
Alaric tilted his head. “I wasn’t planning to bring a sketchbook, if that’s your concern.”
Ravik didn’t blink. “It is not.”
There was a pause, filled only with the subtle hiss of torchfire and the soft tread of distant boots far down the corridor.
“You still have time,” Ravik said, after a beat. “To excuse yourself. From whatever it is you think you’re learning.”
Alaric met his gaze. “I’m a curious man, Marshal. Ask anyone.”
“Curiosity,” Ravik replied, “is not an excuse. Not here.”
Alaric smiled, slow and careful. “It seems a bit contradictory to discourage someone before they’ve even sinned.”
“It’s not faith I’m warning you about,” Ravik said, gaze narrowing.
“Then what is it?”
A flicker passed then—so brief Alaric almost missed it. A hesitation in Ravik’s breath. And just before he spoke again, his gaze slid once more to Cedric. Apparently, the high-ranking ones in Edrathen didn’t just reserve their scrutiny for foreign princes—they extended it freely to anyone who hadn’t been born under the right banner or into the right blood.
It irritated him more than it should have.
He knew half the palace staff in Varantia by name. Many of them were sharper, kinder, and infinitely more bearable than most high-born men he'd ever met. Cedric, for all his dry wit and selective obedience, had stood by his side longer and truer than any lord ever had.
“You won’t find answers in the rite, Your Highness.” Ravik said finally. “Only consequences. Perhaps you should consider a pilgrimage. Since you’re so eager to learn.” A pause. “I’ve heard it strengthens the spirit.”
Alaric’s fingers stilled, but he didn’t look away. He knew exactly which pilgrimage Ravik meant.
The Path of Binding.
A once-yearly ordeal through the northern Drometh Wastes. Walked barefoot. No food or water. The destination: The Bound Vigil. A weather-carved sculpture of two massive stone hands straining from the earth, wrists shackled together by a rusted iron chain.
Not all returned.
