My own mask is borrowed. My robe is a shade too long, and it whispers against the cold stone floor as I shift my weight. Right now, I am a wolf in sanctified, stolen clothing.
And at the centre of it all, moving with an unnerving, deliberate grace, is our Grand Master. His vestments are a cascade of crimson and cloth-of-gold, a heavy chain of office resting on his shoulders, each link a carved obsidian skull. He holds his masked head high. A gilded sunburst with slits for eyes, as he processes toward the high altar. Behind him, a dozen priests chant in low tones, their voices weaving a sonic wall of devotion that seems to press against the very stones.
Underneath their chant, beneath the rustle of silk and the echo of footsteps, another sound loops endlessly in my mind. His voice. Calm, mocking, utterly assured. It’s as if he’s walking beside me, his lips brushing the shell of my ear beneath this damned mask.
‘You will not kill me. You’re too pragmatic.’
The words are a worm, burrowing deep. They are not a plea, but a statement of fact, delivered with the cool finality of a man who has already read the last page of the book. Killing him, he all but assured me would be an act of passion, of ideology, of something I supposedly lack.
He is wrong.
Or he was.
The knife presses against my thigh, hidden in the voluminous sleeve of this robe. Cold, hard, and terribly real. It is the absolute antithesis of pragmatism. This is madness. This is the kind of gamble that unravels empires and gets men flayed alive in public squares.
Yet, here I stand. Because of her.
The necklace around my neck, that mix of her and me, seems to press down on me like a millstone.
The procession reaches the altar, a massive block of white marble veined with blood-red jasper. The chanting priests part, bowing low. The cathedral falls into a silence so profound I can hear the sputter of individual candles. Our Grand Master ascends the three shallow steps, his back to the assembled Lords. He stands before the altar, a colossus and for a long moment, he is impossibly still.
Then with a slow, theatrical turn, he faces us.
His hands rise, gloved in finest kidskin, and lift the gilded sunburst mask from his face. He places it gently on the altar, and he reveals himself.
A collective, shuddering sigh ripples through the chamber. It is a sound of awe, of reverence bordering on ecstasy. I know this face. The sharp, intelligent features, the hawk-like nose, the eyes that are the colour of a winter sky and just as unforgiving. But to the Brethren Lords, it is more than a face. It is a symbol. It is the face of the man who holds the strings of nations in his fist, who has shaped the course of history from the shadows. As one, the hundred masked figures drop to their knees, their foreheads touching the cold stone in an act of worship.
I drop with them, the movement automatic. My knees hit the floor with a jarring thud that echoes the frantic beating of my heart. I keep my head bowed, but my eyes are locked on him. On the exposed column of his throat, on the spot where the crimson vestments part over his chest.
Pragmatic.
The word is a taunt. Killing him now, in this sacred space before his most ardent followers, is a suicide mission. It is the single most impractical act of my life.
Every logical thread I’ve ever followed leads away from this moment.
But logic is ash.
And Grace is fire.
I think of her face not as it was in the end, a mask of cold hatred, but as it was in the before that. The stubborn set of her jaw when she argued with me. The unexpected softness in her eyes in a rare, unguarded moment, the warmth of her skin under my touch. A woman who almost certainly still hates me. A woman for whom I am about to burn my entire world to the ground.
Is this love? Or is it just another, deeper form of insanity?
The priests step back from the altar, melting into the deeper shadows of the apse. This is the moment. The space around him is clear. He stands alone, bathed in a pillar of candlelight, his arms slightly raised, accepting the silent adoration of his flock.
I take one slow breath, drawing the incense-deep air into my lungs.
I hold it.
I let it out.
Then, I move.
I am not a large man, but I am swift and I am trained. The rise from my knees is a single, fluid motion. I do not shout. I do not roar. Silence is my ally. I cover the ten paces between us in a heartbeat, the borrowed robe whipping around my ankles.
The knife is in my hand now, the polished bone handle familiar, a promise fulfilled.
Those cold, knowing eyes find mine. There is no surprise in them. No fear. There is only a flicker of… what? Disappointment? Amusement?
