Behind her, one more figure stepped out. An Attendant dressed in formal violet robes with black hair drawn up in a tight bun, piercing black eyes, and a severe limp in one foot. The eyes of the Prismatum did not linger on her form. Just another Attendant. Certainly nothing of interest compared to the Sokâr.
Her Radiance’s hair was braided tightly down her spine in a formal wrap, woven through with silver wire. Her steps were precise, her posture unshaken as she gestured for attention. Attendants, Priests, and High Priests alike all snapped to obey, their eyes wide and their mouths agape.
“We are present to inspect the site of the attack at the Lustrate,” she announced, her crystalline voice cutting through silence. Behind her, her Attendantarranged her silk veil to fall just so, removing a snag, ensuring it flowed with each of her movements.
It was not a request.
Not even a command.
It was a decree.
The nearest priest flinched as though struck. Another scrambled to his feet, then froze mid-rise when Kailorien took one slow step forward—no words, no threat, just the sound of his armor whispering across polished stone. His hood had not fallen. Beneath, his eyes glowed blue. The presence of him, theweightof him, coiled through the chamber like smoke.
No one dared refuse Her Radiance.
They led them into the inner sanctum of the Prismatum without any resistance.
The Lustrate was colder than Auryn remembered.
The sacred loom space still sighed with the memory of cast magic. Coppery mana-washed threads hung limp from their mounts, half-dyed in dull pigment. Several spindles remained untouched, their ends crusted over. And beside the main altar, a wash of rust-colored residue stained the seam of the floor.
Blood. Scrubbed. But not completely erased.
Auryn stepped over it. “We will begin here,” she said.
A High Priest scrambled to her side, his hands flying up in frantic signs—Your Radiance, this mess will be cleaned in short order. The Prismatum has sent missives to the Council. Requested resources to cleanse the tile of the traitor’s filth.
“In this case, it is good that the Council moves slowly,” she commented. “Let Us hope that not too many signs of the attack have been erased. We intend to investigate in depth.”
No one questioned her.
She moved through the Lustrate like a shadow of memory—tracing her own past steps. Her fingers hovered near the frame where the weaver had fallen. Her eyes swept over every wall, every loose thread.
Kailorien did not speak. He stood behind her, slightly to the left, always between her and the door.
A younger priest tried to approach—perhaps to offer some unnecessary explanation—but stopped short when Auryn turned sharply and said, “Was a search of hair conducted?”
The man blinked, startled, and signed in reply, 'Hair, Your Radiance.'
“Yes,” she said. “Did you sweep the floor for strands? Did you collect shed fragments from the spools? Was the body’s head preserved for sampling?”
Inwardly, Auryn flinched at her own question. The memory of that head rolling against her slippers made her queasy. But she showed no sign of discomfort. Couldn’t.
'Not preserved,'the High Priest signed as he joined the conversation. 'The body was incinerated under protocol.'
Auryn’s face didn’t move.
Kailorien’s hand flexed behind his back, the only visible sign of reaction.
“We understand,” Auryn murmured. “Then no attempt was made to trace identification via shed matter.”
'The traitor possessed no Batcher on his body,'the High Priest admitted, stepping forward, eyes downcast. 'No numeric rune. No city record.'
Auryn’s gaze swept the chamber again, colder this time. “Then we are to believe the intruder was Solutus.”
'Yes, Your Radiance.'
A long pause.
