Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was no color in Stormhail.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true— not anymore. In the last five or so years, in the wake of the sanctions placed upon the old Sacred Guard after its corruption had come to light, Crick had noticed more and more color returning to the city: bright banners placed on the exterior walls of businesses and hardy plants grown inside, barely visible through the frost lacing the windows. The bravest of merchants, come to test the new peace of the city by setting up stalls in the parts of the square that were most sheltered from the snow, selling mittens or scarves or hats or cloaks in an array of dyed wool, spun all across Solistia. A beautiful, bright yellow sun, enormous, painted one night at the crumbling entry of Stormhail’s famous wall. Nobody in the city had confessed to the deed; nobody had yet managed to find the heart to erase it. 

Before, all the color in Stormhail came from flowers in the graveyard.

Sometimes it came from blood on the snow.

The Crestlands, by comparison, were the beating heart of all color on the Eastern continent. To ride from Stormhail to Flamechurch was to watch color and life return to the world, blooming before one’s very eyes. From the pale, icy forest, long since buried under unrelenting snow and the gargantuan dark stone of the frigid north, through the muted browns and reds, broken bridges and oppressive, echoing silence of the mines, down into the Crestlands, where permanently autumnal foliage waved gently from whatever perch it could find in the cliffs, glittering with a rainbow of colors in the sun. The road meandered past streams and waterfalls, cutting the slightest bit too close to dangerous descents, but allowing for views that couldn’t exist anywhere else. Landscapes of red and green and gold stretched as far as the eye could see, looking out over tiny villages dotted throughout the mountains, marked more by the distant sheep grazing around them than by the buildings themselves.

Stepping into the mountain village of Flamechurch for the second time in his life was like surfacing for air. At a glance, very little had changed; were it not for the memories he brought with him, Crick could have been convinced it was his first visit all over again— that he’d just been assigned to escort duty at the cathedral, like every newly-anointed knight before him. It was made of all the same charming wooden cottages and stone paths, lined by candles and braziers not just for the light they would provide when the sun set, but in worship, in honor of the Sacred Flame. Crick took a deep breath of clean air, baked goods and incense lingering on the very edges of it, and stepped into the square.

He nudged an unassuming stone with the toe of his boot. His last visit had been interrupted right about here, hadn’t it? He looked out over the ridge, where once there had been an altercation: a man speaking out against the gods, his blade held to the throat of a cleric who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d fallen for the same trick the insurgent had, believing the cleric defenseless… right up until he called upon the power of the Flamebringer himself to smite him down.

Crick huffed out a laugh and turned to continue on his way. There would be time to reminisce later. For now, he had a job to do. His first assignment had gone awry before he could so much as report in; he was determined this one would be different. This time, he knew where he was going. This time, he knew the man he was meant to report to. This time, nothing—

A shrill scream cut the air from further up the path. Crick took off running.

It wasn’t long before he caught sight of the situation: two monsters along the mountain path ahead, far closer to the village than they should have been. One of them, some variety of clawed beast he knew wasn’t local to the area, grappled with someone in the armor of a Sanctum Knight, their sword drawn. At their back, a young woman held a walking stick defensively in her hands against the second monster staring her down.

He took its measure quickly— small for its kind, frail and weak. Hungry, perhaps. Made dangerous not by its strength, but by the fact that it was a desperate animal, and would act as such.

What had caused it to try and cross this path during the day? Why had it come this way?

Before he could come up with an answer, he dashed between them and blocked a swipe of its horns with his sword, arms shaking with the force of the impact. His mind cleared itself of all but the situation before him, not willing to risk distraction, even against so simple an enemy. He knew better.

A distracted knight was a dead knight.

Crick shifted to face the creature more directly, bringing his sword up. He spoke without looking over his shoulder at the woman behind him. “There is no need to fear; we will protect you. Hurry— return to the village. Now, go!”

He saw it in the monster’s eyes when she ran. He thought it would try to follow her, seeking out the easiest victim, but instead, it simply focused its attention on him.

No… on something past him?

Whatever the case, better him than a civilian. He kept an ear out for the sounds of the second fight further up the path. He didn’t have time to focus on it; if the other combatant truly was a Sanctum Knight, then they could handle a single monster alone.

Especially if it was as weak as the one he was facing seemed to be.

“You cannot pass this way. Return to the place you came from, or risk your life.”

It screeched, wild, and threw itself bodily into a charge. He caught it easily enough— or would have, were it not for the clear desperation behind it. The creature thrashed violently, causing itself more harm on his blade than Crick had. Blood splattered across the ground, thick rivulets running down his armor.

It was… horrifying.

“Very well, then,” he muttered, strained. “To battle.”

The fight didn’t last long. With the monster already so weak, it was far from a match for a knight like Crick, who— generously— had more skill with a sword than most. He didn’t want to prolong its suffering, made more difficult by the way it writhed, all but shredding itself against the blade. Even so, all it took was one clean blow, and then the monster crumpled to the ground, still.

He exhaled, shaky. Sheathed his sword. “That’s that.”

The other knight did the same, expression drawn tight. His eyes ran lines across the trees, scanning, before finally returning to Crick. “Thank you. Those creatures were… I wasn’t sure I could…”

His voice cut off in a sudden choking sound, eyes pinned somewhere near Crick’s shoulder.

Crick frowned. “Are you alright?”

“Knight Commander Wellsley, sir! Please excuse me!”

Ah.

He reached up to scratch the back of his head, ears burning. “There’s no need for all that. Just ‘Crick’ is fine. And you’re…”

Crick narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, trying to place him. The knight was young— younger than Crick himself, that much was certain— with all the tension and formality that came with being recently promoted. He held his back and shoulders ramrod straight, perfectly at attention despite his clear exhaustion. He looked vaguely familiar, blond hair shades lighter and slightly longer than Crick’s own, and barely taller.

He’d tried to learn the names of each and every new recruit to the Sacred Guard, after the restructure. For a while, he’d even managed it; there hadn’t exactly been an excess of people wanting to join an organization with a reputation like theirs, and especially not after the truth about its corruption had come out. But time, as they said, healed many wounds— and the ones it couldn’t, hard work and the right attitude from those that remained would.

Lately, there had been more recruits than Crick could keep up with. He’d never been so pleased to realize he couldn’t remember someone’s name.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t have you during training. Remind me of your name.”

If possible, he straightened further, folding an arm over his chest. “Elio, sir. I’ve been assigned to escort duty at the Flamechurch cathedral for the past eight months.”

Crick hummed. “Elio. You’re coming up on the end of your assignment here, then. How are you finding it?”

“Peaceful. Or…” His voice trailed off. “That’s what I would have said a few months ago.”

“What makes you say that?”

“There’s been an unusual increase in local monster activity. Creatures like the ones we just fought. They usually know better than to cut through the path between Flamechurch and the cathedral, but… More and more, people are having to request an escort on their journeys. Not just the pilgrimages, either.” Elio sighed. “People are afraid. It’s getting to be more than I can do alone, sir. I was thinking about sending a letter up to headquarters to request they send another knight to help handle the work. I— I’m honored to serve, of course, it’s just—”

Crick waved a hand in the air between them, not quite resisting a smile. “It’s alright, I understand. Strange behavior, for the creatures here. They seemed almost… possessed. Perhaps I’ll sign off on that letter of request, if you say it’s too much for one knight. I trust your judgment on the matter.”

“O-Oh, thank you, sir.”

“Think nothing of it. It is our duty to protect people.” His eyes caught on a thin line of red running across Elio’s cheek. “You’re injured.”

His hand flew up to his face on instinct. “This? It’s nothing, sir. I’ll clean it later.”

“Please, allow me.” Crick held a hand up and closed his eyes. 

Most people had an affinity for one kind of magic or another, even if only in small ways, but to Crick, calling on magic of any kind felt like trying to light a candle in a room full of rising water. Even if he managed it, it was only a matter of time before something beyond his control smothered it, regardless. For a long time, he hadn’t seen the point— and neither had the Sacred Guard. He knew how to swing a sword, and that was good enough for everyone.

At least, it had been.

Eventually, he found it: the spark that would allow him to reach for the power of the gods. He muttered a quick prayer under his breath before opening his eyes once more. “Be healed.”

A thrill ran through him as the scrape vanished, dissolving in a subtle green glow. “I did it.”

“… You did,” Elio said, eyes wide. He drew a hand across his cheek. “You can use healing magic?”

“I’ve been practicing,” Crick said, something quiet and undeniably proud in it. Temenos would— 

Oh, right.

Temenos.

“Do you know where I can find the inquisitor?”

Elio furrowed his brows— confused, perhaps, at the sudden change of topic. “Do you mean Inquisitor… Temenos, sir?”

“I have a new assignment of my own,” he said by way of reply, pulling the letter the captain had given him from his bag to once again make sure he hadn’t somehow imagined it. “Knight liaison, Flamechurch. Personal guard to the inquisitor.”

“Oh.”

He didn’t quite frown, but a familiar kind of tension came across Elio’s face, drawing the corners of his mouth tight. Crick only barely managed to stop himself from laughing; it seemed Temenos hadn’t changed much since they last met, if he still elicited such looks from the people around him.

Crick cleared his throat to hide his amusement. “I take it you’ve met him, then.”

“No,” he said, too quickly, and then, “I— I mean, yes, I have. Met the inquisitor.”

Stricken by a sudden sympathy, Crick reached out to place a hand on Elio’s shoulder. “Try not to take anything he says too personally. He doesn’t trust the Sacred Guard, but he has his reasons. And despite them, he’s still a good person, deep down. I promise.”

“You know him, sir?”

“I do. He’s…” Crick cast his gaze up towards the distant cathedral to choose his words, squinting against the light. Complicated? Eventually, he settled on, “We worked together, a few years ago. He saved my life. How is he?”

Elio shot him a strange look. “He seemed as well as usual, last I saw him. It’s been some time; I don’t believe he’s around right now.”

Crick frowned. “He isn’t in the village?”

“It’s not uncommon. But maybe someone up at the cathedral will know where he is.”

“I will make my way there, then. He’ll never let me live it down if I’m late,” he said, wry. Crick turned with an outstretched hand. “I look forward to working with you, Elio. Don’t hesitate to call on me if you need anything.”

He took it. “Thank you, sir. The same to you.”

At the top of the mountain path, the splendor of the cathedral stretched out before him, framed by trees and cast in the bright light of the midday sun. In such light, the building was probably visible from every village in the Crestlands, a shining monument to the gods and everything they’d done for the world. And there, in front of it, lay the undying symbol of his very faith, a blue fire flickering gently in its cradle in the center of the path to light the way. 

The Sacred Flame.

Crick watched it burn for a long moment, heart near full to bursting. He admired the way its light reflected in his armor. His first visit to Flamechurch hadn’t been but a few days, but now, being able to work in such a place, protecting someone he cared about…

He certainly was lucky, wasn’t he?

He lowered his head and offered a quiet prayer to the gods before continuing on his way up the stairs, past the ever watchful eyes of the statues overlooking the path. 

At the entrance to the cathedral— doors wide open this time, thank the gods— a woman dressed in the robes of the Order of the Sacred Flame stood, writing in a journal. He’d passed several such women back in the village, herding children or helping with repairs or smiling at people as they walked by. This one hummed a familiar hymn under her breath, glancing up from her work at his approach.

Crick lifted a hand in greeting. “Excuse me—”

“Oh, a Sanctum Knight!” She tucked her journal away in her robes and hurried over to him. “Good afternoon. Welcome to the Flamechurch cathedral. How can I help you?”

“Good afternoon, sister. I’ve been sent from Stormhail; I’m to report directly to Inquisitor Temenos for an assignment. Do you know where I might find him?”

Something slightly pained came across her face. “I’m sorry to say, but the inquisitor is currently away from Flamechurch, with no location or specific date of return.”

A blink. “The church doesn’t know where he is or when he’ll be back?”

“I’m afraid not. Please accept my sincerest apologies,” she bowed. “It’s… to be expected.”

“Elio said that, too. Can I ask what you mean?”

The sister hummed, folding her hands in front of her. “Inquisitor Temenos is known to take up inquiries without notice— even ones that take him away from Flamechurch for many weeks.”

Crick lifted his eyebrows. “Weeks?”

“To be truthful, it doesn’t always sit right with some of the clergy,” she said, shifting uncomfortably in place, “but there is no question that he gets results, even if his methods are somewhat… unorthodox.”

Unorthodox. That was certainly one way to describe Temenos.

“And he doesn’t leave any information about where he’s gone?”

“I don’t believe so. If he does, he certainly hasn’t left it with anyone here.”

“That’s…” Crick stifled a sigh. He must have done a poor job, as the sister shot him a pitying look. Something small and subtly annoyed twinged in his chest. He didn’t know who he was more irritated with: the church, or Temenos himself. 

“Have you been by his home yet? He’s been gone for some time. It’s possible that he’s returned,” she said, with all the confidence of someone stumbling through an unfamiliar room in the dark. “But if he’s not there, or at the chapel, then… you may just have to wait, I’m afraid.”

Another sigh. “I see. I suppose I will have to see if he’s at home, then. Would you direct me, please?”

“Of course.” She gestured back out the cathedral doors, palm facing the sky. “He lives next door to the chapel, back in the village. It’s up on the ridge just as you enter from the mountain path… follow the road, and you can’t miss it. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you.”

He shook his head. “You’ve been very helpful, thank you. May the Sacred Flame guide you.”

“And you, as well. Oh! If he hasn’t yet returned, then please come by the cathedral this evening,” she said. “Someone will help get you settled for your stay, should you choose to remain.”

Crick nodded his thanks. As he passed through the cathedral doors, a sharp gust of wind sent a few brown leaves flying across the path— the first fallen leaves of autumn, maybe. He resisted the urge to shiver at the new chill in the air and set out once more towards the village.

Just as he’d been told, a small cottage sat tucked away on the ridge, right alongside an aging, white stone chapel. 

It looked so… normal. Much like the man himself, Temenos’ house was relatively unassuming, at a glance. There were no signs that anyone specific lived there— or anyone at all, really: no garden or planter box of flowers or herbs, no tools left outside, no place for mail. The shutters were closed tight above a storage rack for firewood, its supply dwindling. Even the lantern at the door was clouded over with disuse. A closer look revealed that it was rusting, likely left abandoned to the elements for some time.

Crick huffed, putting a hand on his hip. Temenos really should take better care of his things.

He lifted a hand to knock. Paused. Withdrew it once more, reaching instead to rub the shorn section of hair at the back of his head. He was fairly certain Temenos wouldn’t turn him away, if he was home to do so; he might even be glad to see him, in his own way. But after everything that had happened between them— after the way they’d parted, and the years that had passed since…

What was he even supposed to say?

Well. 

He knew what he was supposed to say: ‘Knight Commander Crick Wellsley, reporting as ordered for duty as personal guard to the inquisitor, sir.’ He also knew if he did, Temenos would laugh at him. 

Not overtly, not at first. No, at first, it would just be that subtle little twitch at the corner of his mouth, and the familiar way his dark eyes would drop to look him over, examining him for evidence of any little thing to needle him about. Then he would open that mouth, chin lifting, and say something just pointed enough to fluster him, or draw out a long-suffering sigh, or, worse, he would simply pretend like nothing had changed at all and lead Crick around by his nose on another of his ‘adventures’, calling him embarrassing nicknames all the way. Only later, once they were alone and he was comfortable would Temenos finally laugh about the too formal reintroduction, sharp and only a little mean-spirited, and not for the first time, Crick would wonder if that rush didn’t make all the teasing worth it.

That was what was supposed to happen. But for two people with history… for two friends, maybe, what he was supposed to say wasn’t necessarily what he wanted to say.

‘It’s been too long, Temenos,’ if he were feeling as sentimental as Temenos would allow him to be, or maybe, ‘One Godsblade, reporting for duty.’ He could give him a taste of his own medicine and say, ‘The entire church is looking for you, you know.’ Not that he would care.

He wondered if he would care if he said, ‘I’ve been looking for you’.

‘Did you get the book I sent?’

‘I missed you.’

Crick let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. Whether or not it was true, Temenos would never let him live it down if he admitted it aloud. Besides, though their parting had been amicable, it had been… tense, in a manner of speaking. It would be better to let Temenos set the tone for their relationship moving forward. To guide, as he always did.

That was, of course, provided he was home at all.

He reached up to knock. “Temenos, are you—”

The door fell open with a screeching creak under the contact, and Crick froze, heart caught in his throat. Through the new crack, he could make out the shape of a table further inside, sitting in complete darkness. 

The door had been closed. Closed, but not latched. Not locked. 

His free hand went to the hilt of his sword. A quick glance back at the floor revealed a dark smear of… something, right in front of the open door.

Crick looked up sharply, breaths coming quick. “Temenos?”

Silence.

“Temenos, it’s me,” he said, craning his head to look around the inside of the room. It was too dark to see much of anything, even with the light cast through the door. “It’s Crick. Are you there?”

He strained his hearing for the slightest sound. Any shift, any voice, any sign of anyone at all.

Nothing came.

It required every bit of discipline he had not to charge in immediately, despite the nerves sparking under his skin. There were other possible explanations for the situation, and haste had gotten him into trouble before. If anything was wrong, then it wasn’t just his own life he’d be putting at risk, but Temenos’, too.

He couldn’t quite tear his eyes from the stain on the ground, mind racing. It was possible Temenos had forgotten to latch the door behind him after leaving. People made mistakes. Even people as meticulous as Temenos. Even people who trusted others so little that he never so much as left a drink unattended. Even people who had given him lecture after lecture on recklessness and taking his personal safety more seriously in the wake of his near fatal injury in Stormhail.

It was possible he wasn’t home at all. Everyone Crick had spoken to so far seemed convinced Temenos was working on an inquiry, out doing his job somewhere.

It was also possible something more sinister was going on. He would never forget the casual way Temenos told him of the people he’d run into outside the courthouse in Timberain during the trials for the Sacred Guard— how they’d cornered him, looking for revenge over perceived slights. The undeniably bored tone of his voice had struck Crick as having more to do with his usual careful facade than actually being unaffected by a confrontation that had been moments away from violence, but that could have been Crick projecting his own horror.

The same could be happening again, though. It was easy to imagine. Someone like that could be inside, just beyond his sight, with a knife held to Temenos’ throat, or standing over his body as he bled out, unable to cry for help, or—

“Oh, gods, forgive me…”

Crick stepped through the door.

With his own shadow blocking out the sun streaming inside, the room grew darker. He could just make out the shapes of furniture: a table there, a bed there. Across the room, something on the wall. A light, maybe.

His foot connected with a pile of something on the ground, sending a few heavy-sounding items scattering. He froze at the sudden sound, listening past his racing heart into the silence.

Nothing.

He tugged the gauntlet from his hand and fumbled for the sconce on the wall, hoping for a soulstone— or at least a candle. Crick had never been very good at seeing things by night; with the fire out and the shutters closed, the room was almost oppressively dark.

Luckily, his fingers connected with a soulstone, and he channeled a little bit of magic into it to set it alight, illuminating the space. Blinking the spots from his eyes, Crick looked around the room.

No Temenos.

He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

A shift of his weight sent his foot into something else. Ah— that must have been what he’d kicked. A large pile of books sat on the floor, pushed mostly into the wall. A few stacks had fallen over; Crick knew he hadn’t knocked over that many. At a glance, there were books of all sorts, including a few he recognized. Books of scripture, of course, but also some history books, and a few novels, and what looked to be an atlas. He couldn’t even begin to count them all.

The bookshelf was full, too. Crick knew Temenos liked to read, but he hadn’t known his tastes would be so varied. Or that a cleric would have so many. Maybe they were there for an investigation? There wasn’t truly any knowing when it came to Temenos.

His eyes caught and lingered on the table. A mark of some kind shattered across its surface, perhaps from an impact. He couldn’t tell from when. Whatever hit it had done so with a significant amount of force— enough to leave splintered bits of wood sticking out. It was a nice enough table, otherwise. Well made, but old. Small.

Only one chair sat nearby.

It was a little thing, one that shouldn’t have given him so much pause, but he couldn’t help but find it… odd, somehow. Not that he expected Temenos to have many guests over— he seemed to live alone— but most people still had more than one.

His shadow moved with him, and out of the corner of his eye, a gleam of gold in the sunbeam caught his attention. He turned to look at the bed tucked against the wall under the window, and the familiar staff laying at an angle across it.

Crick’s breath caught painfully.

The Staff of Judgment: the symbol of the position of inquisitor within the church. He brushed his fingers across the golden flame at the head. He rarely ever saw it out of Temenos’ hand, and if it was, the man himself was never too far. 

Crick remembered with a sharp clarity the quiet admission Temenos had once made in the dead of night, a secret weighing heavily enough to escape the locked box of his mind in a wine-fueled confession: his Staff of Judgment was the same one his predecessor had left behind when he went missing all those years ago.

Temenos never left his staff behind.

The staff was there. But the house lay silent. Still.

A muted sort of panic bubbled under his skin, setting his heart pounding hard enough that he could feel it in his hands— in his head.

“Temenos!”

Silence.

“Temenos, please, answer me!”

Nothing.

He stumbled back, eyes darting around the room. He’d been worried before, but this was near incontrovertible proof that something was wrong, wrong, something— 

Something had happened to Temenos.

Aelfric the Flamebringer, may your light guide this lost soul. No shadow can hide your brilliance. Let your light bring peace—

Peace— 

Deep breath.

Another.

Panicking wasn’t going to achieve anything.

He had to find Temenos.

Crick closed the front door, and, on a second thought, locked it. If Temenos arrived while he was inside, then he would just have to explain himself. Well… first, his knees would probably give out in sheer relief. Then he would explain himself. And then demand an explanation of his own.

Temenos would tease Crick relentlessly for it, but he found it harder and harder to care the longer this went on. Honestly, he would prefer the teasing over the shortness of breath, the weight pressing into his throat, the uncontrollable trembling of his fingers.

He wanted so badly to be working himself up over nothing.

For some reason, he doubted he was.

A staircase lurked behind what he’d thought was the wall nearest the chapel, nearly invisible for the long, running shadows cast by the door. No light; not so much as a table to put a candle on. Crick frowned, carefully removing the soulstone from its perch and using it to light his way. He remembered the set of windows from what he thought might have been an upper floor from the outside— looking at it from inside, though, it was more likely attic space. The ceiling at the top of the stairs was unfinished, and too low for the average person. He would have to stoop a bit to wander around, but it was the only place left in the house to search.

As he put his weight on the first step, it bowed, creaking heavily underfoot. He jumped quickly to the second, not wanting to fall through. His armor made him much heavier than he was without it, but even so, that stair must have been particularly weak, to make such a sound.

He didn’t know much about construction, but he’d picked up a little about basic home repair, in his time out in Stormhail. Perhaps Temenos would let him take a look at it later.

Crick crept carefully up to the small landing space. It clearly hadn’t been touched in some time— the dust he stirred just by walking was enough to make him wrinkle his nose, resisting a sneeze. The only other thing there was a door, closed tight.

It was the only place Temenos could possibly be.

Maybe he’d fallen asleep in the attic and hadn’t heard any of Crick’s calls.

Temenos isn’t a heavy sleeper.

Maybe he’d been looking for a book and gotten himself trapped under a pile of heavy boxes.

Why wouldn’t he be calling for help?

Maybe that smear of something downstairs was where he’d hit the ground and then been dragged out the front door—

He needed to be wrong.

Please, gods, let him be wrong.

Crick pushed into the attic, heart sinking as the door opened easily to reveal a mostly empty room. Another bedroom, perhaps, with a bed and a desk— there was the second chair, why was it all the way up here?— and an empty bookcase, all covered with dusty sheets. The ceiling was taller, allowing him to straighten fully to look around. Motes of dust floated lazily through the space, only visible because of the sunlight coming in through the shutters. One of them had come off its hinge slightly, casting a small corner of the room in near blinding light. The room hadn’t been touched in years; of that, he was certain.

Another certainty: Temenos wasn’t here.

He still didn’t know if that was good or bad. On one hand, no body meant he was probably still alive, somewhere. On the other…

Crick shook the whirlwind of thoughts from his mind before they could take an even darker turn. Temenos was far from fragile; he could handle himself. Crick had personally witnessed him single-handedly defeat monsters far beyond the capability of the average person— even ones with combat experience. The defenseless cleric facade was just that: a mask, another of his tricks, used to lull people into a false sense of security.

He had to believe he would be okay until Crick could find him.

He just wished he knew what happened.

Crick returned downstairs to keep searching, stepping carefully past the squeaky stair to replace the soulstone on the wall. He needed information— he needed to know what could have happened.

What would Temenos do?

He dropped his head into his hands, burying a wry laugh. Temenos Mistral, Holy Inquisitor of the Order of the Sacred Flame, was made to solve mysteries. He had a mind that someone like Crick could never hope to match, and gods-granted powers to help him seek out the truth. He knew what Temenos would do: he would stand in the center of the room, chin cradled on a fist, and say, “The truth lies in the flame”. He would retreat into his mind, somewhere far beyond where Crick could reach him, and five minutes later, he would have his answers. Temenos was incredible.

Crick was…

Well, needless to say, he had his own skill set. In any other situation, he would ask Temenos for help. If Temenos was the one missing— if Temenos was in danger— then Crick would have to find another solution.

He could do this.

He dragged his hands down his face and blinked the stinging of his eyes away. Where hadn’t he looked?

The floor in front of the fireplace was dirty, bits of kindling left far too close to what had once been a fire for Crick’s comfort. It hadn’t been cleaned out since the last time it had been lit; ashes had long since settled on the stone, dead and cool. Just a fireplace, but…

There, mixed in, was a thin strip of leather, connected to the charred remains of… a book? No— he crouched in front of it to get a closer look, pinching the corner of what must have been a journal to clear some of the ash off the cover, cracked and warped from the heat of the fire. It might have been brown, once, though it was hard to say for sure. All of the pages inside had burned away, leaving no trace of what the journal had contained and no hint of why it had been burned to begin with.

He placed it carefully down in front of the fireplace and dusted his fingers off on his cloak.

No information.

The desk nearby was kept carefully clear, made more unusual by the fact that there were so many books haphazardly stacked on the floor nearby. Aside from a small collection of pens and one old-fashioned inkwell, the only thing on the desk was an unfolded piece of parchment: a letter.

Crick stopped himself before he could pick it up. He had already, for all intents and purposes, broken into Temenos’ house— why did things involving Temenos always have to include breaking and entering? Reading his mail was certainly a step too far. But… nothing else had offered him any information so far, and Temenos… Temenos was…

He scooped the page up with a trembling sigh. “Oh, gods, please forgive me.”

Temenos, please forgive me.

‘To whom it may concern,

I have received notice of the Archbishop’s intent to work with the Sacred Guard to provide certain church officials with knights to ensure their safety, myself included among their number. While I appreciate that this is most likely a means of regaining favor with both the church and the public, I do not require the presence of a guard at this time. I ask that you reallocate the required resources more wisely, and do not—’

Crick’s pulse raced. This was Temenos’ handwriting; he knew it almost as well as his own, after so long. The letter was intended for someone at headquarters, to refuse the appointment of a personal guard. Something quiet ached in his chest as he returned the letter to the desk. Punishment, he supposed, for the invasion of privacy. It stung— knowing that, even though nobody could have known Crick would be the one to end up with the assignment, he hadn’t been wanted.

Why hadn’t Temenos finished it? Why hadn’t he sent it?

Had he been interrupted?

The letter left him with more questions than answers. With a sigh, he tugged the single drawer in the desk open, scanning for… what, he didn’t know. Clues about Temenos’ whereabouts? Something to soothe his own self-inflicted shame and make himself feel better?

Despite it all, his pointless search bore fruit. Crick pulled a thick stack of letters from the drawer, each marked with the familiar blue seal from the Sacred Guard headquarters in Stormhail and addressed to Temenos himself. On these, too, the handwriting was familiar.

It was his own.

“You kept them,” he murmured into the air, drawing his thumb down the stack. There were dozens of them— years’ worth— neatly pressed and bound in twine to keep them together. And there, in the drawer alongside where they’d been, lay two books, one more letter resting on top.

‘My dear Crick,

Thank you for the gift. I must say, I find myself rather surprised— you chose well. I look forward to reading it this coming summer, while it is too hot to spend my days outdoors…’

Summer.

He dropped the books and the letter back into the drawer as though they’d burned him, slamming it shut. The house was frozen in time, left abandoned a full season earlier.

Temenos had been missing for a full season.

Nobody had noticed.

Hands shaking, Crick braced himself on the edge of the desk and lowered his head.

Aelfric the Flamebringer, may your light guide this lost soul. No shadow can hide your brilliance. Let your light bring peace and comfort. Let it illuminate the path ahead. Forgive this heart that wanders through the dark. May the Sacred Flame guide it home.

He took a slow breath. He didn’t know anything yet. He didn’t know, and yet—

His eyes swept across the room once more, flicking from one spot to the next: the impact mark on the table. The staff, lying abandoned on a cold bed. The aged remnants of a fire with something that shouldn’t have been burned in the ashes. The stairs up to the attic and its bedroom, dusty with disuse. The smear of something by the door, dark and dry and looking more and more like blood with each passing heartbeat. The half-written letter under his palm, a reminder that he hadn’t been wanted, but that he had been needed.

Temenos hadn’t wanted him there, but he’d needed him.

And Crick hadn’t been there to protect him.