Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘What would you do to know the truth?’

After dark, the mountain village of Flamechurch fell still and silent. For someone like Temenos, it made sense; the people of Flamechurch were a meek, god-fearing sort, each villager descended from a long line of people who worshiped the fire and the light— a long line of people who feared the night.

Sometimes, Temenos wondered if he was truly any different.

The Sacred Flame burned away on its pedestal in the center of the upper village, gentle light cast across the stone. Adherents to the order often spoke of its protection, an unending warmth gifted to them by the very gods. Temenos, too, had once looked upon the Sacred Flame with the same blind reverence his flock did. He could recall untold countless nights spent knelt before it as a child, begging its light to guide him safely through the dark, with shaking hands clasped tight and cheeks wet with the tears he’d once come to so easily. He could recall his brother’s favorite verse from the scriptures, echoing through his mind when he once more found himself in the same position after his disappearance: ‘So did Aelfric decree that his Flame shall burn eternal, that its strength may protect the weak, and its light may guide the lost, and its warmth may shelter those who wander in the darkest night.’

Temenos felt none of its warmth now.

The dark was an oppressive weight dragging him down, bowing his shoulders and forcing him to lean on his staff for a strength he couldn’t find. He was alone— and it was good, that there was no one to see him this way, and it was good, that he could hide in the dark, and it was good—

He caught a glimpse of an ashen face in the water of the drains running through the steps, half illuminated in the pale blue light of the flame that had failed to warm him for ten long years. A single haunted eye stared back.

He stepped over the reflection of his own ghostly visage and turned into the night, staff splashing into the water and sending the sight rippling away as he passed. His own shadow flicked and wavered before him before it, too, melted into the shadows.

‘What would you do to know the truth?’

He shook the thought away. Such questions weren’t worth dwelling on; to do so would be to succumb to distraction, and distraction on the mountain path down to the lower village, even during the day, was so often a recipe for disaster. Temenos could certainly take care of himself against the local monsters, but even he wasn’t quite audacious enough to presume himself immune to the ever-present danger of falling down the switchbacks. He adjusted the lantern held at his side and continued on.

The trees rustled and groaned their protests against the wind, chilling heralds of a summer storm. The telltale promises of an impending change of weather had been there since that morning for those who knew to look for the evidence: a clear, blue sky, and an unusually cool breeze for the time of year. The clouds had gathered at the horizon, clumped together like a second line of mountains had risen to further isolate their small community from the rest of the world. It was too dark to see them, now, but the lack of the usual stars painted across the night sky was indicator enough that those clouds had already crept into their next resting place, waiting for the chance to descend upon the village and let whatever weather they brought swallow it whole.

Earlier that evening, after most people had already returned to the village, the church had sent someone to snuff the candles lighting the path down the mountain with the promise to light them again once the coming storm had passed. Temenos had been the only one to stay up at the cathedral, long past his time. He could feel it in the air now: that familiar charge on the wind, the weight of the darkened sky above him— the approaching threat of torrential rain.

The closer he got to Flamechurch, the more he felt the approaching threat of… something else.

‘What would you do to know the truth?’

The question settled, heavy, in the base of his throat. The truth was all he had left. His journey and his destination, the only thing he could use to guide himself through the dark.

In the village, the only source of light came from within the homes of its residents, each little building a waypoint— a beacon of warmth against the night. He didn’t dare glance up at the windows as he passed; those shared hearths were not shelter for people like him.

A sharp gust of wind knocked the hood of his cloak from his head. The suddenness of it left him reeling, like an invisible hand had reached up and pulled it free, exposing him to the dark. He caught a glimpse of home, tucked against the chapel on the ridge, out of the corner of his eye. He increased his pace, breaths coming short from more than just the trek.

‘What would you do to know the truth?’

He didn’t know. He didn’t…

Temenos froze mere steps away from the door, eyes caught on his windows. Closed, just as he’d left them. Dark. He released a breath, the tension unfurling from him like the chill of winter from the frigid north. It was just his lack of sleep finally catching up to him in his waking hours— an illusion. There was nothing there; there hadn’t been anything there in years.

Nothing but him.

The wind shoved him forward another stumbling step, and ice settled in his veins once more as he caught a glimpse of firelight from between the trembling shutters of his own home, unmistakable.

‘What would you do to know the truth?’

The question had finally come calling, it seemed. Or, rather, the one who so desperately wanted to know its answer.

Temenos reached for the handle— withdrew his hand at the sight of his own shaking fingers, and clenched his fist at his side. The voice of his thoughts didn’t sound like his own when it said that it was unlike him to hesitate so. He should have been expecting this. He had been, in a way.

The truth was in front of him; all he had to do was find the will to reach out and take it.

He put a hand on the door. Took a deep breath.

He had his answer.

‘What would you do to know the truth?’

Thunder rolled across the night sky.

Anything.

He tightened his grip on the handle and pushed into the warmed interior of his unlocked home, placid smile fixed perfectly in place.

“Ah… I’ve been looking for you.”

The door clicked shut.

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.

Chapter Text

Temenos always slept better on the nights Roi made him tea before he went to bed. On those nights, he fell asleep at a reasonable hour— early, even, his mind for once accepting the blissful embrace of rest without having to keep himself awake long enough for his body to take over and force the matter. Knowing something out there could settle his mind enough to sleep was… nice, if only for that reason.

Tea did not help with the dreams. With or without it, Temenos still woke achy and cold the next morning, the remnants of his nightmares lingering like the unwelcome aftertaste of a bitter fruit. Like the taste of regret, crawling its way back up his throat and threatening to choke him.

His hands were clammy, fingers like ice and palms still sweating. They shook as he curled them into his chest, resisting the urge to flinch away from the pressure over his heart for the sake of warming them. The phantom feeling of blood that hadn’t been there in five years seeped between his fingers; he closed his eyes against the sensation, against his dream of the pontiff’s murder, with the echo of what he’d never gotten to call him dying on his lips.

When he steadied his breathing enough to risk it, Temenos dragged himself out of bed. He ignored the way his arm protested against the motion, residually weak and trembling from being forced to hold his own weight after dreaming of having been cut near to ribbons by the claws of a creature he would happily never see again.

The feeling would go away. It always did.

The ruins echoed with his footsteps and the sounds of dripping water, air cold and heavy and damp. Ancient torches flickered against the crumbling stone walls. He stopped to watch smoke rise off of one and vanish into the cavern above— and it must have been a cavern. It was too big, too dark, to be otherwise, with none of the familiar sounds of wind or birds or… anything else, really. In the distance, he could just make out the sound of rushing water, a constant, barely there thunder of echoing noise that he could sit with, most days, to distract himself from the worst of his tumultuous thoughts with little else to occupy his mind.

If they were going to be staying there much longer, he would really have to talk to Roi about getting some books. Temenos was a cleric, true, but he’d never been very good at the whole “dedicating himself to many hours of silent contemplation” thing. As a child, he’d gotten in more trouble for succumbing to distraction during prayers than even he could reasonably recall. It was the pontiff that had eventually suggested he might have more success with reading, meditating over the scriptures, than being forced to sit in a quiet room for hours upon hours to talk to the gods— even ones he thought were probably listening, at the time.

He let himself smile at the memory, absently. Often, the pontiff had been the only person to bother with him and his more difficult tendencies; it had made him one of only two within the church to earn Temenos’ complete respect, in his youth. Even after Roi’s disappearance, when he refused to tell Temenos anything about it for the sake of keeping him safe, and then when he asked if he would take Roi’s place as inquisitor so soon after the funeral, Temenos hadn’t been able to bring himself to blame him, no matter his own disappointment. No matter his own doubt.

And then he left, too. He died and left Temenos alone.

Even now, five years on and having solved the mystery the pontiff had entrusted to him far too late— even with the way Roi, long thought dead at either the hands or neglect of the church, stepped back into his life— Temenos couldn’t blame him.

Smile fallen, he continued on his way. The ruins weren’t big; there were only so many places to hide. He knew where Roi would be, anyway. He spent all of his time in the workroom, lately.

It was time to tell him the truth.

Temenos stepped into the room, breath catching at the back of his throat. His brother stood with his back to him at a table in the center of the room, scrubbing grime from some tool or another. Some days, it felt like getting to see him for the first time after his disappearance all over again— that juvenile, heart-pounding excitement, the vice grip on his chest, the threat of tears burning at the back of his eyes. 

Most days, he wished it felt less like fear.

A shiver crawled up his spine, and he pulled his cloak around himself a bit tighter. “There you are, Roi. There’s something I—”

“Oh, Temenos. You slept like the dead,” Roi said, the barest hint of a chuckle at the edges of his voice. He glanced over his shoulder at him and paused. “Are you cold?”

“… Just my hands. You needn’t concern yourself over it.”

A hum. “Perhaps doing something physical to improve your circulation?”

Temenos scoffed. During their travels together, Castti had often repeated the same sentiment. A mothering apothecary was bound to suggest exercise, among other things, as a means of combating his usual lethargy— ‘especially at your age, Temenos’— as though he were an old man, falling apart at the seams. The silver color of his hair and the way he walked with a staff likely hadn’t helped his case. Fortunately for them both, she hadn’t pushed the matter too much, nor bothered to get any of their more excitable companions involved; he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to talk all of them down. Physical exertion simply didn’t agree with him, even on a good day. 

The achy weakness in his arms stubbornly lingered, a reminder that, once again, it was not a good day. So few were, of late. 

Perhaps he was getting old. 

He flexed his fingers. “We need to talk. I have to tell you something.”

“It will have to wait, I’m afraid.” Roi scooped a mass off the table in front of him and brought it across the room, the sheet covering it fluttering as he walked. He placed it on his workbench with a rough exhale. “I’m working right now.”

“Roi.”

“I’m busy. Have you done your prayers today, inquisitor?”

Inquisitor, indeed.

Heat simmered under his collar. Of late, Roi had been rather skilled at making him feel like little more than a petulant child. Had he always been? 

Temenos buried the emotion with a breath. “This is important, Roi. Something happened while you were… after you left.”

“Temenos, I haven’t the time for—”

“His Holiness is dead,” he interrupted. Roi fell silent, not turning to face him. He dropped a hand to the edge of the table, gripping hard enough that Temenos could see where his knuckles turned white. He fought to keep his voice steady when he continued. “Father. Our father is dead. He was killed, five years ago. I discovered his body.”

Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Temenos took a slow breath to calm the traitorous thundering of his heart in his ears. He should have been beyond such things, after so long— shouldn’t have been so affected by the loss. He hated how much it still hurt. He hated how much it all did.

“What killed him?”

Pause.

Roi had always been more even-keeled than Temenos while growing up, but he was also the more outwardly emotional of the two. Where Temenos had learned early on to save his tears for when nobody could see or hear them— and, later, to bury them altogether— Roi hadn’t ever quite managed it. He laughed when he was happy, cried when he was sad, mourned what he needed to when he needed to. He and the pontiff had always been so close; he thought Roi would at least want to pray for him before anything else.

Perhaps, if only for Roi, the ten years had been long enough to mourn something he hadn’t truly known was lost to him.

“… A felvarg. Someone lured it into the cathedral one night, and…”

“A felvarg.” Roi tapped his fingers on the page in front of him, sharp. Hummed. “How terrible.”

Thoughtlessly, Temenos drew his hand up to twist a staff no longer in his possession, eyes averted. Instead, he laced his fingers in front of him. “Yes. It was.”

Silence fell over the room once more.

A sigh. “If you’re going to be in here, anyway, you may as well let me have a look at that bruise.”

Temenos resisted the urge to fold his arms over his chest, burying another shiver. “If you’d like.”

He supposed he’d said his piece.

He wasn’t sure when, exactly, Roi had taken such an interest in medicine, of all things. As a cleric, he was a skilled healer in his own right, though Temenos had always been the more naturally gifted of the two when it came to magic. Now, he knew that to be because of his gift— his blessing— as the Flamebringer’s chosen cleric. 

A blessing and a curse, in equal measure.

“Why did you decide to study medicine?” Temenos asked to distract himself from the way his fingers fumbled with the buttons of his own shirt, the chill in his hands painfully limiting his range of movement. He gave up halfway down and pulled his collar to the side; that would be more than good enough for Roi to see.

Roi flicked through his journal, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. “The knowledge and skills of both scholars and apothecaries have their uses for my work.”

Ah— the mysterious work he was so secretive about. The most Temenos had been able to pull from him on the matter was that whatever he was doing was to do with the inquiry into the church’s secrets that had caused him to flee in the middle of the night ten years earlier, cursed bow in hand. He still wanted to finish the job, dangerous though it might have been. Like the pontiff before him, Roi probably didn’t want him to get too involved, even after asking for his help on the night he returned.

As though that had ever worked.

“And what work is that?”

Roi rolled his eyes, but said nothing in response, instead reaching out to tug Temenos’ hand and collar further away. His lips pulled tight, thoughtful.

Temenos could just make out the subject of his examination at the edge of his vision without looking down further: a dark, mottled bruise blooming over his heart. Unnatural markings ran thin, jagged lines from it, up and around his collar and neck, as though he’d been struck by lightning. He’d healed many injuries over the years— and sustained more than a few of his own. It was like no bruise he’d ever seen.

Even so, Temenos had seen the pattern before. Somewhere. Hadn’t he?

Roi clicked his fingers a few times. “Stay here, Temenos. Focus on me. Don’t go getting lost in that head of yours.”

“Oh, my apologies,” he said, dry. “It’s the lack of engaging conversation, you see. Your bedside manner could use some work.”

“Don’t be smart with me. Does it still hurt?” Roi ran a thumb across the edge of the bruise, sending a sharp, static pain shooting across his skin. Temenos sucked in a breath between his teeth and jerked back, glare scathing. His brother chuckled mildly, scribbling in his journal. “So it would seem. Forgive me.”

Temenos wrinkled his nose as Roi grabbed his wrist, shoving his sleeve up carelessly.

“Hm. Your hands are cold,” he noted, pressing the fingers of his other hand into Temenos’ pulse point. “Heart is strong, if a little fast. How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine.”

Roi made a face. “Temenos.”

He sighed. “I’ve been somewhat tired lately, but that’s normal.”

“Headaches? Unusual weakness in your arms?” He asked, not looking up from his journal.

Temenos narrowed his eyes. “… Yes, both. Why do you ask?”

Snapping his journal shut, Roi met his eyes. “I’d like you to try healing yourself.”

“I was under the impression that you are my apothecary right now, not myself.”

“Even if that were the case, you’re an extremely powerful cleric, Temenos. Compared to you, I may as well not know any healing spells at all.”

“My magic can’t heal this,” Temenos frowned. “We’ve already tried, in case you’ve somehow forgotten. Only time will tell if it will fade away. It hasn’t yet.”

“It’s unlike you to give up so easily. Try again.”

Temenos’ sigh was long-suffering. “Very well, if you insist. Is there a staff around here anywhere?”

Lifting an eyebrow, Roi asked, “Do you require a focus for so simple a task?”

“I’d like to at least feel like we’re not trying the same thing over and over again.”

Irritation passed across Roi’s face. He tucked his journal into his jacket and crossed the room, digging through a crate against the far wall. He pulled out a simple, wooden staff.

“I believe this should suffice.”

“Not exactly the highest quality, but it will do.” Temenos accepted the staff and twisted it in his hand a few times to get a feel for the balance. He placed his free hand gingerly over his heart, eyes falling shut. “No time like the present, I suppose. Be healed.”

Though his other spells had taken time and effort to learn, for Temenos, using healing magic was as intuitive as breathing. Every life had a flicker of power within— a flame, if he were to be trite— waxing and waning, just as life did. Whatever he felt about the analogy, though, it was undeniable that he’d always been better than most at finding and kindling a dying flame.

Reaching out, he could feel his own flame, his own life, burning like a smolder, the same as it had the first time he’d tried to heal the mysterious mark on his chest. Perhaps even weaker than it had been. It flickered and flared at his attention, something almost desperate in the movement. Panicked. His eyes welled with burning tears that he didn’t quite understand as he watched. It felt like a fire being smothered, no matter the magic he channeled around it.

Why? Did it have anything to do with the bruising? Nothing else had—

Temenos choked on his next breath, eyes flying open as his magic scattered, somehow draining the final dregs of his spirit and leaving him stranded at the height of the spell. The rest of the energy slammed into him, a horrible, screeching pain lancing through his head and setting his hands trembling violently.

The staff clattered to the ground. He barely heard it.

“I’m… my apologies. I believe I may need to…”

Sit down, he didn’t quite manage, swaying in place. Roi caught him by the shoulders, brows furrowed.

“Spirit deficit,” he muttered, giving voice to Temenos’ thoughts. “Have you been casting spells outside of this?”

Temenos didn’t think he could shake his head without making himself ill. It was all he could do just to breathe. He hadn’t cast a spell in… weeks? Months? He couldn’t remember. Whatever the case, he should have had all of his spirit available to him. One simple healing spell shouldn’t have been enough to drain it— not without notice that he was running low. It didn’t make any sense.

“No.”

“How fascinating. I wonder…” Roi trailed off for a brief moment before returning his gaze to Temenos, sharp. “Don’t fall over in here, you’ll hit something on the way down. You should return to your room.”

He took a few deep breaths to stave off a bout of nausea. Pressed his lips together. “Mhm.”

Sighing deeply, Roi grumbled something under his breath before hooking an arm around his shoulders and dragging him bodily out of the room. “Troublesome thing.”

Temenos closed his eyes against the motion, or the words, or both. “I know,” he said, in place of an apology.

Exhaustion pulled at his limbs. It had been years since he’d used enough spirit to incapacitate himself like this— not since his fight with…

With…

Roi turned the corner, adjusting his grip on Temenos’ arm to all but carry him through the doorway of the room he’d been sleeping in. Something dangerously like embarrassment swirled in his chest. He’d always hated the way vulnerability made his skin crawl. 

Unable to resist, Temenos muttered, “I thought you were busy.”

“You’re right. I should have left you to crawl back on your own,” he shot back, a smirk playing on his lips. “Too late for that, now. Go and lie down.”

He dropped him onto the bed, the creaky wooden frame groaning its protests in time with Temenos’ head. Roi pushed the bangs away from Temenos’ eyes in a familiar, characteristically gentle motion before leaving without another word. The door screeched as it shut behind him.

Temenos curled up on his side in the dark and quiet, breaths finally steadying. Spirit deficit was unpleasant at the best of times, but it had been quite a while since he’d been thrown off the edge without expecting it. Decades, even. 

By any measure he could think of, it didn’t add up. Had he been low on spirit to begin with? Had the single spell somehow drained his entire reserve? Certain types of magic did— Temenos had been taught one such spell— but not the one he used. He was out of practice, but magical experience and stamina didn’t evaporate in such short periods of time. Roi hadn’t seemed to understand, either, though he’d seemed more curious than confused. 

Or concerned.

Roi had been acting… strange, since his return. He hadn’t yet told Temenos any of what happened in their time apart. He was secretive, more intense. Focused on his work nearly to the point of fixation. Strange— or perhaps simply changed. A lot could happen in ten years. Temenos had changed, too, without a doubt. Distantly, he wondered if Roi experienced the same dissonance when he looked at Temenos. He wondered if he saw the same distorted reflection of the brother he’d once known better than anyone.

Temenos wondered if he’d already mourned his loss, too.

The thought drew a frown to his lips. Had he known, somehow, about the death of the pontiff? The news had traveled across Solistia, true; Temenos hadn’t been able to avoid the headlines of his own father’s murder for weeks after he left Flamechurch. He could only count himself fortunate that even the scriveners hadn’t been brave enough to seek him out for more information. He supposed he’d taught them well enough the first time; some lessons were made to stick.

Whatever the case, he’d expected Roi to want to know more. Despite his trusting nature, there was a reason Roi had been made inquisitor. Like Temenos, he was curious, at heart— someone who always wanted answers, even if he was content to find them in scripture, or in the words of others. Upon being told of their father’s death, he’d asked how it happened.

He hadn’t asked why.

And then he’d changed the focus of his attention entirely to his impromptu examination of the strange bruise across his chest.

It was odd. Temenos couldn’t even remember where the bruise had come from, and yet Roi seemed so fixated on it. They had been performing the same song and dance for weeks, with no change, until…

He blinked. Furrowed his brows.

Why couldn’t he remember how he’d gotten hurt?

Temenos was fairly certain there hadn’t been any marks on him, aside from his normal scars, on the night Roi had shown up at his door to ask for him. But since then, for as long as he could clearly recall…

He reached up to rub his temples, head pounding. The answers were there, right there, like the most maddening of itches right under his skin, and yet he couldn’t bring them to the surface. His memory wasn’t perfect, by any means, but he should have been able to remember that much. The mark had caused him enough discomfort after the fact, certainly.

Something had happened.

Why couldn’t he remember? And what was going on with Roi? Was it possible the two questions were somehow related?

Temenos covered his eyes with an arm, releasing a long, drawn out exhale. It didn’t matter; he would be better served by resting to restore his drained spirit, if he could. He was so, so tired, whatever remained of his energy bleeding from his limbs and dragging his eyes shut. The truth would come to him, with some thought— he never forgot things for very long.

Not the important things.

Chapter Text

‘I am afraid—’

No.

‘I have reason to suspect that the Inquisitor—’

No.

‘Temenos isn’t here—’

Crick sighed and scratched the words out once more with a heavy drag of his pen, ripping the parchment for his report to the Sacred Guard beneath it. He crushed the page in his hand, tossing it at the wall across the room. He couldn’t seem to focus— couldn’t get the words to sound right, no matter how he tried. Nothing but nerves, a simmering fear under his skin that had been his driving force since he’d visited Temenos’ house and discovered him missing earlier that day, manifesting as a trembling tension in his back and arms, a bouncing knee, a restless mind.

He’d felt this way before. Once, as a young man, when he’d been so unsure of himself and the path he was being guided down that he’d left home without looking back, just to see if anyone would notice… or if anyone would care. He’d been driven to walk, and then to run, the need to move, to take flight and leave building under his skin and pushing him forward until he could run no longer. His legs had given out on the other side of a river he barely knew the name of, further from home than he’d ever been before with tears blurring his sight and breaths leaving him as wrenching sobs. Lost, in every sense of the word.

And then he’d looked up, and there had been a man, smile kind and hand outstretched.

The same feeling had settled over him years later, after a conversation about that same man with his frustrating, guarded successor. It was the closest he’d ever seen Temenos to expressing something akin to sadness— and the gift of hard-fought trust, that new understanding of what drove Temenos towards the truth he so desired, had only served to deepen Crick’s need to do something to help him, or else to prove him wrong. That night, he’d foolishly thought that productivity would be the more mature way to soothe his feelings of restlessness, of helplessness.

And then he’d looked up, and there had been a sword, wielded by someone he was supposed to have been able to trust.

It was a hard lesson to have to learn. He nearly hadn’t had the opportunity. It was only thanks to Temenos and his other traveling companions that he’d lived to learn it.

In the years since, he’d learned better. When his nerves got to be too much, or when he felt that reckless need to act, he was better served by working it out the same way he had on the day he’d met Inquisitor Roi: he would run.

Crick pushed himself away from the desk and made for the entrance to the cathedral, stopping only to grab the half-filled canteen from his bag under the bed. With the sun already so low, it wouldn’t be a good idea to try and run down to the river to fill it; it would be dark by the time he made it, even if he’d been familiar enough with the dangerous terrain to run at full speed. The well wasn’t too far— the trip there would serve as a decent warm up.

Once the sun fell from the sky, the northern part of Flamechurch was lit almost exclusively by the blue glow of the Sacred Flame. Its light allowed him to run for a little longer than he might have otherwise, unafraid of tripping on some unseen obstacle. Eventually, he came to a stop in front of it, heart hammering and a pleasant, burning ache in his legs. His mind was blessedly blank behind the rushing of his own pulse in his ears. Sweat dripped down his face as he bent to catch his breath.

The night was still, with few people daring to wander outside in the dark. Was that normal, he wondered, or did it have more to do with the recent threat of being attacked by monsters that wouldn’t normally tread so close? A cool breeze rushed past, and he took a steadying breath, eyes settling on the Sacred Flame as it burned before him. 

The sight of it, warm and comforting, bled into his very being. The same glow sparked in Temenos’ eyes when he channeled his connection to the gods— just as it had the night Crick had nearly died. He couldn’t remember the look on Temenos’ face, most of the memory lost to the haze of steel and snow, but he remembered his hands: unprotected, bloody fingers pressed desperately to Crick’s frozen breastplate, carved near in two. He remembered that impossible healing magic spilling forth so much light.

He couldn’t help but see the Sacred Flame as an extension of the power that had saved him that night. In a way, an extension of Temenos himself.

A little blasphemous, perhaps, but… he had learned from the best.

Its warmth spread, pervasive and yet somehow not uncomfortable, even despite the lingering heat from his run. He reached out to place a hand to the pillar that held the Flame aloft, pressing his forehead to the bowl. He’d heard the Sacred Flame didn’t hurt to touch— many ceremonies involved reaching into its embrace with nothing but faith as a shield from its burn— but was still surprised to find its container cool to the touch.

His eyes fell shut. Behind them, he could make out the gentle shifting of the light before him.

He took a deep breath in.

Released it as a slow, controlled exhale.

“Keep him safe, O gods,” he whispered with the last of his breath, fingers brushing against the inscription in the metal. He knew the words written there by heart— every Sanctum Knight did. As did every cleric, and every pilgrim, and everyone that had sought out faith and found it in the light, just as he had. ‘To illuminate the path forward, that all who stray might have a guiding light.’ “Protect him, while I cannot. Please. Guide me on this path.”

Crick opened his eyes and stepped away, gaze caught on the flickering of ancient fire. Temenos had been able to interpret its motions, the night they met— or at least pretended to. He’d read them as an ill omen, then, claiming it made him uneasy. Whether he’d spoken the truth or had just said something to redirect Crick’s frustration with his actions, he still didn’t know. It didn’t really matter. Either way, in the end, he’d been right.

He couldn’t tell if there was truly any difference in the way the Sacred Flame burned before or after his prayer, or if it was any different from that night five years ago. He didn’t know. But… even so, watching it called him to peace— to calm. To clarity.

He knew what to say now.

He knew what to do.

When he made it back to the room designated for members of the Sacred Guard staying at the cathedral, he wasn’t alone. Elio sat on his bed in the far corner, fussing with the buckles on his armor as he took it off for the night. He stood as Crick stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“Knight Commander Wellsley, sir!”

Crick buried a sigh— amused or exasperated, he didn’t quite know— and held up a hand. “Just Crick, please, Elio. Neither of us are working right now.”

“Right,” he stammered, lowering himself hesitantly to the edge of his bed. “If you say so.”

Crick had made sure to choose the one farthest from where Elio had set up, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, but he could only go so far in a room with six beds. They would likely be the only two to use them. He dropped into a chair with another stifled sigh, spotting his attempted report from earlier sitting in a crumpled up ball on the desk.

“Oh, did I throw this into your things by accident? I’m sorry, Elio.”

He shook his head. “No, sir. I saw it lying on the ground and wasn’t sure if you wanted me to get rid of it.”

“Nothing like that. It was just… Well, I needed to not look at it anymore,” he chuckled. “It’s my report to the Sacred Guard. I couldn’t quite figure out what I wanted to say, so I went for a run to blow off some steam.”

“I see. Your report about Inquisitor Temenos?”

“Yes. They need to know that he’s not in the village. But I also…” Something crawled up his throat, choking. Crick hadn’t told anyone what he’d discovered yet. He couldn’t justify potentially causing the same panic he felt in others, not when he didn’t know anything for sure. First, he would make his report; the Sacred Guard needed to know there was a high likelihood that a crime had been committed— one involving a high-ranking church official. There would almost certainly be an investigation, and as the most senior knight currently in the Crestlands, the duty would fall to him.

He just hoped he wasn’t already too late. Whatever had happened, it had taken place months ago.

Bile rose in his throat. Temenos had been gone for months, and nobody he’d spoken to thought anything of it. They barely seemed to have noticed. Didn’t anyone worry for him? Did nobody care about him?

Or, rather… was Crick the only one who did?

“Tell me, Elio. What do you think of him?”

“Of Inquisitor Temenos?” Something hesitant passed over his features. “May I… speak freely, commander?”

He lifted his brows. “Of course.”

A long moment of silence passed between them. When Elio spoke again, his voice was quiet. “Truthfully, I don’t think the inquisitor likes me very much.”

To hear it wasn’t exactly unexpected. Temenos appeared to be more condemning than he was; he only had a true dislike for those that had earned it. “What makes you think that?”

Elio didn’t shuffle his feet, but to Crick’s eye, it was a near enough thing. The motion would cause his armor to clank, drawing attention to his nerves. He’d been much the same, once— fidgety and anxious, if only under Temenos’ incisive gaze.

Not anymore. 

“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “He’s not all that scary, physically… I’m pretty sure I could beat him in a fight if I had to. Not— um, not that I would, sir! I swear.”

Crick buried what would have been an amused chuckle by clearing his throat. “I understand.”

“It’s just…” He trailed off, like remembering something unpleasant, before continuing, uneasy. “I know you told me earlier not to take anything he said personally, but… that would require him to say anything to me at all. He never let me escort him up to the cathedral, or back to the village. Honestly, I rarely ever saw him. But sometimes, when he was around, he would suddenly look over at me, and he always seemed so… disappointed. Like I’d done something wrong, or like— like maybe he was expecting someone else.”

“Hm. When was the last time you saw him, then?”

Elio frowned. “I… saw him in the library several months ago, just after the solstice celebrations. Not for any length of time; I was busy keeping the road safe for the travelers who came for the event.”

“I see.” The timing of it lined up, at least, to what he had discovered in Temenos’ house. He pushed a few damp strands of hair away from his own forehead with a sigh. “Sorry to ask such strange questions. Please, ignore me and continue what you were doing. I’ll write my report.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sounds of removing and cleaning armor settled on the back of his mind like a blanket as he wrote, familiar and comforting. There was something blessedly normal about it— a kindness, amidst all of the new uncertainties spiraling through his head.

Crick finished his letter and sealed it into an envelope as Elio spoke again. “If it’s not too much to ask, sir, are you— are you alright? You seem… tense.”

No.

How could he have been?

He smiled, hoping it came across as more reassuring than strained. “You don’t need to worry about me. But I thank you for your concern, Elio. It is by extending our hand to others that we light the path forward. You’re a fine knight.”

“Oh,” he stammered. “Thank— um, thank you, sir. If you need to send that immediately, I think the courier is here right now. They had something to talk about with the bishop over dinner.”

“Good to hear. I’ll be right back, then.”

Crick stepped quietly out of the room, envelope in hand. Like the village itself, the Flamechurch cathedral was quiet, with very few people remaining on the premises after dark. It had been busier the last time he’d been there— it had been a crime scene— but even then, he’d made note of how few clerics actually remained at the cathedral overnight. He’d been surprised that the headquarters of the Order of the Sacred Flame itself was left so unguarded by night. There were so many important treasures inside, not to mention the candles that Crick had never once seen smothered. Sometimes, important people were inside, too.

He couldn’t quite stop himself from glancing over his shoulder once he made it to the entrance, eyes fixed on the altar down the long, central hallway. Nothing seemed to be wrong this time: no broken glass, nothing that wasn’t meant to be decorating the space.

No bodies.

“You alright there?”

Crick resisted the urge to jump. He must have been more caught up in his thoughts than he realized, to be so unaware of his surroundings. He turned to face the person that had addressed him with a smile. “I’m fine, thank you. Simply lost in thought.”

“Well, you’re doing it right in front of the door,” they said, something amused in their tone. “Can you, you know…”

This time, he did jump. “Of course. Please excuse me, I—”

He trailed off as he looked at them properly. Their clothes were clearly made for travel, light and warm, and a large satchel weighed them down at their side. They held a small collection of letters in their hand.

“Are you the courier, by chance?”

“Sure am! Name’s Loel,” they said, flicking the brim of their hat away from their face. “I run this area of the Crestlands, mostly. Expecting something, or need something sent?” 

He gestured vaguely with the envelope in his hand. “I have a letter bound for the Sacred Guard, in Stormhail. I’m afraid the matter is urgent.”

“Oh,” they blinked. Nodded. “Stormhail, you said? I’ll have it there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you,” Crick said, handing it over with a relieved sigh. “Please, travel safely. The roads are dangerous. May the Sacred Flame guide you.”

“Don’t I know it! All those monster attacks lately… makes you second guess any travel ideas, doesn’t it. Still gotta make a living, though. Thanks, Mister Knight— you, too.”

They shuffled past him, tucking the letters into their bag before disappearing through the door and back into the night. Crick briefly considered offering to escort them to the inn, but didn’t have the thought until they had vanished from his sight. Perhaps it was for the best; neither he nor Elio were in their armor anymore, and it would take far too long to put back on just for that. Instead, he offered a prayer that their travels would be safe— and swift, on a second thought.

Crick turned, and his gaze caught and lingered on the subtle, shifting glow of the stained glass window behind the altar, and the impenetrable pitch black of the night that lay on the other side, held at bay by the Sacred Flame.

Temenos was out there somewhere.

He had to be.

He shook his head and continued to his quarters. Tomorrow, he would keep looking.

The days that followed were calm— quiet and simple, just like every day in Flamechurch. Crick used the time to continue his search the best he could without drawing too much unwanted attention or worrying people with his actions. He would need to wait until he had official orders to begin an investigation to do that.

He focused his efforts on the areas surrounding the village: the forest, the fields, the cathedral itself. He spent particular time on and around the mountain path leading to and from the village, with its many dark nooks and sharp drops. The mountain was full of such places to either hide or be hidden, to say nothing of the cave system and its river. Crick almost hadn’t mustered the courage to trawl through the water, more afraid of what he might find trapped in its depths than the thought of having to keep looking.

He’d found nothing at all.

Eventually, the only places left to look in Flamechurch were in people’s homes and businesses. Crick wasn’t sure he was prepared for that. Not yet. He hadn’t been there for very long, but he’d already started to build a hesitant trust with the villagers; he couldn’t in good conscience doubt them without evidence. Especially after the incident with the Sacred Guard, any trust placed in him or any other Sanctum Knight was a blessing, a gift, and it needed to be treated with care. He had no reason to doubt anyone in the village, not about this.

The little voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like someone he no longer took orders from laughed and told him he was being naive— reminded him that the last time he hadn’t been willing to doubt people fast enough, he’d nearly been killed for his trouble.

As though he didn’t know that.

It didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t break their trust. He wouldn’t. Truthfully, he didn’t want to.

But what was he meant to do, then?

“A Sanctum Knight!”

“Cool!”

“My dad said—”

Crick looked up as a group of children swarmed him from one side, chattering loudly over one another as they approached. He blinked, startled at the suddenness of it, and finally took in his surroundings; it seemed his legs had carried him towards Temenos’ house while he was lost in thought. He stood a few feet from the door, arms crossed and eyes unseeing until the children piled out of the chapel next door and spotted him there.

He really had to stop getting so caught up thinking. It was dangerously Temenos-like of him.

“Hello,” he greeted, allowing one very small child to reach up and grab his hand. With the other, he adjusted the angle of his sword to keep it as far away as possible. “What’s going on, here?”

“We’re gonna play tag. Do you wanna play?”

“Oh, I…” Crick trailed off with an anxious laugh. “I think you’re all much faster than I am. All this armor, you see. I would hate to ruin your fun. Perhaps you all should have a race, instead?”

One of them pouted. “Aw, but I want to hear about fighting monsters!”

“Yeah! Have you fought a dragon?”

“Or— or a big, evil wolf!”

“Um…”

The feeling of eyes on the back of his head sent a shiver through him. He turned to meet the intense glare of a small girl standing away from the crowd surrounding him, no more than six or seven years old, looking at him as though he were Vide himself. The corner of his lip twitched into something he hoped was a smile.

“Ah… Is there something I can help you with, young lady?”

Her response was immediate— accusatory. “That’s where Father Temenos lives.”

His nerves sparked, static under his skin that filled him with an irrational urge to justify himself to a child. “… Yes, it is. He’s my friend. I wanted to know if he was home yet.”

“Oh.” Something in her posture deflated. “Do you know when he’s coming back? I have to ask him something.”

Crick dropped his gaze to the ground and took a shallow breath. He tried for another smile. “I don’t know, but I’m sure it will be soon.”

Her eyes narrowed at him, a painfully familiar look that usually meant someone didn’t believe him. It stung, but he wasn’t going to take it personally this time; he didn’t really believe himself, either.

A new voice, gentle but firm, cut through the tension. “Now, children. I’m sure this Sanctum Knight is very busy. Go and play.”

“Aww. Okay…” 

They recovered from their disappointment quickly, as children did, and scattered across the ridge, chasing each other around the fence line in the promised game of tag. Moments later, two clerics approached, dressed in the familiar blues of the order.

The elder of the two spoke first, lacing her fingers in front of her. “I hope they didn’t trouble you too much. They can be rather excitable, especially after being cooped up inside for so long.”

“No trouble at all. I was much too deep in thought for my own good. Better to stick to what I’m good at,” he chuckled, gesturing vaguely to the blade at his side. It earned him a polite laugh, which he took as sign enough to continue. “My name is Crick. I was assigned to a post here in Flamechurch earlier this week.”

The younger sister blinked. “Oh, is it time for Ser Elio to go already? He didn’t say…”

“No, no— nothing like that. I’m here for something else.”

“I see. Whatever the case, we’d best introduce ourselves,” the first one said, more a pointed reminder at her companion than a response to Crick. She offered him an incline of her head. “I am Anne, and this is Sister Rose. Forgive her manners, won’t you, Knight Commander?”

His eyes widened. “How did—”

Sister Anne smiled, maybe amused. “Word travels fast in such a small community. You saved one of our own on your first day here. If no one has thanked you yet, then please accept my gratitude, on behalf of the village.”

“Oh,” he managed, ears burning. “There’s no need for thanks; I simply did what anyone would do. And just— just Crick is fine. Please.”

A hum. “Very well.”

Hadn’t he heard from someone that Temenos often worked in the chapel? Perhaps these clerics would know something about what had happened— or at least be able to offer him information, which he desperately lacked.

“May I ask you something?”

“Of course, Ser Crick. How can we help?”

Unsure of how to ask after Temenos without causing them undue worry, he thought over his words for a long moment. The nearby sounds of children running and screaming and playing soothed the worst of his nerves, bringing half a smile to his face. He’d always loved getting to go out and play as a boy, climbing trees that felt impossibly large and hiding from his lessons in the wild, verdant expanses just beyond the manicured gardens of his home. Even minded by a retainer, it was the most freedom he ever had.

But that had been a long time ago. Crick spared a moment to pray that these children would know freedom— that they would be allowed to just play. That they could remain children, as long as possible.

Eventually, he took a breath. “Upon his return, I’ll be made Inquisitor Temenos’ personal guard. I’ve been told that he comes by the chapel often; will you tell me about him? What is he like?”

As good a place to start as any.

“Oh, is that so?” Anne asked mildly, drawing a hand up to her cheek. “Well, you’ve been told true. The inquisitor does come by the chapel whenever he has the opportunity… though less often, of late. It’s been some time since we’ve seen him, in fact.”

“You’re very lucky, Ser Crick. If you’re to be his guard, then you’ll get to spend so much time at his side. Inquisitor Temenos is… he’s wonderful. He’s just so— he’s so attentive,” Rose continued, hands clasped. She fell silent for a moment too long, something starry in her eyes, before squeaking, “To his flock, I mean! He’s a model cleric, really. Devout… thoughtful, and caring…”

Oh.

Oh.

Crick bit the inside of his cheek, not trusting himself to keep his thoughts quiet in the wake of his revelation. Anne met his eye and did nothing but shake her head, helpless.

“I— I see,” he managed. “So you… ah, you admire him, then.”

“Very much so. He’s patient, and so good with the children, and… and he has this way of speaking that just makes you feel like you’re the only person left in the world…”

An unusual lash of something he would not justify the presence of curled, hot, in his chest. Rose was young, little more than a child, and Crick knew as well as anyone that the throes of a young love were… well, blinding. It had been for him.

Still, to be quite that blind was a rather impressive feat.

One of the children screamed, sharper than the rest. It drew Crick’s attention immediately, his eyes focusing on a group congregated around one young boy, sitting on the ground near a patch of flowers and crying.

Anne put her hand on Rose’s shoulder. “That’ll be the bees again. Would you go and handle that for me, please?”

“Of course,” she nodded. “Please excuse me.”

She hurried off, leaving Crick reeling slightly in her wake. He let out a slow breath to re-center himself.

“So…”

Anne sighed— maybe fond. Maybe exhausted. “I’m terribly sorry about her, Ser Crick. The Flame will illuminate the right path for her in its own time.”

He managed half a laugh. “There’s no need, I assure you. She’s… young.”

“Very. She speaks truthfully of him, however, even if she is somewhat… misguided. You’ll find none more devoted to their work. When he comes to the chapel, he comes not as the inquisitor, but as Father Temenos, with his wonderful paper plays. The children adore him. Well… that, and correcting his mistakes in the histories. He can be rather distracted, sometimes,” she chuckled, a hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Always somewhere off in his own head. And more so, in the days we last had the pleasure of his company.”

A subtle fondness curled in Crick’s chest, and he ducked his head, unable to disguise his laugh at the thought of Temenos performing tales from the scriptures, puppeteering paper figures and doing silly voices for an audience of restless children. It suited him; he certainly did have a flair for the dramatic.

“When was that, sister?”

“I believe it was the morning of the solstice. He came to the chapel and told the children the story of why Lord Aelfric chose it to be the longest day of the year.”

Crick frowned. Again, the day of the Solstice. “You said that he was more distracted than usual?”

“Yes. He didn’t forget his lines a single time that day… something was clearly on his mind,” she said, thoughtful. “He did seem unusually tired. He set up and left in quite a rush, too, without even entertaining questions about the play. It’s rather unlike him to be so impatient. He would usually move mountains to answer questions for the children, no matter how long it took.”

Given Temenos’ focus on the truth in all its many forms, he wasn’t particularly surprised. Crick was sure Temenos inspired everyone around him to ask questions, to search for the truth— just as he’d done for Crick. He would never be satisfied with anything less.

What could have had him so distracted?

“I wonder why,” he mused.

“I couldn’t say, I’m afraid. In my experience, it’s better not to speculate about it too much. He’s a busy man.”

“You’re probably right.” It wouldn’t be enough to stop him; until he had more concrete information, all Crick could do was speculate, for better or worse. “I won’t keep you from your duties any longer. Thank you for your time, Sister Anne.”

“Of course. Feel free to come by any time. Though I’m sure we’ll be seeing much more of you once the inquisitor returns. May the Sacred Flame guide you.”

Something sick rose in Crick’s stomach. “… Yes. May the Sacred Flame guide us all.”

The rest of the evening passed without incident. In lieu of his job to protect Temenos, Crick had taken up small chores that needed doing around the cathedral at night to make himself more useful while he couldn’t be outside searching. One night, he’d swept the floors, and one night, he’d helped the cooks in the kitchen make food for the clerics, and one night, he’d gone through to ensure all the candles and braziers inside were still lit and not in any danger of causing a fire. It was busy work, to be sure, but Crick didn’t mind. It kept him from running through the vicious cycle of fear and worst-case scenarios haunting him of late, each one featuring a new, more creatively gruesome explanation for what had happened to Temenos all those months ago.

A strangely localized monster attack, or an inquiry gone horribly wrong, or someone with a grudge looking for revenge, or—

Or maybe Temenos was fine, and one day he would be able to laugh about the perfectly reasonable explanation for the dust, and the letters, and the staff, and the blood—

He’d gone for a run each night before retiring as a way to settle his mind enough to sleep. The routine was good for him— familiar, in its own way, after so many years of training to be a knight in Stormhail. And then, of course, the years of waking up even earlier to train the new ones.

At the door to the cathedral on his way out to stretch, he nearly ran bodily into someone, jumping back with a sharp breath.

“Oh, excuse me. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

A chuckle. “Always the front door with you, is it?”

Crick blinked. He’d seen this person somewhere before, hadn’t he? It took him a moment, but then— “… Ah! Loel, isn’t it?”

“Sure is! And now I know your name, too, Mister Knight, because I have… this!” They dug through their satchel and emerged with a letter, the seal of the Sacred Guard on the back. “To one Knight Commander Crick Wellsley, express from Stormhail. Didn’t know you had rank! Here you go.”

He accepted the letter, warm. “I’m sorry not to have introduced myself properly. That was quick. I’m grateful to you, Loel.”

“Just doing my job.” They popped their back with a long, weary stretch. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got more work to do before I’m done for the night, so… see you around.”

“Of course. Have a good night.”

They waved at him over their shoulder and then vanished down the hall, likely to deliver more mail to whatever clerics would be remaining overnight.

Crick flipped the letter over in his hand to see if he recognized the handwriting, to no avail. That was unusual. He was familiar enough with the handwriting of all three captains— his direct superiors— to identify it, but this…

He abandoned his original plan, instead returning to his quarters to read it. Luckily, Elio hadn’t yet returned for the night, allowing him some semblance of privacy as he tore the envelope open and pulled out the paper within.

His eyes skimmed over the letter once, twice. A third time, to be certain he wasn’t reading wrong.

‘Knight Commander Wellsley,

We have received your message regarding the inquisitor’s presence in Flamechurch. While your theory holds some weight, given his propensity for lengthy absences from the village, as well as the lack of clear evidence to suggest such a crime has occurred, the Sacred Guard must turn our attention to more pressing matters. The recent rash of monster attacks in the Crestlands is a grave threat to life in the region, with more casualties reported each day. Your squad has been sent to Montwise as we attempt to contain the situation. You are to report to the Crestlands guard outpost to lead them.

This notice of reassignment is made effective immediately.

May the Sacred Flame guide us all.

Knight Major Silas

Archbishop Brigit’

“No…” Shaky fingers ran through his hair, and he drew his gaze up to the wall, unseeing. Had he not been clear enough? 

Temenos was gone, had been missing for months. There was every possibility he had been abducted from his own home, and they thought, what, that he had simply left? Abandoned the staff he went everywhere with and walked out on his job, his responsibilities, his life? No.

No.

The Sacred Guard had asked him to take the knight liaison assignment because he’d worked with Temenos before— because he knew Temenos. Crick had been their last resort, giving him the job despite it being below his pay grade because they trusted him to know how to work with Temenos when nobody else would. And now, they didn’t trust his judgment enough to believe him when something was wrong.

Temenos’ words to him on the morning he left Stormhail in the wake of what had been his final visit rang in his mind.

‘The most important faith you hold is not for the gods, but that which you have in yourself. You have a strong heart, Crick Wellsley; follow it. It will not lead you astray.’

He eyed the letter in his hand, already half-crumpled in the tension of his grasp, and let it fall to the bed. He couldn’t— wouldn’t— accept it.

Crick knew where his heart wanted to lead him.

He had to find out what happened to Temenos— even if he was the only one who truly believed he was missing. If it was proof they wanted, then proof he would find.

He just needed time.

Chapter Text

On the night Roi returned, it should have stormed. Sharp gusts of wind drew dark clouds that settled heavily over Flamechurch, flush with rain and rumbling thunder. Temenos had smelled it on the air— that charge, that promise, all the rush and potential of danger and cleansing and change. 

No rain fell that night. The promises made by the wind answered a different prayer. One— several, many, countless— made in the absence of the person he cared for most, lost years earlier to the night and the wicked secrets of others. That night, the wind brought him Roi, instead.

There hadn’t been much time to talk. Roi kept his composure better than Temenos in the wake of their unexpected reunion, an odd, twisted reflection of their childhood. He’d missed him terribly, thought him dead and mourned him, honored his dying wish, avenged him— and yet, when the beloved brother he had missed for ten long years asked for his help, Temenos had hesitated. He had responsibilities, and plans, and cases to attend to. And then the ever-present doubt sank in, that needling, insistent failing of his character with the audacity to suggest that Roi might not be telling him the whole truth.

So Temenos did what he did best: he asked why.

Roi had never once lied to him. When he asked Temenos to be patient— promised to tell him the truth of what had happened, why he had been gone for so very long, if Temenos would only come with him— he believed him. There was very little that Temenos wouldn’t do for Roi. It had been so since they were children.

He said yes.

Time had passed since that night. Things had changed. And Roi was… different, somehow. Not exactly the man he remembered, but, then, neither was Temenos. Even so, the observation lingered like an itch at the back of his mind. Ever present. Barely noticeable. Just enough to make him wonder; just enough to make him doubt.

Cold pressure settled at the side of his neck, but he didn’t react. Couldn’t, maybe— he didn’t try very hard to resist as his mind swam away from unpleasant sensation, instead sinking drowsily into a warm, familiar haze, every sound but the too-fast beating of his own heart falling away.

He hadn’t done it consciously. Hadn’t asked for guidance from the Sacred Flame. He’d just… melted into it, this strange, liminal fog where truth was supposed to be made clear. The flames were there, just as always, but this power…

It was weaker than normal.

He lost focus on the world, but little changed in its appearance. Things that might normally have faded into blue instead simply glowed— subtle, like the embers of a fire. Nothing drew his particular attention. It was as though he’d simply put on a pair of glasses. Actively calling on this part of his abilities usually felt more like being submerged completely underwater.

Perhaps Aelfric had finally thought better of his decision to bless Temenos, of all people, and was siphoning his magic away. Odd, to wait so long, but Temenos supposed he would understand if that were the case.

He wouldn’t have chosen himself, either.

But why was he here, then, if not because something else called him?

Temenos pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He could think on it later. Whatever the truth of it may be, he was here, now; he may as well make use of it.

‘The truth lies in the flame.’

He blinked, channeling a little of his energy into the haze. It cleared— cemented itself, sharpening at the edges. Across the room, a fiery specter bloomed into existence: Roi, unmistakably, reaching up to touch the wall. Behind it, a single flame flickered, erratic.

Temenos narrowed his eyes. There were too many flames in the room. Too much fire— too much life. He and Roi were the only ones in the ruins.

Right? 

“Temenos!”

His eyes flew open, the haze of blue fading from his mind. An unusual, stinging warmth lingered on his cheek; thoughtlessly, he reached up to rub it. A burn? Or— 

“Oh, Roi.”

Roi exhaled, harsh. “There you are. Don’t do that.”

Temenos chuckled. “My apologies. You know how deep in thought I can get.”

“Yes, yes. Even so, you should stay here when I’m talking to you, at the very least. I’ve finished with my examination.”

“You’re not going to ask me to heal it today?” Temenos asked, hands coming up to button his shirt.

“I considered it, but after what happened last time, I thought I’d let you recover more of your spirit before trying again.”

“How magnanimous.”

A sigh. “If you still have the energy to think so hard, you should have the energy to make yourself useful. Would you care to assist me with my work today?”

Temenos sat up a little straighter, eyebrows lifting.

“Oh? You would share your secrets with me?” He asked, voice a lilting tease. “I’m flattered.”

To Temenos’ disappointment— relief?— Roi didn’t rise to his bait, leveling him with that same dry stare.

“Oh, very well. I’ll help, then. But only because you asked so nicely.” If nothing else, it would be a useful opportunity to learn something about what Roi was up to— and maybe what was going on. “What would you have me do?”

“We’re preparing components for my concoctions. So simple, even an idiot could do it,” he said, holding out the handle of a knife.

Temenos took it. “Ah, so that’s how you’ve managed on your own for so long.”

For the briefest flash of a moment, something in Roi’s demeanor shifted. He clutched at the edge of the table, jaw held tight, like poorly restrained fury. Roi had been mad at him before; of course he had. Temenos excelled at many things, and making people angry was high on the list, for better or worse. His brother had been on the other end of it more often than he could count while they were growing up. But even so, he’d never seen that look on his face before. It felt out of place there, raising the hair on the back of his neck, and—

Roi snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Temenos. Stay here. Focus on me. Are you paying attention?”

A blink. “… My apologies. It seems that I was… distracted.”

“I thought you wanted to help?”

He couldn’t even remember getting lost in thought. What happened? One moment, Roi had been angry, and the next— “I do.”

“Then focus,” he said. “This is delicate work, and I won’t hesitate to send you away if you can’t handle it.”

Temenos huffed. “It was a minor lapse, Roi, nothing more. I’m perfectly capable of preparing herbs.”

Rolling his eyes, Roi gestured with his own knife. “By all means, then. Do go ahead. I need everything on that table done.”

He followed the gesture with his eyes to a table pushed against the wall, not too far from where he stood. A pile of things took up most of the surface, covered by a cloth marked with dark stains.

Static prickled up and down his arms at the sight. It sat there, perfectly innocuous— just a dirty piece of fabric— but in the light, the stains on the cloth looked like— 

He blinked, and the sensation vanished. He pulled the cloth away to reveal nothing more than a pile of medicinal herbs and other components, most of which he’d seen before. Some of it, he’d even gathered himself, on the occasional trip into nature with one or more of his travel companions from the journey they’d taken. Several, however, he’d never seen before.

He picked up one such item— a thick branch, about the length of his upper arm and somewhat wider. The bark was tough, though clearly rotten inside, based on how much it gave under the press of his fingers. He had half a mind to ask Roi what use he could possibly have for a water-logged branch, but stopped, caught out by the way sap suddenly oozed from the place it had been severed, viscous and unpleasantly cool to the touch. Temenos wrinkled his nose at the residue it left on his hand, somehow both sticky and slick. He held it further from his body. “And this branch?”

Roi’s expression was odd— indecipherable. “That one will need to be drained, first. Use the bucket under your bench.”

A nod. It wasn’t complicated work, but Temenos couldn’t quite get past the way it all felt. The odd firmness, the way the sap was already drying on his hands where the layer of it was thinnest. He distracted himself by drifting off into thought, this time intentionally.

He remembered Roi’s expression on the night he left, eyes wide and hair out of place with the amount of running his hands through it he must have done. He’d been nothing short of panicked, in his own way, but more than anything, determined— jaw set, grip firm on the artifact he and the pontiff had found buried with all the rest of the church’s secrets. For so long, Temenos had wished they would have brought him along. Would his presence have changed anything? Could he have set things on a different path, or would it have simply doomed him, too?

He’d learned quickly that there was no point in wasting time wishing. He was always better off getting his hands dirty and doing the work himself. That was the only way the truth would be revealed. People didn’t like admitting to their secrets; Temenos didn’t blame them, not really. He was a hypocrite, after all, but at least he knew it. Roi, however…

He’d promised.

Temenos left the branch to drain, scrubbing his hands on the cloth before picking up the knife and setting to work separating flowers from their stems.

“Roi.”

He let out a thin sigh. “What is it, Temenos?”

“Where did you go?”

Pause.

“Clarify.”

His grip tightened on the knife. “Ten years ago, Roi. When you left with that… thing.”

It took a moment, but recognition passed through his eyes. “Oh… I see.”

“Where did you go? Why…” He cut himself off before his voice broke. Roi knew better than anyone how emotional he’d been as a child, but he’d more than outgrown that in the years since. That Temenos— the one who cried at the slightest provocation, the one who prayed to the gods when he was lost or alone or frightened— was long dead. He’d died the day they held Roi’s funeral. “Why did it take you so long to come back?”

Roi was silent for a long while. “You want to know the truth, Temenos?”

“You told me the night you returned that if I came with you, you would tell me what happened. I would see that promise kept. You’ve kept the truth from me for far too long; I will have my answers.”

Tension flickered over Roi’s face, there and then gone. “You remember that, do you?”

A nod.

He sighed, long and low. Chuckled. “Very well, then. I’m nothing if not a man of my word. I’ll tell you what happened.”

Temenos swallowed, hard, and turned his back to continue his work. “Thank you.”

“There was a boy, once… half-dead and delirious, though with pain or something else, I couldn’t say, I’m afraid.”

Temenos narrowed his eyes. What did this have to do with his question? He opened his mouth to ask, but his voice stuck in his throat, dry and painful. He swallowed again, trying and failing to speak against the sudden wave of dizziness that overtook him.

What was happening?

“— calling for his family… Oh, how he cried,” Roi said, voice filled with a warmth not unlike nostalgia. His eyes caught somewhere in the distance for a long moment.

He couldn’t focus on it. Couldn’t make sense of what he was saying.

Why were his hands shaking?

“What happened to him?” Temenos heard himself croak. Where did you go? Answer me.

Roi laughed.

“I saved him—”

“… I used him—”

“… I made him.”

Static filled his mind, like water rushing in his ears. All of the words were there, but…

“That’s the truth.”

A hand brushed across his forehead. The meaning of his words slipped away like sand through his fingers; the harder he grasped for understanding, the more it eluded him.

“Is that what you wanted to hear, Inquisitor?”

He gasped for breath, and it hurt.

Why, why, why did Roi have to—

“Stop.” Roi put a firm hand on his wrist. “You’re bound to lose a finger doing that. Go and wash up; you’ve done more than enough for today.”

Temenos flexed his fingers at the mess on his hands, vibrant green— red— green?— in half-dried splotches. His stomach churned violently. The knife all but fell from his grasp, and he let it, fingers curling back. “I…”

A loud rush of noise echoed through the space from somewhere nearby— a thunderous splash accompanied by the crumbling of stone. Each new impact wore a little more on Temenos’ frayed nerves. Had part of the ruins collapsed and fallen into the water below? It wasn’t unusual for little bits and pieces to break off, but for the sound to be so loud— so close…

And hadn’t there been another sound, too? A screech, maybe, or something akin to sharp nails on a chalkboard, nearly indistinguishable in the rest of the cacophony.

It sent a shudder through him. “The ruins?”

Roi scowled, attention trained on the hallway. “That thing… honestly. This is the last interruption I need today. I’ll handle it.”

His heart jumped. “I can help investigate—”

“No. You wouldn’t manage to be anything other than in my way, in your state,” he said. The gentle pressure of his hand as it swept Temenos’ bangs away soothed the worst of the sting, the juvenile hurt that bloomed in his chest at Roi’s words. He was right, after all. Temenos could barely hold himself upright. “Wait here. Don’t touch anything while I’m gone.”

The room fell silent in his wake.

Temenos leaned heavily against the wall, eyes falling shut as he tried to collect himself. The room spun, lurching from side to side, and for a brief moment, he thought he might be sick. It was the only reasonable explanation for why he was so affected— why his entire body shook, and why that painful, choking feeling had settled at the back of his throat, making his eyes sting. Why, when he opened them again, they focused almost instinctively on the door, watching. Waiting for… something.

But no— he knew he wasn’t sick. The truth of it was in the racing of his heart, and in the high-strung tension in his shoulders that he couldn’t ease. Even his knees threatened to give out under his own weight. Everything in him screamed for his attention, all signs pointing to one answer.

Fear.

Not a foreign feeling, by any stretch of the imagination, but one he usually had much more control over. He usually had more control of his emotions, in general. But it didn’t make sense; there was nothing here.

Why was he so afraid?

Temenos shook his head and submerged his hands in the water of the nearby basin that he often saw Roi use. Clouds of that strange substance surrounded them, and his pulse spiked, freezing him in place. The only sounds were that of his own unsteady breaths, near-hyperventilating— and below it, barely recognizable, the urgent siren of his own muted thoughts, a consciousness pressing against the back of some imperceptible barrier.

Look at your hands.

The basin hit the floor with a crash as he jerked back, sending the murky water inside flooding over the stone. It splashed over his shoes, not tinted green, but a deep, shocking red. Pink rivulets of tainted water dripped off his hands, stained with the same red caught under his fingernails.

Not plant matter. Not sap.

Blood.

Roi’s workroom came into focus around him for what felt like the first time— as though he hadn’t truly seen it before that moment, not as it was. Like he hadn’t been paying attention to what was actually there, or like his eyes had somehow simply shifted over the truth of the room.

Now that he could see it, it was impossible to look away.

Ancient sconces held lit torches throughout the room, casting flickering light across the same tables that had been there before. Piles of dirty tools and stained cloth became clear, the remnants of materials and concoctions and the mutilated pieces of various creatures resting on tables stained dark with what was undeniably blood. For the first time, he noticed the smell— metallic and sharp, acrid, thick enough that he could taste it on the back of his tongue with each breath. Sections of the walls were covered by curtains. He’d missed them somehow, thinking the fabric nothing but another part of the time-weathered stone of the ruins.

Or… no. Fabric he’d seen, but hadn’t truly noticed.

He’d never so much as thought to consider what secrets they might be hiding.

Temenos placed a shaking hand to the curtain against the same wall he’d seen Roi’s memory touch earlier. He gripped its frayed hem tight, willing his hesitation— his fear— away. Something was hidden here— a secret he’d been too blind to see the truth of for far too long, revealed only in the strange, illuminating fog of his own magical sight.

The truth did indeed lie in the flame.

“I will have answers,” he whispered, a solemn reminder to himself that didn’t quite echo in the space. This truth, too, would be brought to light.

He pulled the curtain back. Behind it, a large, cylindrical container sat, filled with some unrecognizable fluid, and there, inside— 

A flash of a buried memory, the desperate feeling that he was drowning— a horrible ache in his chest, like the frigid burn of ice, and—

A monster, dead, but not decaying, curled up in the fluid inside the container as though it were somehow still in pain, even after its death. Pieces of it had warped, grown, shifted, likely due to whatever had been done to it— whatever was being done to it— leaving it unbalanced in the same way a puppy needed time to grow into its paws and ears. Given time, this creature would finish mutating; it would grow into itself.

It wasn’t the only one. Several curtains were scattered around the room, each disguising a container with a monster all its own, in various states of… growth. In various states of twisted, unnatural life.

It wasn’t often Temenos felt compelled to pray. But now, looking around the room with his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts that threatened to crawl further up his throat and emerge as a scream, he took one stumbling step backwards and folded his hands at his chest. Trembling, whispered words that he barely recognized spilled from his lips— a prayer.

Aelfric the Flamebringer, may your light guide these lost souls— illuminate my path— forgive me, forgive me, help me—

How had he gotten here? What was happening?

Where was…

A long, growling sigh. “What a mess you’ve made. I told you not to touch anything. Troublesome thing.”

No, no—

A shudder wracked through him. He whirled on the shadowed form behind him, hands lifting on reflex.

“Holy light—!”

A comfortable weight settled into his skin all at once, something warm and soothing and slightly tingly washing over him. It felt… nice. He was safe here. 

Why was his heart racing so fast? Why did it hurt? He ached with it, as though it might beat hard enough to burst free of his chest.

Someone was there— hadn’t there been someone there?

Oh, it was only—

“Roi,” Temenos breathed, arms falling to his sides. His body felt heavy— why had he been casting a spell? He was already so low on spirit; that would just be asking for disaster. Roi would surely scold him if he made himself sick by running out… again. “You gave me a start.”

The familiar weight of magic lingered in the air, unmistakable. Temenos hadn’t cast a spell.

Why did it still feel like magic?

Roi’s hand came up to brush his bangs away from his face. “Shh. It’s alright, now. Stay here. Focus on me. Don’t overexert yourself, Temenos.”

“Did you get new gloves?” He murmured. Roi didn’t usually wear gloves; if he did, they were the ceremonial white ones given to him by the church. These were a reddish-brown leather, cracked with age and unpleasantly cool to the touch. Roi was usually warm. “… They don’t suit you.”

“That’s very rude, I’ll have you know.” A sigh, and a quiet— gentle?— mutter of, “I’m losing you. It seems as though I’ll need a new solution, soon… you’re much too clever for your own good.”

Something deep in him lurched at the very thought, a rising instinct to grab his brother’s hand and reassure him that he wasn’t going anywhere— that he’d never lose him again. It was an urge he’d thought long dead and buried, alongside— 

But he knew better than to make such promises. Everyone left, eventually. It was only a matter of when and how.

Instead, he leaned into the contact at his temple, eyes falling shut. “I already have to hear that from every other member of the church. I don’t wish to hear it from you, too.”

Roi chuckled. “Perhaps you should stop thinking so hard, then.”

“Perhaps. You know I can’t do that, though. Even if it would make my life easier… I must seek out the truth. The task requires that I keep my eyes open.”

“What a fascinating little creature you are.” The words sent sharp, hot pain through Temenos’ mind, and he flinched against it. “So desperate in your pointless pursuits… faithless chosen of the divine.”

“I…” Another strike, like someone curling clawed fingers into his brain. “I— didn’t tell you that—”

He forced his eyes open— why were they wet?— and the pain subsided. What had he been saying?

Roi smiled at him, hand gentle. “You should rest a while.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong, it was all…

“I would rather remain awake. Something is… wrong. This isn’t right…”

“Everything will be fine.” Roi gestured to the door. “Go on. I have more work to do. Tell me if you start feeling any… ill-effects.”

Effects of what?

He opened his mouth to ask, and what came out instead was, “… Very well.”

Temenos reluctantly peeled himself away from his brother’s touch and left the room, being mindful to close the door behind him. He took one step down the hall— another— and then his knees gave out under him, their trembling severe enough to send him to the ground. 

He put a hand against the wall. The contact was bracing, sharpening his focus on his body. His heart thrummed, loud and constant, in his ears, as though he’d run an impossible distance, stomach lurching with the lingering threat of sickness.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

He focused his thoughts on whatever could possibly have caused this, straining to remember. Nothing had happened in the workroom— nothing unusual. 

Right?

The harder he thought about it, the more he realized that something stood in his way. A strange haze, like coming into contact with a sheet of glass imposed between his mind and his own body. Like what he saw was… wrong. Or, rather, like what he saw was hiding something else behind it.

The truth.

Trying to look past it— trying to see— sent pain lancing through his head, and he drew a hand up to his mouth to keep the contents of his stomach down, breaths coming harsh against the threat of nausea. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned bodily against the wall to collect his faculties. 

It didn’t make sense. Nothing did. 

Something had happened in that room— and something was trying to keep him from thinking about it.

Temenos blinked his eyes open again, and the fog settled back on his mind. He diverted his attention from it, not wanting to make himself sick again. It lingered, just present enough that he could notice it, now, if he focused. Just present enough to hide whatever was truly going on.

His own mind was lying to him—

Hurting him. 

One thing, at least, had been made clear: whatever was going on, Temenos couldn’t trust anything. Least of all himself.

Chapter Text

Before he met Temenos, being a Sanctum Knight had been… simple. Fight monsters, protect the church from heretics, escort pilgrims from the village to the cathedral. Follow orders. It took a lot of work, of course— many years of dedicated practice and training in one of the harshest climates in Solistia— but it had been simple. As far as Crick had been concerned, the Sacred Guard had been full of good people who believed the same things he did, and he never minded taking orders from them. He never really had to think too hard about it; there was no reason to.

Meeting Temenos had been his first wake-up call that not all was as it seemed in the church. It had shaken him, a little, to meet someone in a position he aspired to who was everything a cleric was meant not to be: irreverent, dishonest, combative— an enigma to more than just Crick, if the conversations he’d had with the other knights were any indication. Temenos was someone who would speak ill of the gods and then call on their power just the same, using it against the very people he was meant to shepherd. He was someone who had the audacity to preach faith when he had so much doubt.

And despite it all, once Crick was reassigned to Canalbrine, he found himself disappointed that he had to go. He’d grown somewhat fond of Temenos, even if he was certain he’d never fully understand him or his motivations. Temenos was… well, kind hadn’t been the right word, at the time. He definitely wasn’t direct with Crick or anyone else, and he couldn’t in good conscience agree with his words or actions. But Temenos was principled, in his own way. Full of conviction. Brave, even in the face of terrifying danger. Crick had decided quickly enough that, buried underneath it all— and despite the fact that Temenos himself would likely disagree— he was still a good person. He simply wanted the truth.

Crick had wanted to stay in Flamechurch. He’d wondered why he was being reassigned so quickly, despite the recent murder of the pontiff. Surely he would be more useful staying with Temenos to investigate. The Sacred Guard needed to be focusing their attentions there, so why—

Why?

The thought had frightened him, then. A good Sanctum Knight didn’t ask why. A good Sanctum Knight followed orders— and he’d wanted nothing more than to be a good Sanctum Knight— so he left without complaint.

After that, he’d done everything in his power to bury that persistent, dangerous question lingering at the back of his mind. His duty as a knight was to protect people and to faithfully serve the church, a task that Crick had once taken up happily. He’d hated that his path had become so obscured— again. He’d hated that Temenos had been the one to make everything so confusing. It wasn’t the last time he felt that way.

Being a Sanctum Knight was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be right. He’d thought for so long that maybe it still could be, if he just… if he did his best to embody the order’s virtues, to live up to everything a knight was meant to be. That was what he wanted to be, too: strong, kind, noble, brave. ‘Patient’ was the one he always seemed to have the most trouble with. He still had trouble with it, if his current restlessness was any indication.

Or his frighteningly split loyalties.

The Knight Major had probably been more than a little put out when he’d written back asking for time to continue his investigation into Temenos’ disappearance instead of simply following orders. It was likely Crick had frustrated him by referencing the Sacred Guard’s own rules, the ones that had been amended during the restructure. Investigating the monster attacks was important— something the Sacred Guard was likely struggling to handle. The Knight Major had been correct in his reassignment notice, after all. The Crestlands were becoming more dangerous with each passing day, thanks to the increased threat of being attacked on the roads. Knights and civilians alike were getting hurt. He’d been told of three such cases in their first reply: a church in Borderfall, no casualties. A caravan of scholars outside Montwise, three injured. An ambush of a Sacred Guard patrol near the mines— one knight missing. One knight dead. And Crick wanted to help, of course he did, but…

But this was important, too. And he’d been there when the rules were rewritten. He’d participated in that arduous process to ensure that nobody could ever take advantage of the system in the way Kaldena had again. Only knights that weren’t currently on a dedicated assignment were meant to be moved away from their posts. There were many knights that weren’t on assignment, and Crick was not one of them. Neither was he the highest ranked, nor the lowest ranked, of the ones that were.

Why had he been the one assigned to investigate the attacks? Just because he was already in the Crestlands? It didn’t make sense.

And it was also odd, Crick thought absently, that the assignment had come from so high up in the ranks. The Archbishop herself had signed off on it. Every assignment he’d been given since the restructure had come through one of the captains— one of his direct superiors. It made sense, and it didn’t break the chain of command. It was unusual that their normal system had been broken. His captains had given him the knight liaison assignment. The Knight Major had tried to reassign him, despite valid concerns about the safety of a leader of the church. A missing inquisitor was important, more than deserving of an investigation, and yet Crick was the only one who seemed to care. Personal feelings aside, the whole situation was… strange.

Come to think of it, it was a little convenient that Temenos would disappear after the notice that he was to be assigned a personal guard, but before anyone could actually be sent. And why hadn’t they been able to find anyone to volunteer for the job? There were plenty of knights that didn’t know about Temenos’ rather unfortunate reputation, and yet they’d chosen Crick. Whether it was truly to protect him or just to make it look like they’d tried, only someone from inside—

No.

Crick shook his head against the thought, unwilling to entertain it further. After everything they’d done to ensure that the Sacred Guard was set up to be everything it was always intended to be, he had to believe his superiors weren’t involved. He had to have faith.

… But something clearly wasn’t right.

He couldn’t help but let out a wry laugh; it seemed that his time with Temenos had affected him more than he’d thought. When had he gotten so good at doubting?

When each communication took days, going back and forth with the Sacred Guard was a waste of time. He would send one more letter— a refusal to be made the lead on the case, but also an offer to help where it made sense. He took no joy in refusing such an important assignment, but here, of all places, Crick knew he had to stand his ground.

He would help. No more, and no less. They had given him a job, and no matter how it had spiraled out of control, it all came down to something incredibly simple— something he’d already promised to dedicate himself to, many years earlier.

He had to protect Temenos.

Crick tapped his foot. Stopped. Took a few pacing steps, barely resisting the urge to cross his arms, before sighing and dropping into the provided chair with a clatter of armor. His nerves buzzed under his skin like an itch he couldn’t quite reach— he needed to move, needed to run, needed to do something— but he had a job to do.

An important job, he reminded himself, forcing his bouncing knee still. His mind may have been elsewhere, but he couldn’t deny that. They had agreed, in the end— Crick would help, in whatever time he had, with the investigation into the Sacred Guard’s most pressing issue. With the understanding, of course, that if things got any worse, he would be reassigned regardless of what he wanted.

It was a start. Hope— and that was all he needed.

Those new orders led him to the quiet back room of the cathedral where he now sat, waiting on two clerics that had been present for an attack on their church out in Borderfall several weeks earlier. He had been asked to meet with them to assess the situation, and to report back with any new information that might help whoever the lead investigator was, out in Montwise.

But the clerics he was supposed to be meeting were late. And the longer he sat in silence, the more his mind wandered back to the darkened rooms in Temenos’ house, and the thought of someone he cared for somewhere beyond his reach, maybe hurt and maybe frightened and maybe—

The door clicked open.

Crick stood to greet the two clerics that entered. A middle-aged woman walked with her hand hooked into the elbow of her companion, a young man who also carried both of their bags. He shuffled her over to the chair Crick had vacated, nodding to him gratefully.

“You really needn’t fuss,” she muttered, nevertheless sinking into it with a quiet sigh.

“I wouldn’t need to if you wouldn’t push yourself so hard.”

She waved her hand dismissively before turning her attention to Crick. Instinctively, he straightened under her gaze, almost… evaluating. It reminded him more than he would prefer of the way his mother used to look at him.

“You’re the Sanctum Knight, then?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, folding a hand over his chest. “My name is Crick. I’ve been asked to speak with you about the recent attack on your church.”

“And it only took you a month to get to us. Well done.”

Heat crawled up his face. Before he could try and explain himself, the other cleric cut in, frowning.

“Sister, that’s very unkind. I believe it was you who said that the Flame would illuminate the path in its own time, wasn’t it?”

She hummed, but otherwise said nothing, nose turned up.

The young man sighed, apology clear in his eyes. “Forgive us, Ser Crick. Since the attack, the church has been… worse for wear, and before dawn yesterday morning, the rest of the spire collapsed, taking some of the back wall with it. It was quite the ordeal, and now, of course, it’s too dangerous to stay until it’s fixed. I’m sure you know that our church was built to protect the Altar of the Flamebringer. It feels awful to have to abandon it, even for our own safety.”

Something panged in Crick’s chest. “I’m so sorry. I’m certain that repairing it will be the pontiff’s first priority.”

“Indeed,” the woman sniffed. “The cleric’s guild has been run out of Borderfall for generations. I’ve been there for more than half my life; I won’t see it left to rot.”

“For once, we’re in agreement,” the man laughed, earning him a scathing look. He ignored it completely, eyes wide as he turned to Crick and said, “Oh! This is Sister Anthe— she’s the current Clerics Guild Master. You may call me Galen. I’m an apprentice of the guild.”

“It is good to meet you both. I’m afraid that I have only heard pieces of the story so far— just what rumors have reached me here in Flamechurch. My superiors told me that you were present for an attack by some kind of creature, but little else,” he admitted. “I want to understand the situation. Would you start by telling me what happened, please?”

They both fell silent at the question. Anthe released a grumbling sigh, glaring out the window. Eventually, Galen looked up again, hands folded in front of him.

“It is as you say,” he managed, hesitant. “Nearly four weeks ago, a… a creature tried to break into the church. We were unharmed, thank the Flame, but the building... well. I didn’t see much of the thing— it was dark, and it never fully made it inside. But what I could make out before it disappeared was… unnatural. Stretched limbs, eyes that almost seemed to glow. White, or… blue, maybe. I don’t know. It was unlike any monster I’ve ever seen.”

It didn’t sound like any monster Crick was familiar with, either. Nothing fitting Galen’s description was known to live in the Crestlands— nor the Winterlands to the north. He thought to ask about it, but paused, something else catching his attention, instead.

“What do you mean, it disappeared?”

“Just that. It showed up in the middle of the night and spent quite a while circling the building… peering in through windows, that sort of thing. We hid, out of its sight, and eventually, it climbed up to the roof. The noise was horrible— wet claws scraping against the tiles, the dripping water, the— the screaming, and then the clanging of the bell when it found the spire. It tore the roof apart. It managed to break one of the windows, large enough to allow it inside, but right as it did, it… it just… vanished. There was a pillar of light, bright as the return of the sun itself for just a moment, and then… nothing. Like it had never been there at all.”

“Lord Aelfric’s divine protection,” Anthe said, conviction apparent in the set of her jaw and shoulders. “What else could bring such a powerful light into existence?”

Galen wrapped his arms around himself. “I don’t know what else it could be.”

Crick hummed, considering. He’d been witness to genuine acts of divine protection— he’d been saved by one— but those acts were a little more tangible than the story he’d just been told would suggest. Just as Temenos told him on the night they met: it was written in the scripture that the gods gave their messengers flame to light the way forward. The gods acted through their creation— and at least in his experience, true miracles were always the direct result of undeniably human action.

It followed, then, that the monster that had attacked the church, whatever it was, hadn’t simply vanished, and it wasn’t likely that Aelfric himself had reached down to smite the thing, either. It meant that something or someone else was at play, unseen.

A light spell seemed the most obvious; any sufficiently powerful cleric could summon holy light. It would explain the pillar, but… what had happened to the corpse?

“Was anyone else there that night?” Crick asked. “Another cleric, perhaps? Or someone outside that came in after to check on you?”

Anthe shook her head. “No one. If anyone was outside, they didn’t make themselves known, and they certainly didn’t help. Though it isn’t likely anyone would have been outside— few travelers pass through Borderfall after dark, and fewer still in the rain.”

Pause.

“It was raining?”

“We heard it falling on the roof, yes. I’ve not been able to settle on rainy days since,” Galen said, a dry chuckle lacing the edges of his words. After a moment, he frowned. “But… it couldn’t have rained that night. The summer was unusually dry, and only recently have we been blessed with rain again.”

“The weather must have turned,” Anthe clucked, hands folded at her chest. “It can be rather unpredictable, up here in the mountains. Surely you’ve experienced it, Sanctum Knight.”

Crick nodded. “Yes, it is much the same in Stormhail. The weather can change with little warning. Though the Winterlands were also dry, these past few months.”

Strange, then, that they would have heard rain on the night of the attack.

“Did anything happen that night that might have drawn the creature’s attention to the church? Or did it seem to want something?” Crick asked. “Monsters have been acting unusually, of late, even here in Flamechurch, but even so, they are still as intelligent as beasts can be. They have motivations for their actions. Seeking out food or water, defending their territory, fleeing from enemies…”

Galen tightened his arms around himself. “I don’t know. It seemed to want to get inside the church once it saw us. It was likely hungry— we’ve noticed an increase in the number of animals and monsters alike passing through the mountains. Whatever it usually eats is likely gone. But it’s very odd for anything to go out of its way to attack humans, no matter how hungry. And this creature was… aggressive.”

“Strange, indeed.”

Crick buried a sigh. There just wasn’t enough information to know what it all meant— if anything at all. The situation was terrible, no doubt, but there was no indication of what had caused it to begin with. A pillar of light, a destroyed roof, and the phantom sound of rain didn’t offer any real clues that he could work with. Perhaps he would spend some time putting together a timeline of all the attacks… maybe a map? The cathedral would have one somewhere. He would ask if he could borrow it; it would probably be useful for both investigations.

“I believe that’s all the information I need to get started, for now,” he said. “Thank you for your time. Please come find me if you think of any new detail, no matter how small it may seem. I’ll pass this along to the knight leading the case immediately.”

Anthe hummed, eyes narrowed. “See that you do, Sanctum Knight.”

Crick nodded. As he turned to leave, Galen spoke again. “Ser Crick?”

“Yes?”

“May I…” He trailed off, eyes cast down to the floor. “I’m sorry. I know you’re busy, but I… I would appreciate the opportunity to pray for you, if you wouldn’t mind.”

He paused. Blinked, mind empty for a long moment as he tried to wrap his head around the request, and then— 

“Pray for me?”

A nod. When he looked up again, he extended one hand towards Crick. “Yes. You work for the safety of us all, and the road ahead of you is long and potentially dangerous. There is little I can do to change that, but… I can do this. If you’d allow me.”

Almost thoughtlessly, Crick accepted the offered hand. Galen’s posture seemed to relax; he placed his second hand on top of Crick’s and squeezed, the pressure barely there against the metal of his gauntlets.

“Thank you,” Galen murmured, lowering his head and closing his eyes. After a moment, Crick did the same, a slow, shaky breath escaping him as Galen began to speak. “May the Sacred Flame guide this man safely along his path. I pray that he will not lose sight of its light, no matter the darkness. May he find the answers he seeks, in the Flamebringer’s name.”

Rogue emotion built at the back of his throat as he released Crick’s hand. It had been some time since anyone had prayed for him. He remembered clearly the last two times it had happened, both in moments of need. One inquisitor, settled on a sunny patch of grass with his trousers rolled up to dip his feet in the water of the river. Another inquisitor, knelt in the ice and snow amidst a blizzard, blood seeping through his fingers. It was so simple an act, and yet, for someone to have done so not because he asked, but just because they wanted to…

He hoped his voice wasn’t quite as choked as it felt when he said, “Thank you, Brother Galen. May the Sacred Flame guide you, too— the both of you.”

As it turned out, the cathedral did not have a map.

He’d been concerned— but mostly amused— to learn that, as a direct result of a complicated series of unfortunate accidents at the hands of a young adherent, very few books or scrolls were actually kept within the cathedral itself. Some were, of course: certain books of scripture, as well as any collections in rooms off-limits to all but the highest-ranked members of the church.

Every other book, scroll, or record had since been moved to the upper village library. That suited Crick just fine; the bishop had been kind enough to grant him written permission to take the map, as well as any relevant documents or anything else he thought would be useful for his investigation. And, as a bonus, he finally had time to search the library.

According to Elio, Temenos had been there on the day of the summer solstice— the last day anyone he’d spoken to had seen him, and, presumably, the day he went missing. That meant whoever worked inside was one of the last people to have seen him before he disappeared, if not the last. It was possible they’d seen something, or noticed Temenos’ unusual behavior, or perhaps even spoken to him about whatever had been on his mind that day.

Not that the latter seemed likely. Temenos was somewhat notorious for holding his secrets rather close to his chest. To hear the direct truth from him was exceedingly rare. But, if he had indeed said something, then Crick was certain he would be able to figure it out. Though inscrutable at first, eventually, Crick had come to pick up on at least a few of his more subtle habits. He would never presume to say he knew Temenos better than anyone— the man was far too secretive for that— but he was confident he knew more than most would ever be allowed. 

Temenos trusted him enough to confide in him. He’d told him a thousand meaningless little truths over the years, and a few more important ones. Not many, but a handful. In Canalbrine, he’d admitted to feeling like he owed Crick a debt; it had seemed like a joke, at first, but Crick had been quick to figure out that he meant it, and quicker still to tell him he owed nothing at all. On his first visit to Stormhail, he’d told him of his predecessor, Inquisitor Roi, and how his disappearance had been his driving force to reveal the truth. On his final visit to Stormhail, Temenos had come to him once their work was done and confided in him once more— told Crick directly that he trusted him. It had struck him as being odd, even through the unexpected emotion it had brought up, but then, of course, he’d asked—

“Please close the door behind you. Exposure to the elements is bad for the books.”

Crick startled out of his thoughts, ears burning, and did as asked, mumbling an apology into the air. The library was exactly the same as he remembered it: small, quiet, orderly. The warm, dusty scent of parchment filled the air. It wasn’t much more than a few rows of shelves, one table shoved away in the corner, and the reference desk, straight ahead from the door.

The only person inside, at least that he could see, was the cleric sitting at the reference desk. A small pile of books, stacked a little off-center, sat on the desk at her side, and she had her nose buried in yet another.

He approached the desk as quietly as he could. She didn’t look up at him.

“Can I help you?”

Crick placed the note from the bishop down gingerly. “Good afternoon, sister. I have permission to take a few materials relating to an investigation I’m working on. A map, some tomes…”

“That’s fine,” she said, still not looking up. “Bring them back here once you’ve collected them, and I’ll add it to the records. Maps will be on the back shelf, near the corner. You’ll have to find whatever books you need on your own, unless you can be more specific.”

“I’m… Not quite certain what else I need, yet,” he admitted, cheeks warm. “Records of arcane beasts in the Crestlands, at least.”

“Local records are the rightmost shelf, on the row nearest the door.”

“Oh, um, thank you.”

Her tone gave him the impression that she would rather not be bothered further. Instead, he made his way around the library, keeping an eye out for anything that looked like it might be even vaguely useful to him. Most of it didn’t seem like it would; that made sense. In the end, it was a library for the church, not like the one in Montwise. Most of the books on the shelves were copies of scripture, or other related theological texts. Many were records of history. But eventually, he found a few he thought would help him, bringing them back up to the desk.

He set the stack down, and, to his surprise, the librarian did the same with her own, finally looking up to meet his eyes. Most people, upon noticing his armor, made some comment about him being a knight, particularly in the aftermath of the restructure of the Sacred Guard, but she barely seemed to notice at all, instead making a soft sound in the back of her throat.

“I remember you. You came in with Temenos after Pontiff Jörg’s funeral. You were too loud.”

Crick widened his eyes. “That— that was five years ago! How could you possibly remember that?”

“You’re still too loud.”

Heat crawled up his face. He lowered his voice. “Sorry.”

She hummed. “I’ve a memory for things that catch my attention. And Temenos doesn’t tend to keep people around anymore, so when he came in with you, I noticed. What are you investigating?”

“Anymore…?” Crick trailed off. Shook his head. “I’m assisting with the investigation into the increased monster activity in the area.”

She narrowed her eyes at the stack of books he’d placed down, silent for a long moment.

“If that’s the case, you chose wrong.” Without another word, she scooped the pile of books up and bustled away, leaving Crick even more bewildered than he had been. She came back not a minute later with a much smaller selection, placing them on the desk. “You’ll want to take a look at these, instead.”

“Oh,” he stammered. “Thank you.”

She moved back around the desk to take out a pen and journal. She opened the cover of each book in turn, scrawling some information down that he couldn’t even begin to guess at. The name, he supposed. Perhaps the calendar date. What else could she— 

“How is Temenos? I haven’t seen him lately.”

Crick blinked, caught out once more. “… To be truthful, I was hoping that you might be able to tell me. I’ve heard from people around town that he is here often.”

Her pen stilled.

“You aren’t here on his behalf?”

Pause.

“No. My original orders were to report to him, but he… doesn’t seem to be in the village at the moment. The Sacred Guard have asked me to help with a different investigation until his return.”

Not the full truth, but not exactly a lie, either.

“Oh.” She looked off to the side, as if considering, before continuing her work. “I see. He hasn’t been by in a number of months. On some inquiry or another, I’m sure. I couldn’t say where or for what purpose, though.”

“That’s alright. Do you happen to remember the last time you saw him?”

Book open. “Of course. I had to ask him to leave on the night of the solstice, long after the sun had fallen. He came here after the celebrations and sat at the table in the corner with a book and a journal, like he always does.” Book closed. “He hasn’t been back since.”

Crick widened his eyes. “Why did you ask him to leave?”

“It was late,” she said, short. Book open. “We all need to sleep. He tried to convince me to allow him to stay, but he definitely needed to rest; he fell asleep at the table. So I sent him home. There was a storm brewing that night, anyway. If he’d stayed any later, he might have gotten caught in it. Or hit his head after passing out again.”

“Why was he here for so long?”

“I couldn’t say. It had been that way for a few weeks. He was here almost as often as I was— sunup to sundown.” Book closed. “He simply seemed… reluctant to leave.”

“I see.” Crick frowned. On the surface, nothing she said was all that strange; he knew Temenos tended to absorb himself in his work to the detriment of all else, knew that he lived in a kind of perpetually exhausted haze due to sleeplessness. Crick had experienced the reason why firsthand. It wouldn’t have been too out of character for Temenos to all but demand that he be allowed to stay somewhere while he worked, and yet… something about it felt wrong. He pushed himself farther than Crick would prefer, but never to the point of breaking. Never to the point of passing out.

Everything he’d discovered so far about Temenos’ behavior the day he went missing was slowly taking shape in his mind. He’d been lingering too long in a place where he may or may not have had any business. He’d been distracted, impatient, exhausted. Enough to leave his staff behind, he wondered? Enough to set fire to a journal? One thing had become clear enough to him, at least: on the night of the solstice, Temenos hadn’t wanted to go home. He’d been avoiding it. He’d been… afraid, maybe?

It didn’t explain everything. There was something he still didn’t know— the truth that might complete the picture and explain why. What could have happened to give him reason not to go home? What had he been avoiding?

What had happened when he no longer could?

Something settled, uneasy, at the back of his mind. The truth about why he hadn’t wanted to return had to be at Temenos’ house, then— at the place he hadn’t wanted to go. He’d missed something, somehow, or overlooked it— something that would tell him why Temenos had been acting so strange. He would need to go back and look.

“Was he carrying his staff that night, by chance?”

The librarian’s pen fell still once more at the question. Sharp eyes met Crick’s— grabbed his full attention and did not let him go. “Are you looking for him?”

He stood fast against the intensity of it, thrown by how suddenly she’d shifted tone. “Well… yes.”

“Why?”

Why?

“Because he… isn’t here?”

“Not because you were asked to?”

Ah.

He’d known, in the aftermath of the previous captain’s treachery, that there would likely be lingering distrust of the knights, especially among the church. Most of the time, he tried not to let it bother him.

Sometimes, quietly, he wished she hadn’t made their lives so much harder. 

Crick dropped his shoulders. Nodded, despite the ache in his chest. “You have my word. The Sacred Guard has no agenda in knowing where he is; I do. I want to make sure he’s safe, that’s all.”

She stared at him for a long moment— silent, as though searching for something. Eventually, her expression softened. He wondered if she found what she’d been looking for. “Do you think that he might not be?”

“I…” His mouth went dry. “I don’t know yet.”

“That isn’t ‘no’.”

He hadn’t intended on worrying people. 

“It’s not.”

Another pause.

Her next breath was a little shaky. “Very well. I don’t have much else to say, but I will try to answer what you ask. He did have his staff— he never goes anywhere without it.”

Crick’s stomach lurched. It was as he expected, but it meant whatever happened had indeed occurred after his arrival at home. “Thank you. You said that he spent quite a bit of time here… do you know what he was doing? Was he working?”

“He seemed to be, but I didn’t ask.” She laced her fingers in her lap. “What I know for sure is that every time he came in, it was with a new book and a journal.”

“He brought in his own books?”

She made a strange face that at first appeared judgmental, but on closer inspection, seemed to Crick to be more like jealousy. 

“More often than not,” she said, lips pursed. “I’m certain that he’s read every book that the library has available over the years, so he had started bringing his own. I don’t know where he got them— he refused to tell me— but I’d venture a guess that his inquiries have allowed him to amass a rather impressive collection. Perhaps even tomes that the church wouldn’t approve of.”

She was likely referring to the pile of books he’d tripped over in Temenos’ house. Could there be forbidden books there, too? Could one of them have been important enough— dangerous enough— to hurt him over, like the Book of Night had been all those years ago? 

“And this journal. Was it brown?”

“Yes, one of them is brown.”

He furrowed his brows. “… One of them?”

“I’m certain that he had more than one. He would only ever bring in one at a time, but when you see someone often enough, you begin to notice things. The other is… green, if I recall.”

Crick’s mind raced. If what she said was true, then Temenos had been working in multiple journals. Only one had been burned in the fireplace— the brown one, he was sure. Where was the other? Was it possible it was still somewhere in Temenos’ house? Or did Temenos, wherever he was, still have it in his possession?

He had to find out.

He had to go.

Crick tucked each of the materials she’d found for him into his bag, only a little frantic. “Thank you for everything, Sister—” He paused. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

She settled back into her chair, a book already in hand. “Fearne.”

“Sister Fearne.” He offered her a nod. Closed his bag and secured it against his hip. “My name is Crick. Thank you for your help.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Just…” She trailed off, voice quiet. “Make sure you find him, okay? This place wouldn’t be the same without him.”

That ache in his chest panged once more. “I swear it to you, on my honor as a knight.”

She hummed. Laughed, just a little. “A funny thing, that. I believe you.”

Crick turned on his heel and made his way back out into the mid-afternoon sun, his destination clear. 

He needed to go back to Temenos’ house.

Even though he hadn’t been in Flamechurch long, the mountain path between the two halves of the village was already becoming more familiar. More and more, he could spend time on the path thinking about things that weren’t making sure that he was going the right way, or ensuring that he stepped carefully enough around sharp turns and drops. With all that he’d discovered in the library, he had a lot of things to think about— Temenos himself chief among them.

Crick didn’t know how he did it. Just keeping all the information straight in his mind was proving to be difficult, let alone finding the truth of it all. Every new piece of information, every observation he made, everything he was told… it all had the potential to be relevant, and it equally had the potential to be completely useless. He had no way to know who or what he could trust. He wanted to trust everyone, of course, but…

For the first time— or maybe the second— Crick thought he understood a little of why Temenos had such a hard time placing his faith in others. The act of investigation didn’t exactly encourage someone to trust the people around them.

It was exhausting.

A familiar face came into view, walking towards him on the single, sloped path leading up to the chapel. He tried to bury any sign of his thoughts as they approached, replacing it with what he hoped was a convincing smile.

Yet another habit of Temenos’ that he hadn’t thought he would ever understand.

“Hello, Loel,” Crick greeted.

They tipped their hat. “Hey, Mister Knight. You show up all over the place, huh? No doors for you to block this time, though. Sorry I don’t have time to stop and chat, but I’m sure I’ll see you around somewhere!”

Crick chuckled. “Yes, I am sure you will. Safe travels.”

“Thanks— you, too!”

Nobody else was outside when he crossed the fence line. The children and the sisters that minded them must have been inside the chapel. That was likely for the best; he wasn’t sure he was ready to explain to them why, exactly, he was entering Temenos’ house without permission.

The house in question seemed to loom over him, the weight of its secrets nearly unbearable. It was unbecoming for a Sanctum Knight to hesitate at the sight of an empty house— one that, under any other circumstance, would have been as perfectly innocuous as any other. Charming, even.

It didn’t matter. He had a job to do. A journal to find.

He took a deep breath to steel himself. Reached for the handle. Pushed inside, and—

An envelope lay on the ground.

Crick paused, eyes fixed on the spot where the blood should have been. The envelope covered it almost entirely, visible only for the thin streaks of it closest to the door. He stepped cautiously inside, glancing around, and closed the door gently behind him. Locked it. He turned the light on and looked over the room properly; nothing else had changed. It looked exactly as it had on the day he’d arrived, down to the fallen stacks of books that he’d kicked by the desk— oh, and he would have to search through those, too, now, but—

He knelt to pick up the letter, frowning. It was addressed to Temenos, with no other identifying marks. Even the seal on the back was plain candle wax, without so much as a color added. It hadn’t been there the last time Crick had come by— had Loel been the one to drop it off? Why would they slip it under the door in such a manner?

Was it coincidence that it landed in the place it had, or…?

Crick reached out to touch the ground, tracing the lines of the long-dried smear of blood. On first glance, it seemed like it led towards the door, as though something had been pulled outside. Looking at it now, though, he wondered if perhaps he had it backwards: was it possible something had been slipped under the door, instead? Something roughly the size of the envelope he held in his hand, thin enough to slide through an incredibly narrow gap… something soaked in blood.

He weighed the idea for a long, long moment. It was possible. More than possible, even. And if Loel had been the one to deliver this letter…

Crick clenched his fist and drew himself to his feet. He had to consider the possibility that Loel was somehow involved in Temenos’ disappearance, no matter how sick the idea made him.

He turned the envelope over in his hand, considering. Frowned. It wasn’t why he was here— he was meant to be searching for Temenos’ second journal, and perhaps he should instead be running after Loel, but… 

“Please let this be nothing,” he breathed, running a finger under the makeshift seal to break it.

He would apologize to Temenos— not just for reading his mail, but for everything. He would make it up to him in whatever way he could, would do whatever was asked of him. All Crick needed was to know that Temenos was safe.

Shivers ran down his spine as he read over the contents of the letter. Four words, in neat script, and nothing else:

‘We need to meet.’

Chapter Text

Temenos often found himself in the hazy in-between space of sleep and reality. It had been that way for many years— his dreams too painful, with nowhere to run, and his memories worse, pushing him to distract himself by any means necessary for as long as possible. Instead, unable to choose between two different kinds of hell, his mind left him stranded somewhere in the middle while his body… rested, if it could be called that. A third kind of hell, this one of his own making.

He didn’t resent it anymore.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t sleep. If such a thing were possible, he would have discovered the secret long ago. Just that when he truly slept, he dreamed, and when he dreamed, he woke feeling somehow worse than he had when his body had invariably given out on him.

It wasn’t inaccurate, however, to say that lately, he hadn’t been spending much time awake, either. Time slipped by like sand in an hourglass, elusive and ethereal, and he thought— he blinked, and he dreamed— he blinked, and the ruins were so dark, and he was so cold, and— he blinked, and his brother fled into the darkness— he blinked, and a figure knelt in front of him, a silhouette with something sharp in their hand— he blinked, and he was staring down a monster, and its claws were covered in his father’s blood, his, someone else’s, and it opened its mouth, and—

The sound of the creature’s roar startled him into awareness, heart pounding. It echoed, real enough to his mind that he glanced instinctively around to make sure he was alone, that nothing had found its way into his room with intent to do to him what it had done to his— his Holiness. To the pontiff.

He was alone; of course he was.

Just his mind playing cruel tricks again.

Temenos let out a sigh, shoulders falling. His head hit the stone wall behind him, and he wrinkled his nose against the way the impact jarred his head, already aching behind the eyes as his adrenaline faded. He didn’t remember falling asleep sitting up against a wall, but— then, he didn’t remember falling asleep at all.

Worse, he’d apparently done so by doing little more than slumping to the ground. He could already feel the strain pulling at his hips and knees from sitting in the same position for so long— for how long? He blinked some of the bleariness from his eyes. The torch had long since burned out, but the lantern across the room— next to the bed, where he should have been— was still lit. A few hours, then? More? If Roi had come in at any point, it was possible he might have refilled the oil, but there wasn’t any reason to leave him on the floor if he had.

His arm ached as he reached up to rub his eye. Without a clock, he couldn’t know how much time had passed. He pushed himself up against the wall, making to stand, and immediately dropped back to the ground, vision fading nearly to black as his knees refused to hold his own weight.

He took a deep breath to stave off an instinctual bit of panic, waiting for his sight to come back. When he could finally see again, a faintly tinted kind of haze lingering at the very edges of his vision, he tried again— slower, this time. He straightened his legs out in front of him, trying to push himself off the ground, but couldn’t quite manage it. The haze nearly overwhelmed his sight again, and he stopped, closing his eyes against the wave of dizziness that threatened to send him toppling.

He settled against the wall. Took another deep breath.

“Roi…?” His voice came out as a thin creak of a sound, barely there at all. No response came; he doubted his brother would be able to hear him. He swallowed— it hurt, cracking painfully down his throat. Everything hurt. “Roi?”

Nothing.

Okay. Maybe he would stay where he was, for now. Roi would come and find him eventually.

… Probably.

The pressure, that strange fog, lingered at the edges of his mind, a heavy threat he couldn’t put a name to. It intensified as he let his thoughts bleed back into the same things he’d had on his mind before his… unorthodox rest, but rather than give in to the weight, Temenos simply closed his eyes against it.

He hadn’t been spending much time awake. But in the time that he was, he had been paying attention. Something was wrong— several things were wrong, by his account, though he had yet to figure out the cause of it all.

To start with the simplest problem, his body was no longer listening to him. He hurt— everywhere, all the time. His stomach, his arm, his head. He had no energy, and no spirit, despite the fact that he wasn’t doing anything to utilize it. His hands were always cold, even by a fire, and more often than not, any sudden movements would result in his vision fading to black. On one notable occasion, he’d actually passed out after standing up too quickly; he’d woken to Roi cleaning the blood from his temple, where he’d fallen into a piece of the masonry. He’d been… upset, maybe. Temenos hadn’t seen him for quite some time afterwards— days, if measured by his rather unreliable sleep patterns.

He didn’t know why.

The second problem: his mind was becoming increasingly unreliable. He’d noticed certain parts of his memory were hazy, if not missing altogether. He couldn’t remember things that felt like they should have been important, like how he’d gotten the bruise on his chest, or— if he thought hard enough, risking retaliation from that strange, heavy fog settled on his mind— how he’d gotten to the ruins at all. He remembered Roi showing up at his house, but everything after that was… blurry. Added to that, whenever he tried to remember, or whenever he focused too hard on something that didn’t quite make sense, he was punished with a sharp, migraine-inducing pain shooting through his skull. He’d passed out from that, once, too.

He didn’t know why.

Needless to say, his progress in figuring out the cause of everything was slow.

The final problem, of course, was Roi himself. He’d… changed, somehow. He didn’t act like Roi. He was secretive, short-tempered, uncaring. He hadn’t once quoted from the scripture he’d held in such high esteem for so long. 

An odd observation to make, and yet one Temenos couldn’t bring himself to ignore. Roi had told him, the night he left, that he could no longer trust the church— a sentiment they both shared. But could decades of verbal habit, repetition and true, dauntless belief be so easily spurned, he wondered?

He acted so different from the Roi of his memories, even though they looked the same. He hadn’t been acting much like the Roi he’d once known at all. Whenever Temenos brought up his past behavior, Roi would let out a frustrated sigh, running a gloved hand through his brown hair—

He paused. Brown hair?

Roi’s hair wasn’t brown, was it? It was… black. It was supposed to be black. He had clear memories of the pontiff ruffling their hair as children— ‘One with black hair, and one with white. To balance each other.’ But for as long as he could remember, Roi’s hair had been brown.

Which was the truth, and which the lie?

Why wasn’t he certain of his own brother’s face?

The mere question sent blinding pain sparking through his head. Temenos choked back an involuntary cry as the room began to spin, and he dropped his head between his knees to steady himself, breaths uneven and shaky. 

He had to think. He had to focus.

Something was wrong. Roi was…

Temenos blinked, hard, and redirected his attention. He clearly wasn’t supposed to think about Roi. For now, he would think of something else.

A bruise he couldn’t remember getting sat on his chest, dark purple and black stark against his skin. He’d never seen anything quite like it. He’d seen something similar— a bruise that couldn’t be healed, that didn’t fade with time. Castti’s arms. Her bruising had settled in her extremities as a result of exposure to poison. It hadn’t been decorated with dark, fractal lines, as though scarred from a lightning spell, like his was. But… he’d seen the pattern before. The marks. Somewhere, he’d seen it. The color, the unnatural, jagged lines of it, were so familiar. 

He traced cold fingers up his own neck. Flashes of the same marks passed through his mind, the same corruption, against ice and crimson and steel. His own hands, bitten painfully red in the cold.

He’d healed this injury. Or… tried, maybe. Failed?

Its bearer had slumped to the snow, the center of a blooming flower of their own blood on the ground, skin dyed red and blue and purple. Even for so experienced a healer, the sight had been horrible— nauseating.

The blood had not been what made him so sick, nor the damage to the body. To… ‘his’ body, maybe. No, Temenos had been sick at the sight of someone he knew— someone he still knew? Maybe someone he cared about, if the clenching of his stomach was any indication— lying in the snow with dark magic carved forcefully into ‘his’ chest.

Who was ‘he’?

Temenos had fought a nightmare with that mark before. He had lain a hand on its reality one frigid night in Stormhail. And then again, in Montwise, something sad and unbearably vulnerable, something hopeful, in it. And for the last time on yet another snowy night in Stormhail, one filled with so much warmth—

Why couldn’t he remember?

Why was he… crying?

He blinked, startled, and hot tears slipped down his cheeks. His breath caught— a hitch on the inhale, a shudder on the exhale, unpleasant heat and pressure building behind his eyes, and in his throat, and in his chest where the bruising that he knew he recognized and couldn’t figure out why was, and—

Temenos hadn’t cried, not truly, in… longer than he could remember, certainly. What was he supposed to know?

What— who— had he forgotten?

Why did it hurt so bad?

He wanted to know, wanted to remember, but it hurt, it hurt, it hurt— 

He reached up to scrub his tears away. He didn’t need to know right now. It was enough— he could let it be enough, just for now— that he knew something was missing. He could hold onto that, the empty space where something important was meant to be, and use it to remind himself why he was still fighting, even though he didn’t know what he was fighting.

The truth would be revealed eventually. He would make sure of it.

There was so much he didn’t know. But he could start with what he did— or at least what he should.

His name was Temenos. He’d been appointed the inquisitor for the Order of the Sacred Flame. He lived in Flamechurch, most of the time, but he hadn’t been born there. He had a brother, Roi, who had been the inquisitor before him. Roi had been missing for…

There— that was where the fog started. It pressed against the edges of his awareness as he tried to recall specifics, a silent threat. He ignored it.

Roi went missing. Five… ten years ago. In his absence, Temenos became the inquisitor. He’d been looking for someone: a man.

No… for two men. For Roi, and...

Who else had he been looking for?

His headache intensified, throbbing at the back of his skull.

He’d been looking for Roi, before all of this. And one night, Roi had suddenly come back— appeared at his door in the middle of the night, just as he had when he left. He’d asked Temenos to come with him. Roi— the mystery of Roi, of what had happened to his brother, had been his driving force for so very long. For ten long years, that single, haunting question pushed him ever forward, ever deeper into the unending maelstrom of secrets surrounding the church, and the Sacred Guard, and the Shadow, and the Night— 

And he’d been… happy. Overjoyed at his brother’s safe return, and so, so relieved that he might finally be able to release his death grip on a motivation that hurt him so terribly, might finally have found a truth that didn’t have to be painful. He hadn’t even considered that the whole thing was… impossible. Wrong. 

But now he knew he couldn’t trust himself. The truth hurt, it always did, but it was the only thing that mattered, and—

He’d been given exactly what he wanted most. He’d been given his brother back.

He couldn’t take that at face value, couldn’t trust it. Temenos never got what he wanted, not really. The world was rarely so kind. And he’d always found that when something felt too good to be true, it usually was.

Doubt, familiar and comforting and terrifying, twisted in his chest like a knife.

Whatever mystery he was unraveling, he was certain Roi was at the center of it.

“Ah, you’re awake. Good.”

Temenos glanced up, dizzy, as Roi stepped into the room, something held in his hands that he couldn’t quite make out. He smelled it before it came into view— a mug filled with something that smelled like… fish. It smelled good. Hearty.

His stomach lurched, wound up tight enough to make him sick. He hadn’t thought the sharp pain in his abdomen was due to hunger, but on second thought, maybe it was. He was ravenous, actually.

It hadn’t been that long since he’d eaten, had it?

Roi held the mug out with a steady hand. “You need to eat. You’ve been asleep for a long time.”

His voice caught in his throat. “How long?”

It felt like days.

“A while. Are you going to eat, or waste time with questions?”

“Hm.” Temenos accepted it, dropping his eyes from Roi to narrow them at the contents of the mug. It was blessedly warm in his hands— a soup of some kind. He took a hesitant sip. “… It’s good. You made this?”

“Nobody else is here.”

Temenos hummed, quiet. Took another sip. “When did you learn to cook? I seem to recall several years’ worth of failed attempts at even the simplest dishes.”

A sigh. “Just eat, Temenos.”

He opened his mouth to push further, but was interrupted by the way his stomach panged, reminding him of exactly how hungry he was. Instead, he nodded quietly, bringing the mug back up to keep eating.

Silence fell between them. Temenos watched Roi pace and wander around the room while he ate, something tense and frustrated in his movement. To Temenos’ eye, it looked as though he was limping— just barely. He hadn’t noticed it before. As a result of injury, he wondered? Recent, or something older that hadn’t healed quite right?

He swallowed a mouthful of fish and herbs.

“Are you hurt?” Temenos spoke without realizing, and Roi turned on him, eyes narrowed.

“… No.” A pause, and then, “Not anymore.”

Temenos dropped his gaze. Hummed his understanding. 

He looked like Roi. At least, he thought he did. He didn’t speak like him. Didn’t move like him. Didn’t act like him.

Could it be a result of time spent apart? Was his memory truly failing him in such a vital way?

“I have to go somewhere.”

Temenos furrowed his eyebrows. “… Alright. I can certainly manage to eat on my own.”

Roi made a face. “No, I mean I have to leave the ruins for a while. Just a day or so.”

“Oh.” Something dangerously close to ‘panic’ welled in his chest at the thought. The last time Roi left, he hadn’t come back. He swallowed it down with the last of his meal. “Can’t I come with you?”

“In your state?” He laughed. “You can’t even get off the ground by yourself, Temenos. No. This is important.”

“Where are you going?”

“That isn’t your business.”

He tried and failed to bury his frustration at receiving such a useless non-answer. “So you intend to leave me here?”

“You’ll be fine. There’s nothing that can hurt you here.”

“That isn’t the point—”

An unusual tightness in his chest rose as Roi lifted a hand, reaching out presumably to card his fingers through his hair, like he always did. It was a kind gesture, a gentle one, and the only one that reminded him of the Roi of his memories. But Temenos couldn’t get past the sight of a glove he didn’t recognize, the brown hair falling into his eyes— green, had they always been green? That familiar doubt squeezed at the base of his throat, and he leaned back to avoid the touch, shoulders tensing.

Roi sighed, lips drawn tight. He withdrew his hand and reached into his pocket, pulling out a thin chain with some kind of crystal at the end— an amulet.

“I want you to put this on,” he said, holding it up for Temenos to see.

The chain itself looked normal, most likely not enchanted, but the crystal was a different story entirely. Temenos could almost smell the magic unfurling from it— something dark, pulsing like a heartbeat just under its surface. He shrunk back from it half on instinct, those increasingly familiar sirens screeching in his head. He’d seen something like it before, hadn’t he? Dark crystals, pulled from the hands of innocents in the midst of uncontrollable rage. The same ones, lingering near the dead, corrupted bodies of—

Temenos blinked, vision blurry. He didn’t like it— didn’t like the way it made him feel, even just looking at it. The fear, the terrible, wrenching sensation as it almost seemed to reach for him, like it knew him, somehow— like it wanted his magic, his essence, his life— 

“How… thoughtful. But I don’t wear jewelry.”

Roi’s eyes narrowed. Temenos barely resisted the urge to shudder, his fingers tightening around the empty mug in his hands.

He’d never been afraid that Roi would try and hurt him before.

“You’re upset with me,” he managed, dazed.

Roi took a deep breath. “Of course I’m not.”

A clenched fist. Tension held in his jaw. A lie.

The realization shook him. Roi was many things— a liar was not one of them. Up until the day he’d disappeared, he had been infuriatingly honest, even to his own detriment. It was that honesty that Temenos had always admired about Roi, and honesty that had taken him away, and honesty that he had cursed before the Sacred Flame and abandoned on its altar. The same honesty he’d recognized and laughed at— welcomed, discouraged, needed— in the naiveté of another.

The naiveté of…

“I’m trying to keep you safe while I’m not here, Temenos.”

A subtle lowering of the pitch of his voice, words clipped and terse. Implied threat.

A lie.

He took a shallow breath. “I believe you said that nothing here could hurt me, isn’t that so?”

Roi’s knuckles went white where he gripped the chain. “… Right. However—”

“I don’t want to,” Temenos interrupted. Despite himself, he heard the slight shaking of his own voice, a remnant of something very young and very afraid that still had hope that Roi— his Roi— would somehow hear him and understand.

A little bit of naiveté of his own, perhaps.

“Come, now. Won’t you wear it for me, then?”

He couldn’t even tell what color his eyes were— shifting between that cold, hollow green and the warm brown he had grown up with. His entire body screamed at him to accept it, to just… trust.

But he couldn’t.

Temenos looked his brother, his closest confidant, directly in the eye, and knew with certainty that he couldn’t trust him.

“… No. Not even for you… Roi.”

The words felt like acid on his tongue— like a bitter, final farewell.

He sighed, long and low. “I miss the days when you did as you were told.”

Those days were long gone. He didn’t get a chance to say it, to say anything, as Roi— not Roi, not Roi, not— grabbed him by the throat and pushed him forcefully into the wall. He took a sharp breath, hands scrabbling and pushing against the arm holding him in place. The shock, the sudden violence of it, set his nerves alight, and he wasn’t strong enough— not as he was, hazy and weak and unable even to stand on his own, and— had this been planned? Was it intentional? He couldn’t free himself, couldn’t get enough air, could barely think. Not Roi leaned in, his voice quiet.

Threatening.

“I need to try something. Behave.”

He slipped the amulet in his other hand over Temenos’ head and released him, letting him collapse fully to the ground, body wracked with coughs and heaves as air returned to his lungs.

The amulet settled against his heart, and blue light flared, burning like fire under his skin and illuminating the entire room around them. A scream tore itself from his throat at an all-consuming pain he hadn’t been prepared for— wasn’t sure it would have mattered even if he had been— radiating from everywhere. His mind blanked, just enough remaining for him to remember the amulet, it had started with the amulet, and he clawed desperately at it— it hurt, he had to get it off, off—

Someone grabbed his wrists and pulled them away, voice soothing as they murmured, “Shh, shh. Don’t hurt yourself. It’s alright.”

He choked on a gasp, a sob, tears burning streaks down his face. “It hurts—”

“I know,” the voice said, and it was his brother again, the kind one he remembered, the one that never missed an opportunity to tell him he loved him. He pet soft lines into his hair. “Your magic always reacts so violently in response to dark arcane stimulus. Something to do with the god who blessed you, I suspect, but unfortunate for you, nevertheless. It will hurt for just a moment more, and then it will all be over.”

All at once, the agony eased into a barely present background of pain. He slumped, boneless, into Roi’s shoulder with a pathetic groan at the relief, left trembling as the light faded into darkness once more and took all of his energy with it. 

“… Roi…”

“There, now. Isn’t that better? This is too important for you to mess up; I need you to just stay here and behave for a little while. Can you do that for me?”

His words slid down his spine, slimy. Why was Roi acting this way? Why was he doing this? When had his brother become so…

So…

“Okay,” he mumbled, voice little more than a breathy rasp. He was so tired. Why was he always so tired? His eyes slipped shut, and he forced them open again. Once. Twice. “You’ll come back soon?”

The hand at the back of his head slid forward to cradle his jaw, a thumb swiping something wet away from the corner of his eye. Distantly, he felt his head hit something soft.

“I’ll be back soon. Just sleep, now, Temenos. This will all be over before you know it.”

A hum, quiet, and then he knew nothing at all.

Chapter Text

The days leading up to the pontiff’s arrival in Flamechurch were surprisingly quiet. Excitement buzzed through the village, of course— people bustled around, cleaning and sweeping fallen leaves off the ground. They set out decorations, fussed with the braziers until they were just so, prepared the cathedral for the large gathering they were sure to have on the day he led the sermons. A mild kind of anticipation filled the atmosphere, bringing people together to work and talk and pray.

Crick had spent much of the time alone. Every minute of his time had purpose— he kept an eye out for signs of strange behavior from the local beasts while traversing the mountain, but otherwise, he was most often found in Temenos’ house to read or continue his search. The map he’d obtained from the library sat at an angle on the table to avoid getting pierced by the shards of it at the other end, held down by books of scripture. Chess pieces that he’d found in the attic bedroom littered the surface, each one a representation of something to do with an investigation. The black pieces were to do with monster attacks— Borderfall, Montwise, the mines, the mountain path. A single white piece sat over lower Flamechurch itself, marking the location where Crick now sat cross-legged on the ground, sorting through the piles of tomes that Temenos had collected.

The sheer quantity was dizzying. Books of all kinds littered the floor around him, organized and reorganized as he tried to figure out what they were and if they were important. Some of them he was certain were not approved by the church, but none of them seemed to be explicitly forbidden, either. 

His journal wasn’t mixed in with the stacks. Whatever had become of it, it wasn’t among any of Temenos’ things. Maybe it was still with him, wherever he was.

Crick sighed, leaning on his palms to ease some of the ache in his back.

Yet another dead end.

He didn’t know what else to do. He had no other leads to follow— not until Loel returned from wherever they had gone for work after he’d last seen them, managing to leave town before he knew enough to try and follow. The letter they had delivered sat with the others, abandoned on the desk. 

Perhaps it was time to ask for help. He’d been resistant to the idea of telling people of Temenos’ disappearance, not wanting to worry or frighten them unnecessarily. But more than that, he knew it was because he wasn’t ready to admit it aloud. Saying it out loud would make it real for more than just him, and the prospect terrified him.

But he’d done what he could— he could go no further alone, and if he wanted to find Temenos, wanted to make sure he was safe, wanted to bring him home… 

He had to tell someone, didn’t he?

Just as it had been before, Crick wasn’t enough to help on his own. And the last time he’d gone investigating by himself, he’d nearly been killed. It was for the best that he let someone know.

The Inquisition reported to the head of the church, a direct parallel— a check— to the Sacred Guard, who reported to the archbishop. Pontiff Osias was the closest thing Temenos had to a boss. If nothing else, he needed to know his inquisitor was missing. But if anyone would care… if anyone knew anything about what he’d been working on, or could do something to help, surely it would be him.

He was expected to arrive within the day. The thought of having to admit his failure to the head of the church set his stomach churning, but he had little choice. It was too important to let his own shame get in the way.

His eyes caught and lingered on the Staff of Judgment laying on the bed across the room. He’d left it exactly where he’d found it, unwilling to touch it without Temenos’ permission. From where he sat now, the staff was angled in such a way that it seemed to be pointing directly at him, silent and implacable— judging, maybe. It had seen his discovery of what had happened, his examination of the scene, his fruitless search for answers. It had been witness to the slow, simmering tension and fear building in his chest the longer Temenos was missing, the more he discovered. Not one bit of it had led him to anything useful yet.

It had been here for too long. It was more than Temenos’ staff— and more than a symbol of his position within the church. It was a relic, priceless and powerful, and though Temenos had seen fit to leave it here, if anything happened to it in his absence…

He shook his head. Sighed. He would return it to the pontiff for safekeeping, no matter how the thought of entrusting it to another made his skin crawl. It would only be until Temenos could retrieve it.

Just until Temenos came back.

The longer he spent time there, the more familiar Temenos’ house became. Though perhaps not obvious on a first glance, little pieces of him could be found in every inch of the place, signs of his life and history and thoughts. It was… comforting, in a way. An unused Sacred Flame Candle, carved crudely into the shape of a man in long robes and placed high on a shelf where even Crick could barely reach it. Neat stacks of perfectly cut paper dolls on the bookshelf. A dusty kettle in what he thought might be a traditional Hinoeuma style, out of keeping with anything else in the home. Crick didn’t understand the meaning behind them all, but he found that imagining Temenos in this space came easier, with time. He could see his habits, and the things he had been putting off doing for lack of time or energy or interest, like fixing the angled shutter in the attic, or the way the bottom stair squeaked and bowed under any amount of weight.

He’d thought to ask, but… honestly, he could use a change of pace. It wasn’t as though he was making any meaningful progress in his investigation. He didn’t imagine Temenos would be too terribly upset if he fixed a few things for him while he was gone. He would tease him mercilessly, of course, but Crick could deal with that.

Anything to take his mind off the agony of having to wait.

He drew himself to his feet and plucked the soulstone from the wall, bringing it over to the shadowed corner at the base of the stairs. He pressed the heel of his free hand into the center of the wood; sure enough, it flexed under the weight. Had time and use loosened it from its place? Was the wood rotten? Or perhaps it was missing a nail at some vital connection, and it simply needed to be hammered back into position.

He furrowed his brows. It was missing several nails, in fact— it looked to Crick as though it hadn’t been nailed down at all. A job half-done, maybe, but on closer inspection…

It wasn’t even attached to the rest of the stairs. Little more than a convincing plank of wood with no fixtures to speak of, just sitting there as though it belonged. It came loose at the slightest tug, and Crick’s breath caught in his throat.

It wasn’t a stair at all. It wasn’t meant to hold weight; it was meant to hold things.

A secret compartment.

Crick lifted the fake stair up, heart pounding. There, sitting inside, lay a journal. Two journals— one with a green cover, and one more below it, blue and neatly bound in twine.

“Temenos, your mind…” He whispered bewildered praise into the silence. How had he even come up with such an idea? And why?

Well. He knew why.

He scooped them up, flipping quickly between the pages of the very book he’d been searching for. The handwriting within belonged to Temenos, he had no doubt. 

Finally. Finally, he had real, tangible information from Temenos himself. Crick could only hope that somewhere in these journals, he had left a clue that would lead him to the truth before—

A loud, sharp crack sounded from somewhere outside. It was a familiar sound— the splintering rush, the heavy thud, of a tree giving under weight or time or rot. It was accompanied by a dreadful shriek that shook him to his core. Screams filtered through the door, and Crick hastily slammed the wood back into place and took off running, grabbing his sword from its perch near the bed.

No time to put on his armor. Unfortunate, but it would have to do.

He emerged into the early evening light right as the inn caught fire, smoke rising to herald the creature clambering over its roof, claws dug firmly into the wood. Even from such a distance, there was nothing else to call it— it was a creature, huge and monstrous, like a collection of rocks gilded over the stretched form of some other beast. He’d never seen its like, nor heard such a cry as the one it let out when it reached the apex of the roof, its tail lashing into the chimney of the building next to it and sending it crumbling.

Crick ran to get closer, shouting at the few people remaining in the area to find somewhere to take shelter. It jumped onto the road running behind the inn, large enough to block it entirely. He caught a heavy swipe of its tail with his sword; it screeched, loud and close enough that he felt it vibrate through his bones. It turned on him, surprisingly quick for a creature of its size. He had to duck to dodge the claws that followed the motion, and that was when he caught sight of its eyes.

They were glowing.

Its eyes flared blue as it lunged, fixed firmly on him with something more akin to hate than anything he’d ever seen from an opponent that wasn’t human.

Good. Better to keep those eyes on him.

Mindful of his lack of armor— why had he taken it off, that was foolish— he did his best to keep away from it, fighting more defensively than he might normally. He wasn’t sure if he could take a hit from it, and he definitely didn’t want to find out.

Most of its skin was rough, a collection of stone and gravel-like growths making it difficult and dangerous to strike with a blade. If it didn’t simply deflect a blow, he ran the risk of it chipping his sword, or worse. The back of its arms looked to be the most vulnerable part of it, as well as a section of its tail near the spine. Not easy places to hit. It wouldn’t be easy to defeat by damaging those spots, either.

He had no other solution. Magic was out of the question against such a quick enemy, even if he could manage to summon it at all. He would just have to hit fast and hard, and hope to wear it out before it could do the same to him. The fight was already taking too long; he could feel himself slowing down, having to remember how to fight in a way he usually didn’t.

Its eyes glowed again, but this time, the light traveled down, cracking through its skin like a mockery of tears. More cracks appeared— one behind an arm, one at the base of its tail, and—

And one at its throat, he realized, narrowly avoiding being bludgeoned with the end of its tail. They grew with time, expanding, and the creature screeched with each one, like its own light was somehow tearing it apart from the inside. It gave Crick enough time to get a few hits in, swinging heavily against the illuminated spots. He didn’t quite manage to avoid being clipped by its claws as he pushed in closer, sending fiery pain shooting up his arm, but it didn’t matter. He thrust the blade directly into the glowing tear at its throat, pushing up into its head. Blood poured down over his hands, blistering blue and white streaks of fire that he had to grit his teeth against to avoid dropping his sword. 

It let out one final cry before collapsing against him, the stone scraping against his skin. It took him down with it, knocking all the air from his lungs and pinning him to the ground. Crick barely had time to panic, to worry about the weight of it being enough to crush him, before the cracks spread further, and further, and— 

A pillar of light filled the air around him. He squinted his eyes shut against it, bright enough to sear itself on the inside of his eyelids before it faded once more, dissolving into nothing along with the creature’s body.

Silence.

Distantly, Crick smelled smoke. When the ringing quieted, he heard the village slowly return to life: the sounds of people rushing for water to put out the fire, shouting to make sure everyone was safe.

Crick sat on the ground for a long moment, dazed, and listened to the rushing of his own heartbeat in his ears. The creature’s blood finally cooled to normal temperatures against him, dripping at the side of his face and on his arms. His fingers shook at the burn it had left across his skin. He glanced dispassionately down at the gash on his arm. It hurt— he knew it did, and yet he felt almost nothing, breaths coming short and fast.

Shock, maybe. He’d heard about it in training. Presumably, he’d even experienced it once before, after being run through with a sword laced in dark magic, though he didn’t really remember much of that.

Whatever the case, he should probably heal himself.

He placed a trembling hand against his arm and took a shallow breath. “Be healed.”

Nothing.

“Be healed.” Again, nothing— no spark of magic, no relief. The pain started to settle into his skin, an all-over, burning ache, and— “Be—”

“Young man, are you alright?”

He looked up to find it darker than he remembered. Twilight had settled over the village, and two people he didn’t know loomed over him, concern written clear on their faces. An old man in white robes knelt at his side, and he folded his hands in prayer, eyes falling shut.

“Be healed.”

Relief washed over him all at once, and Crick let out a shaky sigh.

“Thank you,” he managed, blinking to clear his mind. He looked up, and— oh. He recognized those robes. “You’re… the pontiff? O-Oh, Your Holiness! Forgive me, I…”

“None of that,” he interrupted, not unkind. “My knight witnessed what happened. You defeated that terrible monster and protected this village. Please accept my gratitude.”

Crick shook his head. “I… I am honored, sir, but I only did what had to be done. Is— Is everyone else alright? The inn…”

“It is being taken care of. There were no other injuries, aside from yourself,” the pontiff said, voice gentle. The smile he was met with was kind— knowing, maybe. Or perhaps messengers of the gods were simply like that. Temenos always seemed to know everything… at least, he liked to pretend he did. Most of the time, he found the confidence soothing. “You wield the blade of a Sanctum Knight, I see. What is your name?”

“Crick, sir.” The rest of the world faded in around him as they spoke, and he finally noticed the second person, standing at alert behind the pontiff. Another Sanctum Knight.

He made a quiet noise of acknowledgment upon meeting his eyes. He straightened into a salute— polite, but not as stiff as Elio’s. “Knight Commander.”

He knew the man, distantly. He had been made a Sanctum Knight a few years before Crick and Ort had. Thankfully, he hadn’t been one of the ones loyal to Kaldena; he’d been allowed to stay with the Sacred Guard after its restructure, like Crick. Theon, he thought his name was.

Crick nodded his acknowledgment, and turned his gaze back to Pontiff Osias. “Your Holiness, there is something I need to discuss with you. Something important,” he said, allowing some of the tension of his voice to bleed through as urgency.

His smile fell. “I see. I am listening, Crick.”

“I… I do not believe this is the best place to have the discussion,” Crick said, hesitant. Out in the middle of the street, where anyone could overhear them…

“We will not make it to the upper village before night falls, Your Holiness,” Theon said, his low voice quiet.

He nodded. “We will stay here until things have settled. I want to be here to guide the people after such a trying endeavor. Perhaps the chapel will have a room. Crick, would you join us there once the sun falls? I would hear what you have to say, but I must also attend to my flock.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

“Wonderful.” He murmured a quiet prayer, and Crick felt another wave of healing wash over him, easing the remainder of his pain. “Blessings of the Sacred Flame unto you. We will see you soon.”

Crick dragged himself to his feet to see them off. They headed down the path towards the inn— no longer on fire, he realized, though smoke still rose off the building. He wondered how much damage had been done. The pontiff had told him nobody else was injured, but maybe they needed help?

A globule of cooled blood slipped down his arm and splattered on the ground. He flinched at the sight— blood didn’t behave like that, didn’t cool and congeal so quickly, even in the absence of a body. Revulsion rose in his throat like bile, and he picked his sword up off the ground, choosing instead to let others handle the inn. He would need to clean up if he was to meet with the pontiff. He already had bad news to deliver; he didn’t need to make it worse by doing so covered in blood.

He stepped through the open door of Temenos’ home, chastising himself for leaving it ajar. Only earlier he’d been thinking about the security of the Staff of Judgment. Being in a hurry was no excuse to forget something so important. Luckily, the staff remained just as he’d left it, angled on the bed. He closed the door behind him and grabbed his bag, rummaging for a cloth and a clean shirt.

It wasn’t long before he was acceptably clean, though he would definitely need to take a bath before retiring for the night. He strapped into his armor, gathered his things and tucked them away— and, on second thought, took Temenos’ journals, too. He would look them over for any clues later. That only left one thing to do.

He approached the bed cautiously, hesitation in his every step. The staff had to be returned to the pontiff— he knew that, of course he did, but… just as with asking for help, relinquishing it would be yet another means of solidifying a terrible reality. Handing it over meant that Crick had abandoned hope of him returning on his own— a final admission of defeat, setting his heart racing in his ears.

It had to be done. But he hadn’t given up hope entirely.

Crick offered a silent prayer before he touched the staff— an acknowledgment, an apology. Realistically, he knew it was nothing more than an object, but when Temenos held it, it channeled so much impossible power that he almost didn’t believe it didn’t linger, passing judgment onto anyone who dared to touch it in the absence of its wielder.

And yet, when he wrapped his fingers around it, it lifted easily off the bed. It didn’t resist him, and if it had, indeed, judged him and found him unworthy, then it did nothing to show it.

Just a staff. Just an object.

It was heavier than he expected.

Temenos wasn’t weak, by any means, but it still surprised him, somehow, to feel exactly how much weight he had been carrying around.

He bound the head of it in his cloak. A pointless act, but one that made him feel better— if one of the sisters still remained at the chapel, or if anyone was outside, then he wouldn’t be carrying it openly for anyone to see. He needed the pontiff to be the first to know.

Maybe then he would have the courage to admit the truth to others.

Crick left the house and closed the door tight behind him, not wanting to make the same mistake twice. The walk to the chapel wasn’t nearly long enough for him to gather his thoughts. When he stepped inside, he was greeted with the sight of the pontiff and his personal guard, speaking quietly at a table in the corner.

He knocked at the door frame to announce himself. “Your Holiness—”

They turned to face him. Pontiff Osias blinked, and then melted into a kind smile. The lines etched into his face spoke to how often he must have occasion to do so.

“Ah, so there is a young man under all of that mess,” he chuckled.

Crick’s cheeks warmed. He stopped— barely managed to scrape together enough of his faculties to remember his training, his upbringing, his place, and folded a hand across his chest, lowering into a bow made slightly awkward by the staff at his side.

“Come, now. No need for such formality. Join us, won’t you?”

He rose and did as asked, shame welling in his chest. 

How was he supposed to tell him?

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, sir,” he said, gripping the staff hard enough that his glove creaked under the pressure.

Pontiff Osias nodded, serene. “It is my duty to listen to and guide my flock. And it seems to me that you may be in need of some guidance.”

A nod. “Your Holiness… I was assigned here to Flamechurch several weeks ago as a knight liaison to Inquisitor Temenos.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Theon’s brow furrow.

“Oh, for Temenos,” the pontiff smiled. “How wonderful. Is he not here with you, then? I do wish to see him while I am here.”

“He isn’t,” Crick said, voice quiet. He reached over to free the staff from its binds, pulling the cloak free and holding it out to him.

The pontiff widened his eyes, accepting it gingerly. Concern flickered over his face. “This is…”

“The Staff of Judgment. I found it in his home,” he said, the words leaving him in a rush. “He isn’t in Flamechurch. He hasn’t been for many months. Nobody knows where he is, and I— I have looked. I have searched the mountain, time and again, and he isn’t here. I have reason to believe that he’s missing.”

“No,” he whispered, horrified. “Are you certain of this?”

Crick swallowed. Nodded. “I still hold onto hope that he is well, but… I can say nothing else for sure. I am following up on a new lead to find him, but I thought it best to tell you as soon as I could.”

Pontiff Osias closed his eyes. “I thank you for doing so. Oh…”

“Your Holiness, is there anything… do you know of anything that might help me find him? Do you know of any— any information about what he was working on that might have gotten him in trouble, or places where he might have gone to hide in an emergency? People, allies, that he might confide in?”

“I’m afraid not,” he sighed, sorrow clear on his face. His shoulders bowed under some invisible weight. “I admit that I have not gotten to know Temenos as well as I should have. In part, due to my duties as pontiff— and also due to my own negligence. I spend much of my time traveling between holy sites, and I am not in Flamechurch as often as perhaps I should be. Because of that, and in deference to my predecessor, the late Pontiff Jörg, I have allowed him to work with very little oversight. I have never had reason to believe that he wasn’t doing his job, despite his propensity to go off on his own, so I was not worried. He is an excellent inquisitor, and a fine man.”

Something achy curled in Crick’s chest. “Yes, he is. Truly, there is nothing?”

“I am sorry, Crick. He kept me apprised of his investigation into the remnants of the heretics moving against the church from before I was appointed pontiff, but little else. I did not wish to push him into trusting in me before he was ready, especially as the man who took over his father’s position after such a senseless loss. I believed it would do more harm than good to try and reach out to him, though I see now that was nothing more than my own foolishness.”

His… father?

The ache in Crick’s chest gave way to a slowly blooming horror. The night they met, they had found their way into the cathedral and discovered the body of the pontiff, still warm on the ground. It was among the most emotion he’d ever heard in Temenos’ voice, before or since, when he knelt at his side and pressed his fingers to his pulse point in something akin to desperation. Crick remembered with a sharp clarity the quiet, barely there tremble of his breath as he whispered, ‘… He’s dead.’ 

At the time, Crick hadn’t thought anything of it. Anyone would be horrified at such a discovery, at the brutal death— the murder— of such a kind man, a beloved mentor. Crick had nearly been sick with it, the smell of blood and the fear that came from not fully understanding the situation. But he had missed something important. Temenos hadn’t expressed that emotion just because there had been a murder.

The emotion had been there because his father was the one that had been killed.

Crick drew a hand up to his mouth. Temenos had collected himself so quickly— had drawn himself up to stand at Crick’s side and fight, despite his own father’s blood drying on his hands. He remembered the tension on his face, the far-away look in his eyes, as he’d washed it away in the aftermath. He’d thought Temenos was simply averse to the sight of blood.

“I do know that Temenos would occasionally visit him. That is where I found him on the day I came to Flamechurch for the first time,” Pontiff Osias said thoughtfully. “I went to pay my respects after my appointment.”

“Is his… his father, the late pontiff, interred here in Flamechurch?”

“His family,” he corrected, gentle. “Their remains rest now in the crypt, while their souls have moved on to join the gods, in the flame beyond. Or… well. It is a terrible tragedy that they never found anything to bury of Pontiff Jörg’s eldest son, the previous inquisitor, after his disappearance. May they both rest in peace.”

Crick’s breath caught, and the entire world ground to a screeching halt.

A missing inquisitor… the son of the late pontiff…

Inquisitor Roi.

That would make him Temenos’ brother.

They had talked about Roi just once, in the wake of Temenos being attacked in Stormhail, and Crick’s subsequent realization that everything he’d built himself on was a lie— in the wake of having his faith shattered so thoroughly, being so lost, for the second time in his life. He’d once thought it somewhat funny that both times, it had been an inquisitor to pick him up and convince him to keep moving, to change his life, each in their own way. Nothing but a strange coincidence, even after Temenos’ admission that he had known Roi— that, in his own words, he’d ‘had a strange affinity for him’.

It wasn’t funny anymore. Temenos and Roi had been more than colleagues, more than simply friends. They were raised by the same man. They had grown up together.

They were brothers.

Why hadn’t Temenos just said so? Why did he always have to be so… so…

Did Crick actually know anything about him at all?

“Yes,” he agreed, voice hoarse. His eyes burned. “A tragedy, indeed. Perhaps I will go and pay my respects, as well. Does Inquisitor Temenos have any other family that might know where he is?”

He shook his head minutely. “None; I believe he was a foundling. The late Pontiff Jörg had no family of his own… and though I know he considered his flock, and by extension the entire church, to be a kind of family, I do suspect that he took those two boys in so that he might have one of his own. I should not speak for him, though, as he can no longer speak for himself.”

Each new truth struck him the same as the last, leaving Crick reeling from the quiet sorrow of it all. He knew what it was to lose a family, in his own way, but even so, he couldn’t imagine the sheer loss Temenos had experienced. Crick had left his family of his own accord, and though it had been his choice, if there had been a chance to change things in a way that wouldn’t compromise his beliefs, then he would have done so in a heartbeat. He wished them well, wherever they were; he could never wish otherwise. He didn’t regret his choice.

But Crick had the choice. Temenos had not— nor would he. Not ever. His family had been ripped from him.

Temenos had been left alone.

Crick blinked away a powerful flood of emotion and nodded, taking a deep breath. He was certain he would have to grapple with that later, but now was not the time. For now, he had a job to do.

“Thank you, Pontiff Osias,” he said. “I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me. I will continue my search, now that you are aware of the situation. If you hear anything, please…”

“Commander.”

Crick paused as Theon suddenly spoke, posture tense. “What is it, Theon?”

“I’ve never met the inquisitor, myself. I don’t know anything for sure, and I’m sure that you have already thought of it. But I know that there were… rumors,” he said, glancing over to the pontiff for just the briefest moment, “among the old Sacred Guard.”

Crick pursed his lips. It aligned with one of his more plausible theories— desire for revenge was an effective motivator, and needless to say, Temenos’ work lent itself to making himself a target. He’d near single-handedly brought down the corruption within the Sacred Guard five years earlier. “Is it possible those rumors would be cause enough to harm him?”

Pontiff Osias folded his hands and lowered his head, murmuring a quiet prayer. Guilt lashed through him— Crick didn’t want to be the reason he found out about the horrible things people said about his inquisitor. But…

Theon seemed to share his hesitation. He eased his posture, just a bit, and turned to the pontiff, whispering quietly enough that Crick couldn’t hear his words.

Eventually, he returned his attention to Crick, voice lowered. “Join me outside, commander.”

Once the door had shut behind them, Theon spoke once more. “You had just been sworn in, before everything happened, right?”

A nod. “Right. I was sent here immediately after the ceremony. Those rumors you spoke of… they never reached me.”

Something pained settled on his face. “I’ll be honest, I think it’s more likely that if someone from the old Sacred Guard wanted to harm the inquisitor, the reason would be little more than petty revenge for removing them from power. Rumors alone wouldn’t be enough, for most.”

“I agree. An inquisitor certainly makes a lot of enemies.”

“Especially this one,” he sighed, glancing away. “And yet, if the culprit is, indeed, an ex-Sanctum Knight, then they would have particular reason to plot against him. Misplaced loyalties aside, it was he who illuminated their corruption. But it had been festering for some time, and the rumors were one of the more insidious methods of turning us against him. It gave us an enemy— and you know as well as I that, to a knight, evil is something to be despised. Rooted out, not tolerated. The lies were simply what justified that hate.”

Crick nodded. “Will you tell me?”

“You won’t like it.”

“I know,” Crick said. “And even so, it is a truth I will not turn away from. Please, Theon.”

A long sigh. Folded arms. “Very well. Inquisitor Temenos was well known within the ranks of the old Sacred Guard, though I doubt many had actually met him. He had something of a reputation. The higher-ups called him ‘the hound’.”

Crick swallowed the strange, sad anger rising in him, even just at the reminder. “I remember.”

“The usual rumors were that he was uncooperative, blindly loyal to the late pontiff and working against the Sacred Guard for an agenda unrelated to the gods or investigating heresy. It was said that he used his position to do whatever suited him and guide others away from the light of the Sacred Flame by whatever methods he deemed fit: threatening physical violence, seduction, hiding or stealing evidence. We were told not to trust anything he said, because he would find a way to twist it and use it against us.”

Crick fixed his eyes on a distant brazier, flickering with golden light against the darkness.

“I had heard… most of those,” he admitted, ears burning.

“There were others, of course, but they were… nastier. More personal. Things I don’t care to repeat,” Theon said, distaste written clear across his face. “Nothing but baseless rumors. And considering the one who was likely responsible, I doubt there’s any truth to them.”

He hated to have to give Kaldena credit for anything— he truly did— but, while they were far from ‘true’, they weren’t exactly ‘baseless’, either. A small piece of the truth existed in most of the rumors she’d spread, if only when viewed from an outsider’s negative perspective. It would have been enough to give credibility to any other, more blatant lies she tried to tell about Temenos. Over time, it had, and soon enough, she had turned the entire Sacred Guard against him.

Everyone except for Crick.

Theon shifted on his leg. “Respectfully, commander, you look furious. I told you that you wouldn’t like it.”

He barely acknowledged the quiet simmering in his blood, shaking his head. How blind he must have been, before meeting Temenos, to have missed so obvious an indication of what the Sacred Guard had been. Maybe he would talk to the captains one of these days about finding a way to discourage harmful rumors about the very people they were called to protect. “Just Crick, please, Theon. I don’t like it, you’re right, but… thank you. You’ve given me new things to think on. Perhaps, somewhere in those rumors, there’s a motive for wanting to harm him.”

A nod. “One more thing. Knight liaison is below your pay grade, isn’t it?”

Pause.

“… It is.” Crick resisted the urge to fold his arms, that increasingly familiar unease settling at the base of his spine. “You think it’s unusual that I would have been pulled from Stormhail for this assignment.”

“I do.”

He smiled, tense. “You’re right. It certainly is strange.”

“Hm.” A pause, and then, “… He’s your friend, isn’t he? The inquisitor.”

Crick blinked at the sudden question. “Yes. A very dear friend… someone I would trust with my life.”

“I see.” Theon fell silent for a long while, thoughtful. Maybe the answer had caught him off guard. “I hope you find him, then. I’d like the opportunity to meet him, one day; if he’s earned your trust, then he must be someone worth knowing. Besides, it sounds like I owe him an apology.”

Crick couldn’t help a chuckle. Temenos would surely make fun of him for it, but… “I believe he would appreciate that. Thank you.”

A nod. “Think nothing of it. Will you be returning to the cathedral?”

“Yes,” he said absently. He had nowhere else to go, not really, and he needed to bathe, anyway. All that aside… he wanted to stop by the crypt, if they would allow him to visit so late.

“Take care on the way up, then. The path is dangerous at night.”

“And during the day, of late,” he said, only a little wry. “Thank you, Theon. For everything. Good night.”

“Good night, commander.”

Crick had never actually been to the cathedral’s crypt before. It sat tucked away on the far side of the building, accessible only by first walking through the gardens and then the external portion of the graveyard. He’d heard tales of misfortune about those who wandered through graveyards at night ever since he was a child— scary stories about ghosts and tragedy from people he knew. The graveyard in Stormhail had always set him on edge; he’d only actively avoided it since the day Temenos had been attacked there while searching for Vados’ body.

It surprised him to find that the graveyard in Flamechurch was so… peaceful. It was quiet, of course, but not oppressively so. Braziers of blue fire kept the place well lit, and even at night, he could see how well maintained it was— clean and orderly, many of the graves decorated with colorful flowers or unlit candles in lanterns.

This was a place where people were put to rest. They were at peace, surrounded by reminders of the Sacred Flame and the people who loved them.

Even so, he had to swallow his hesitation about heading into the crypt itself. The building looked like the cathedral— smaller, but beautiful all the same. The hesitation came from the way the stairs beyond the open doors led immediately down, into a place underground that he couldn’t see. They were framed by stone pillars and stained glass facades in the usual shapes and colors, lending the place an entirely too familiar appearance for his comfort.

He took a deep breath and descended the first of the steps with his hand on the hilt of his sword, trying to shake the nerves raising the hair at the back of his neck. He was safe here.

He was fine.

At the bottom of the stairs, a room opened up, lit by various colors of soulstones. Most of them glowed with the same warm light the one in Temenos’ house did, easing the worst of his nerves. From one of the side halls, a woman appeared, wearing a long, black dress with her hair left loose around her shoulders. 

“Hello. It’s rather late, isn’t it?”

Crick nodded. “It is, I’m sorry. I’m… looking for someone. Should I come back tomorrow?”

“No need,” she said. “I will guide you where you wish to go.”

“Oh, thank you. I— I wanted to visit the late Pontiff Jörg, and… and his son,” Crick said, voice quiet to keep it steady.

A hum. “I see. Take a candle and follow me.”

He glanced around, gingerly scooping an unlit candle from a basket at the door when she nodded her consent. She waited a moment longer for him to approach, and then turned on her heel, walking back into the winding halls of the crypt.

Unlike the graveyard, the silence in here was unsettling. He could only hear his own footsteps— the echoing clanks of his armor, too loud for the space, and the racing of his heart in his ears. They passed rows and rows of caskets, side rooms with golden relics and entire structures that he wasn’t brave enough to ask about, his mind focused wholly on each step forward, each step further down into a place every inch of him was telling him he shouldn’t be, to stop and turn around before it was too late, to draw his sword because she was behind him— 

“My name is Crick. I’m… I was recently assigned to Flamechurch. What is your name?”

She tilted her head, but didn’t turn back to look at him. “My name is Reiza.”

“Are you a cleric here?” Crick asked, nerves calling him to fill the silence.

She smiled, wan— barely there at all. “Not exactly.”

Silence.

“So you… guide people through the crypt?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Do you like it?”

Her laugh was quiet. He didn’t think it was mean-spirited, but it felt like a lash, nevertheless. “It’s peaceful down here, don’t you think? Those who have passed do not judge us for our sins, and the judgment of the living will not absolve us of them. This is where I can atone.”

“Oh.” He knew better than to ask what she thought she needed to atone for; that was personal. The rest of her words were what caught his attention, anyway. They sounded familiar. Hadn’t Temenos said something similar to him? “Do you know Inquisitor Temenos?”

“I do. He did me a favor, once.”

She continued on in silence, seeming content to let the matter lie. Crick didn’t press.

Eventually, they came to a recessed room off to the side of the corridor, and she stopped, gesturing inside. “Here you are. You may light your candle on the blue flames inside.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, lowering his head to pass through the door. The room was simple— smaller than he’d expected, for the burial place of the head of the church. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised; everything he’d been told about Pontiff Jörg suggested he’d been a very humble man. “Is it alright if I—”

He turned, and she was gone.

“… Right.”

There were no caskets visible within the room. Instead, a small monument sat in the center, surrounded by dozens of flickering blue candles. A single book of scripture lay open at the base, one verse marked with a golden ribbon.

‘Keep faith, for the Flames light even the darkest night, and the sun shall rise with each new dawn.’

Crick glanced up at the monument, eyes trailing the words carved into it. At the top, Pontiff Jörg. Below that, though carved earlier, Inquisitor Roi. Below that, empty space— room for more names, though Crick only knew of one that would join them.

He had come to pay his respects, but the lump in his throat betrayed his true thoughts. 

How long had they waited for Roi before holding his funeral, he wondered?

Who was left to decide when Temenos had been missing for too long?

Crick let out a shuddering breath, lighting his candle on one of the others that had been left there by someone else. He kept his eyes on the flame— a soothing link to the world outside this lonely place, and a balm against the space for a third name on the monument, a visceral reminder of the very real consequence if he couldn’t figure out the truth behind Temenos’ disappearance. He’d been doing everything in his power to avoid thinking about it.

If he failed, Flamechurch would have yet another funeral. The second inquisitor lost with no remains to bury, the third and final member of a family of good people gone tragically before their time.

He couldn’t let that happen.

“I will bring him home,” he whispered. The candle flickered mildly in his hands.

The weight of the day washed over him— the hopelessness, the attack, every tragic discovery he’d made about Temenos and his history and the ways it connected with his own. Even his own fear melted into a sudden wave of exhaustion and emotion settling in his throat, choking.

Crick knelt before the monument and set down his candle. Sniffled. He apologized into the silence.

He let himself fall apart.

Chapter Text

Temenos woke gently, his mind drifting loosely from blessedly dreamless sleep into the barest hints of consciousness, like floating through mist. He didn’t hurt— nothing hurt, for once. He was warm, and drowsy, and safe… nothing could hurt him, here. 

The fire ever lingering at the edges of his awareness faded in slowly. It wasn’t cause for concern; for a deity fallen into eternal slumber, or something near enough, Aelfric’s power had always been close by. Blue fire was a comfort, in this place, a cradle created by something that loved him, that wanted him, no matter how he might rage and reject it.

A drop of water splashed off stone.

His limbs were heavy— his head more so— but they didn’t hurt. And then they did. The ache set in, and then the pain, low and dull and everywhere, everywhere, and the fire wasn’t enough to keep it at bay anymore. This cradle, this home, wasn’t enough, and the pain became sharper alongside his mind.

Another drop.

Nothing was going to protect him. Nothing was going to help. He always had to do it himself.

Temenos became aware of the dark, and the gentle crackle of a flame, and the echoing drips of water, and the weight of a… thing. He peeled his eyes open to see a dark purple crystal at the end of a chain on his chest. He couldn’t feel the pressure from its magic anymore. It had little power remaining— not enough to keep him asleep, he thought distantly, unconsciously making the connection before his mind caught up, unwillingly dragging the memory of what had put him to sleep back to the surface. 

Through the haze, he remembered: Roi had done this. Roi would never have done this. Roi was… probably not Roi at all.

The thought didn’t cause him as much distress as he thought it would.

It hurt all the same.

Temenos pushed himself to sit up, eyes fixed on the pendant. Thoughtless, he reached up to grab it. The moment he made contact, bright light flared, a surge of his own power called unconsciously against whatever magic it contained. Cracks splintered through the crystal like ice. The light faded, and he blinked against the sudden dark— blinked again as his hand began to itch, and then to burn, a fire under his skin forcing him to drop the pendant with a hiss. A new mark bloomed across his hand where he’d touched it, at the tips of his fingers and along the place where his thumb met the rest of his palm. A bruise— mottled purple and black, a familiar jagged pattern fading in beneath it like a sickness sinking into his very veins.

This… this crystal, this magic—

More memories: tiptoeing around the bloodless corpses of those blindly loyal to a cause they didn’t understand, the weight of the darkness that had drained them almost unbearably heavy in the air around them. The rage-filled screams of despair from what remained of an enemy, the darkness that had transformed her sloughing off her form like smoke. Being ripped away from his friends and standing in impenetrable darkness, shivering against the way it seemed to reach for him, trying to snuff the light he carried permanently. The loving, gentle promise of peace everlasting in a beautiful lie, a balm, a caress, and the warped corruption of someone he’d left behind, a nightmare hemorrhaging inky blood from a gaping tear in its chest even as it swung its blade at his neck when he refused its call, rejecting the darkness for the truth.

Not darkness, but Shadow.

Not Shadow, but—

Temenos ripped the pendant off by the chain and threw it at the wall as hard as he could. It shattered against the stone, and as it did, dark purple flame erupted, swallowing all the light in the room for just a moment— a heartbeat, maybe the same one his heart skipped at the tormented wail it let out before the room returned to normal. 

Lantern light. No fire. No screaming. Just him, curled up against the wall in a bed he didn’t remember falling asleep in, near hyperventilating.

The crystal lay inert in pieces on the ground. His eyes burned, tightness rising in his throat. Roi— Roi had been wielding the power of the Shadow, the power of an evil god, the enemy of everything they were raised to believe in, to hurt him. To lie to him. To control him.

His brother.

… No. The thing wearing his brother’s skin.

The door creaked open, and he held his breath on instinct. He had to calm down. Nobody could see him like this, nobody could know he was scared or hurt or panicked, nobody could—

Roi let out a frustrated sigh as he stepped into the room, crushing a shard of crystal carelessly beneath his boot. “Oh, Temenos… What have you done?”

Not Roi.

He let his breath out through his nose. Inhaled. Crept out of bed as Roi set to kicking the pieces of it off to the side, expression unreadable. He looked just like the Roi of his memories, but…

Could his own memory be trusted?

He didn’t know. He had to figure it out. He knew what he was supposed to look like; he knew what he looked like now. Was Roi’s hair brown or black? Were his eyes green or brown? What did his face look like? His own brother was a stranger, a man he knew he recognized, one that didn’t belong in the memories he had, and—

Roi turned those strange eyes on him, sharp. “What happened to your hand?”

He cradled his newly marked hand to his chest as he watched Roi move, guarding against the unpleasant, dull throb of it.

“Nothing,” Temenos said, the lie coming easily.

“I’m not blind. Show me. Come here,” Roi scowled, reaching for him with a gloved hand— not Roi, not— and Temenos lurched back with a strangled gasp caught in his throat, placing the table between them.

“Don’t touch me!”

Roi blinked, eyebrows lifting mildly. “So soon? I suppose I’ll have to find some other way to keep that mind of yours occupied. How troublesome… but regardless, you’ve finally proven useful. Here— as a reward, I brought a gift for you.”

He fished in his pocket for something and placed it on the table. A single white chess piece— the tower. It looked… familiar. Hand-carved, with small imperfections in the paint: a chip at the base, revealing the reddish wood it had been carved from, and a thumb-print at the top. He remembered the day Roi brought it home— a chess set purchased in New Delsta on his first inquiry. A gift. It was cheap, clearly the work of an amateur, but Roi had been so proud, so pleased with himself— he’d been allowed to paint one of the towers, he’d said— and Temenos had just been touched that he would think of him while he was away. It hadn’t stopped him from teasing, of course, but it also hadn’t gotten in the way of what ended up as one of their favorite ways of spending time together, before…

Temenos looked up sharply. “Where did you get that?”

“I believe that you know how to say ‘thank you’, don’t you, inquisitor?”

“Do not call me that.”

Roi’s eyes narrowed. He scoffed. “And what would you prefer? Father Temenos? Detective? Oh, I know… little brother.”

Not Roi.

“You are not my brother.” The words fell off his lips before he could stop them. They panged in his chest, a vicious stab to the heart— he hadn’t wanted to say it.

He wasn’t going to take it back.

The only response he got was a tilt of his head. “Oh?”

“Roi doesn’t wear gloves,” Temenos said, stepping back. “He doesn’t know how to cook. He’s kind, and trusting, even to his own detriment— he would never say something so… callous. He would never channel the magic of the wicked god, would never hurt anyone. He wouldn’t do this. And Roi is… Roi is gone. You’re not him. Who are you really?”

A sigh. “Oh, Temenos—”

— he said, eyes foggy with fever and shaky fingers wiping tears from Temenos’ cheeks— 

— consoling, cradling a ripped doll in his hands— 

— with his arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, laughing long and bright and happy, and—

“— I’ve gotten what I originally wanted from you. I believe it’s in your best interest to stop asking questions and pray I don’t decide that you’re more trouble than you’re worth now that you have served that purpose.”

Temenos had always been more trouble than he was worth.

He took another step back. He hit the stone of the wall and dropped his head against it, squeezing his eyes shut. His own mind was attacking him— trying to hold the illusion together. It had to be an illusion. Nothing else made sense. “I am going to figure this out. These lies.”

Roi’s smile warped, cruel. No, this wasn’t Roi. It was nothing but a figment of his own imagination. It had to be.

Unless…

“I’m sure you will,” he said, mocking. “You’re so very clever, Temenos. But until you do, you’re going to stay in here. I have to go and pick something up; I’ll be back soon.”

He scooped up the lantern from the table and took it with him as he left.

“Wait—”

The door slammed shut, and Temenos flinched against the sound of it— and the second, smaller noise that came moments later. He stood against the wall, frozen, and tried futilely to let his eyes adjust to the sudden dark. Footsteps echoed from nearby before fading away completely.

He took a deep breath to steady himself.

Okay. So he was locked inside.

Another breath.

He’d been trapped by… Not Roi. Someone pretending to be his brother, maybe. Someone with connections to that familiar, vile dark magic. Someone who was threatening him—

Yet another breath, and despite his best efforts, it came shallow. Temenos had always been good at compartmentalization— he had to be, as an inquisitor. Often, his job demanded of him the ability to simply observe and bury his own feelings on whatever happened. And the longer he did it, the easier it became to apply those skills to other things, other feelings.

Being in this place for so long had made it more difficult than it should have been to keep things buried. He was hurt, and hungry, alone in the dark with someone who wanted something from him. Something he’d apparently already gotten, and… something else. He didn’t know what he wanted or why he wanted it.

Temenos didn’t know what was going on. At least, not as much as he would like. Even at the best of times, not knowing things grated at his nerves like a splintered washboard, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. Vulnerable. The truth was his guiding light; knowledge was his only shield against the dark.

And then, of course, there were the holes in his own memory, things his conscious mind was glossing over or somehow missing entirely. Slowly, the pieces were starting to come back, but he felt their absence acutely— every slip of the mind, every painful recollection like an iron driven into the center of his skull. It was… irritating.

Privately, in the deepest recesses of his own thoughts, he could admit he was terrified. What had been taken from him? His memory? His brother? Reality? He didn’t know, he didn’t know—

He stumbled forward a step, reaching a hand for the table he knew lay in front of him. Not Roi had brought back that little chess piece— Temenos tried not to think too hard about how he might have gotten it, knowing the entire set had been hidden away in the attic of his home, untouched for nearly a decade. He fumbled around for it, careful not to move too suddenly for fear of knocking it away. He might never find it in the darkness if he did.

When he found it, he gripped it tight— a desperately needed anchor to his memories. He ran his fingers over the facets of it, counting. Seven, eight, nine— he took a deep breath, eyes falling shut. No matter the pitch black of the room, his inner world was always illuminated, ever so slightly, by the soothing glow of blue flame.

Turning it over in his hand brought up a new memory. Though it had been with a set not belonging to him, he had taught someone to play chess, once. Or… tried. They had been sick, he remembered that much clearly— nearly delirious with fever, and in a lot of pain. But they had asked him so earnestly, a fear in the request that Temenos hadn’t quite understood, and he’d given in, no matter the quiet ache it left in his chest to play anything since Roi’s disappearance. 

He remembered wrapping up against the cold, and laughing at a repeated mistake they made— a horrible sound, rusty and strangled like it had been wrenched from his chest, but fond and warm and the lightest he’d felt in… weeks, perhaps. He remembered catching the blue eyes watching him as he calmed, and the way his gut had lurched at the emotion they carried: delirious or not, they’d looked at Temenos with something dangerously close to adoration, as though he’d been the one to place the very stars in the night sky.

That, too, had been terrifying. It had been… nice. He had ignored it, for both of their sakes. For him, and…

There was the empty space again; somewhere in the warmth of that memory lived the shape of the man he’d forgotten. The one he cared about, pressing against the fading fog of his mind, fighting to be remembered as he slowly regained his grasp on reality.

“If I cannot hold onto myself, then… I will hold onto you,” Temenos murmured into the silence, clutching the piece tight.

He would fight to remember, too.

He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d been left alone.

An hour? More? Less than a day, certainly, but long enough that he could no longer make out the muffled sounds of Roi— Not Roi— rummaging through supplies and walking around the ruins through the walls. He couldn’t hear much at all— just the occasional sound of dripping water from somewhere nearby, an irregular shock to his system each time.

Temenos hadn’t realized exactly how much he’d relied on the ambient noise of another to keep him calm until it was gone, leaving him stranded with his thoughts in the dark and quiet. 

There had been rather a lot of them. Some good, like the way his memories were slowly returning now that his mind wasn’t being… manipulated, somehow. The thought of the friends he’d journeyed with gave him heart— they had fought for the dawn together, and he wouldn’t betray that by failing to do so now. Some bad, like the fear he still couldn’t quite manage to stifle manifesting as a constant stream of worst-case scenarios about the truth of what was happening, or what might happen soon. There was too much he didn’t know.

He knew he had to move. If Not Roi was gone, then it gave Temenos an opportunity to do… something. Explore. Find information— figure out where he was, or how he’d gotten here, or who he was truly with. Maybe even escape.

But none of that could happen while he was trapped.

He crept towards the only light he could see: the barest hint of torchlight filtering under the door. He placed his ear to the wood, straining to listen.

Nothing.

He trailed his fingers down the frame of the door to its handle. Gripped it. Pulled, and—

It clunked quietly, confirming his earlier suspicions. He’d been locked inside. He took a slow deep breath to calm his nerves. He couldn’t afford to panic; he needed a plan.

Temenos took a step back, mind racing. When he’d had the light to see, he hadn’t noticed any other ways out of the room— not that he’d been looking for them, at the time. No holes large enough for him to crawl through, no doors he’d overlooked like the curtains in the workroom.

Right— the workroom. If he could just get there…

Come to think of it, he hadn’t noticed a lock on the door, either. The ruins were ancient, and, frankly, falling apart. But if there was no lock on the door, then he’d been locked in some other way. Most likely by something blocking the handle from the outside, he mused, frowning. If that was the case, then he could try and force it open enough to dislodge whatever was in the way.

It would take time. With the way the stones were so uneven, a piece of furniture would be difficult to remove from where he was, provided he was strong enough to open the door at all. That much physical exertion would be a stretch even on a good day, and Temenos was far from having a good day. He could feel the buzzing weakness of his limbs even just from standing for so long, the slight dizziness threatening to force him to sit and rest.

He knew he couldn’t. Not Roi could be back at any moment, and he needed to either have a plan or be gone by the time he returned.

No, there had to be another solution. He had neither the time nor the means to break through the wall, and even if he could make it up to the top of the walls, he would break his legs trying to jump down the other side. Lighting the door on fire would more likely suffocate him than allow him passage, if it even caught in such a damp environment.

But… the weakest piece of the puzzle was, indeed, the door itself. Or, rather, its hinges. It was risky, he knew— but he was confident he had the spirit to cast at least one spell. With simple hinges like these, wet and rusted with time, a basic ice spell might very well be enough to shatter them completely.

Risky, indeed. If Not Roi was still around…

It didn’t matter. He had to try. He would not simply lie down and take whatever was happening; he would not give up here.

He would fight.

Using the powers of a scholar without carrying its license was, perhaps, a little blasphemous, but he would simply have to beg forgiveness later. If the gods found it so offensive, then all they would have to do was deny him the ability to use his magic in his time of need. The mere thought sent a shudder through him, his throat tightening once more. He squashed the feeling as quickly as it had risen— he couldn’t doubt this. Not when it was so vital. Not when his ability to use magic hinged so thoroughly on his faith.

Temenos clutched the chess piece in his hand and closed his eyes, pulling on a connection he’d also long since allowed to rust, in its own way. Magic coursed through his veins, tinged with the touch of a god he hadn’t called upon in five long years. “Alephan, Scholarking, heed my call. Blow, frigid wind!”

He couldn’t see the magic, but he felt it— the familiar sensation of casting, like lighting a candle, and the accompanying drain on his spirit, and the cold rush of wind cascading off of ice. A creak caught the edges of his hearing, and then a low, weighty groan, the warping of metal, and then—

Something shattered, and the door shifted in place, clunking to the ground and twisting just enough to allow a little more light in from the torches outside. Even if the handle was still caught on something on the other side, he should be able to push the door out of his way from where the hinges had been holding it against the stone.

Good. Now—

The world spun sharply, and he caught himself on the wall before he collapsed, breathing hard. He was fine; dizzy, but well enough to move. 

No time to rest. He needed to find food— in a perfect world, plums, as they would also work to restore some of his spirit in case anything else happened, but he couldn’t afford to be too particular.

Temenos took one more deep breath before pushing off the wall, confident he wouldn’t fall over, if not much else. He wedged his fingers into one of the new gaps in the door and pulled. Obligingly, it pivoted without too much effort, catching itself on the frame before it could fall over and make a loud sound that would potentially draw unwanted attention, but allowing him more than enough space to slip through unimpeded.

The hallway was completely silent, save for the occasional crackle of torchlight and the echo of his own footsteps. If Not Roi was still in the ruins, he either hadn’t heard anything, or was too far away for it to matter yet.

Or he already knew what Temenos was doing, and was waiting to ambush him while he wasn’t able to fight back.

He buried the thought and pressed forward, keeping his ears and nose trained on the world around him. His eyes were less reliable— they would be until he managed to clear the fog, breaking through whatever had been done to him completely— but it didn’t matter much. His other senses had always been better in low light, anyway.

As he approached the workroom, the smell hit him first: the sharp, metallic scent of blood, powerful enough to reach him even around the corner. He put a hand to his mouth to choke back a gag as he stepped through the threshold, into the heart of it— the place where it became not just the smell of blood, but the smell of rot, of decomposition and organic matter left to fester. Briefly, he thought to wish his mind would hide it from him, like it had been for so long, but he shook the thought away. Better a horrible truth than a kind lie.

Always.

Not Roi wasn’t around. Temenos crept inside and glanced around, eyes lingering on the curtains on the walls. He couldn’t quite remember why they sent shivers wracking through him, couldn’t remember why he felt like more life existed in here than there should have been— and then he did. He blinked, and the room became clearer to him. He remembered. The curtains hid containers that held… monsters.

He didn’t touch them again— couldn’t bring himself to. He instead steadied himself with a deep breath that he could taste, letting the acrid air ground him as that same flash of memory from the last time he’d truly seen this place filtered across his mind. 

He had been inside one of those containers, he was all but certain of it. But why wasn’t he there now? And if those things were where monsters were created…

No. No time. He had to move. He needed a plan, needed something. A way to defend himself, an escape. There was something in here, he was sure. He just couldn’t quite remember what it was.

The workroom— the laboratory— was filled with machinery he couldn’t even hope to understand, and simple tools that he did, in various states of care. Some rusted, some covered in viscera, some perfectly clean— almost new. 

His mind raced. He’d noted that down somewhere before. Missing pieces of medical equipment from shipments sent from Clockbank to Montwise— a clue as to the whereabouts of the second man he’d been searching for. Components, syringes, glass vials… If the equipment was here, then it seemed Temenos had, indeed, found his target.

Or… rather, that he had found Temenos first.

He continued his search, poking carefully into drawers and boxes scattered around the room. It didn’t make sense that much food would be kept in here, if any— maybe, if he was very lucky, Not Roi would have left enough components around for him to throw together some kind of concoction, but he knew well enough that it wasn’t a replacement for food. Still, he had no idea where the pantry was, if there was such a thing— nor the place where Not Roi had made the soup from… a day ago? He didn’t even know where he slept, or if he did at all.

The ruins weren’t all that large, all things considered, but searching them would take more time than he was comfortable dedicating to the task with so many unknowns breathing down his neck.

He pulled open a drawer under the main workbench and found a handful of fruit mixed in with the usual dried leaves and herbs. Plums. Temenos wasn’t really one to thank the gods for things they couldn’t have had anything to do with, but he found himself whispering a quiet prayer of gratitude nonetheless. Maybe they weren’t quite as useless as he thought.

The plums were far from fresh, but they didn’t seem to be rotting yet, either; he tucked the chess piece into his pocket and tore one of the fruits open with his fingers, bringing it up to smell.

No magic. No blood. It would have to do. 

His first bite left streams of juice dripping down his chin. He scrubbed them away carelessly with his sleeve; there wasn’t time to concern himself over making a mess. His inner arm ached as he bent it, a familiar pain that he realized he hadn’t ever really stopped to think about. It was an odd place to hurt, wasn’t it? He pressed a hand up the arm in question, wincing as he came into contact with the inside of his elbow. It wasn’t a sharp pain— not new, he didn’t think, but the same kind a bruise might cause when pressed.

It wasn’t a good idea to linger, but…

Temenos pushed his sleeve up as high as he could, fingers fumbling with the button at the wrist. It was enough to reveal the place where his arm bent, decorated with a sickly yellow splotch, tinged brown at the edges. A bruise— a normal one, not like the ones clearly rooted in magic on his hand and chest. Gingerly, he ran his fingers along a barely healed pinprick of a wound at the very center of it, not dissimilar to the marks left on Agnea after she’d slipped and fallen into a plant with sharp needles on their trek out to Ku.

… Needles. And a vial of dark, reddish-brown liquid left abandoned, next to a syringe on the table across the room. Blood, certainly.

His blood?

But why? And when had it been taken?

Was that why his body had been so weak lately?

Pause.

Anemia. Anemia, of course. It had happened before, on more than one occasion, to more than one of his traveling companions; Castti had kept a constant eye out for symptoms, given the nature of their journey and how much fighting had occurred. They’d shed so much blood. He should have paid more attention. Should have remembered. 

He tore into another plum as he searched the room, more frantic now. The mess he left in his wake didn’t matter; if he wanted any chance at figuring out what was going on, he had to get out. He pulled open drawers and cabinets, rummaged through boxes of supplies— all of it useless to him, he needed—

That. The crate in the corner, he was certain. He’d seen Not Roi look through it before— there was something inside that could help him. There had to be.

Temenos pushed the lid to the side. At the top of the crate, a familiar robe lay draped over whatever was beneath it. Not one of his— it was less ornate than the ones he wore as inquisitor, a little darker, but still one clearly belonging to the Order of the Sacred Flame. Below that was a jacket, formal, but threadbare— the kind a student might wear. And below that, pieces of… armor? He picked one up, turning it over in his hand. It was small, perhaps meant to protect an exposed joint between larger plates, though he wasn’t very familiar with the intricacies of armor, of all things.

Why were they here?

He continued digging through the crate until his fingers brushed the item he’d been looking for: the staff he’d used to try and heal himself after one of Not Roi’s examinations. His stomach lurched a little at the reminder— the memory of clinical eyes and hands on his skin, the way they’d moved to cause him pain. The thought that he’d allowed a stranger so close, trusted them with something so intimate, thinking they were his brother—

Temenos shook his head. Buried it. He could deal with it later. He didn’t have time. Now that he had found the staff— a way to defend himself, and the spirit to use it— he could only afford to focus on one thing.

He had to find a way out.

Chapter Text

The pews in the worship hall weren’t really meant to be comfortable. His fellow Sanctum Knights had always joked about suffering being part of the core tenets of worship, derived from part of the scripture warning against indulgence and extravagance, rather than out of any command for those who followed the gods to live in ascetic austerity. As he settled into one, closest to the wall for the dim light the nearby brazier would provide him, Crick had the passing thought that Temenos would likely have agreed with them.

The cathedral was silent so late, every cleric within long since retired for the night. Crick, too, should have been asleep; he, like everyone else, was to rise at dawn for morning prayers, and then to attend the service led by Pontiff Osias later that morning. But as was becoming more common, his wandering thoughts had gotten the better of him, leaving him restless and turning in his bed, no matter his own exhaustion. 

Eventually, he’d decided that if he was going to be awake anyway, he might as well get a head start on reading the journals Temenos had left behind. In an effort not to wake Elio, he’d crept from the room and into the main hall, where the stained glass window dominating the back wall looked on, its subtle glow an ever watchful ward through the night.

He ran his finger across the edge of the first journal as he opened it— the green one he’d been told of in the library. At a glance, it seemed to contain notes about the various inquiries Temenos had worked on over the years. Only rarely did Temenos discuss his work in any detail, being as secretive as he was, but Crick recognized notes about a few of his more notable cases: a small, violent sect of those who claimed to follow the will of Sealticge, a rather high-ranking cleric spreading misinformation about the Sacred Flame for their own gain, a group of insurgents who took up residence in abandoned Healeaks and terrorized the countryside for tithe.

There were more, of course. Cases Crick had never heard of, neither from Temenos nor the rumblings passed around the Sacred Guard. Any one of them could have been reason enough for someone to wish him harm. Most of them, however, seemed to be resolved. One after another, each section was marked with a simple check at the end, an acknowledgment of completion, and then the start of the next case. In the entire journal, there were only two cases that hadn’t yet been marked complete. The first took up less than a single page— the very first one, in fact.

Inquisitor Roi.

Crick’s breath caught. Temenos’ writing continued.

Missing. Last known location: Flamechurch, Crestlands. Last seen wearing: robes of the Order of the Sacred Flame, white cloak. Carrying the Darkblood Bow. Last known witness: Temenos Mistral.

He found a relic in the cathedral and left to hide it, claiming he’d been unable to destroy it. His last words to me were a warning not to trust in the church.

What followed was nothing more than a list of leads Temenos had found, each one crossed out in a heavy hand. Pontiff Jörg, marked deceased. The Darkblood Bow, destroyed. The Dark Hunter, deceased. Arcanette, deceased. More than half the page remained blank.

It was so… empty. Crick had no doubt Temenos had tried everything he could— exhausted every option, pulled on every possible thread, to find Inquisitor Roi… to find his brother. But if even he had found only these leads, then Roi must have well and truly vanished, and everyone who knew anything about where he went or what happened had gone with him. If Temenos had gone looking for Roi and disappeared, it didn’t seem like he’d discovered anything that might lead Crick to him— to either of them.

He tried not to let the growing ache in his chest distract him from his work, flipping to the second case that might still have been in progress, further towards the back of the journal. There was more to this one— significantly more, in fact, pages and pages of folded up parchment and nondescript letters placed within the pages.

Professor Harvey.

Missing. Last known location: Gravell, Wildlands. Last seen wearing: black cloak, red waistcoat and gloves. Last known witness: Ori.

According to written testimony from a scrivener, he escaped alive from his encounter with Osvald, though if the information is reliable, it is unclear how or in what condition.

Known retreats: Gravell, sealed. Montwise, sealed. Conning Creek, abandoned and left under watch. Toto’haha, under investigation.

The accompanying pages were mostly ledgers and records from merchants. Someone, maybe Temenos, had circled discrepancies between them— missing pieces of some kind of equipment. Deliveries from Clockbank often made it to Montwise without their full intended supply, it seemed, though what that had to do with a missing professor, Crick didn’t know. Perhaps the equipment had been ordered for him through the library? Many scholars made their home in Montwise; it wouldn’t be an unreasonable assumption.

In addition to the records, Temenos had placed two unmarked envelopes between the pages. They were nearly identical to the one that had been slipped under Temenos’ door earlier that week— no distinguishing marks, sealed with simple wax. The handwriting may even have been the same, but Crick would have to check next time he made it back to the lower village. Perhaps he would go after worship.

The letters inside were as unhelpful as the first had been, their contents offering Crick no clues or any other information he could work with. The first contained only a single word: ‘Sealed’, and the second simply said, ‘Onto the next.’

Who could these cryptic letters be from? The scrivener who had last seen him alive? Or perhaps whoever ‘Osvald’ was— someone who had designs on ending the professor’s life. And why had Temenos taken up the investigation at all? A missing professor had nothing to do with seeking out heresy in the church. It wasn’t his job.

Crick sighed and continued flipping through the remaining pages. Each new section held another completed case, another thing Temenos hadn’t thought to worry about, except the very last page. It was different from the rest— unlabeled, no name or investigation. In fact, it didn’t seem to be a case at all, but rather a series of notes.

Another card arrived in the night. This makes three, now. I placed it with the others. The courier maintains their innocence; I regret to say that I believe them. The timing doesn’t line up.

Each is painted more completely than the last. A scare tactic? Or…

He furrowed his brow. The note had nothing to do with anything else in the journal so far. Nevertheless, it was intriguing; someone had been sending Temenos painted cards. On its surface, the act itself was innocuous— a mischievous plot from the children he worked with, perhaps, or a series of gifts from a secret admirer— but Temenos specifically mentioned the possibility of the cards being used to frighten him, of all things. That was… strange.

Why would he think that? What had been on them? Crick hadn’t seen any cards in Temenos’ house. Was it possible he’d gotten rid of them, even though he’d thought them important enough to write about?

The last note in the journal offered no context. Just one line:

Seven cards. There will be eight.

Crick glanced up with tired eyes at the stained glass. None of it made any sense. He’d been left with more questions than answers, as always— and he didn’t even know if the questions were relevant to why Temenos was missing in the first place.

Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, he wished Temenos was there. Not just to spare himself the worry that came from his disappearance, but also because Temenos would know exactly what to do if he were in Crick’s position. If Crick had been the one in trouble, Temenos would already have found him, he had no doubt. Temenos would once again be the one to save him, instead of the other way around. 

But, then, if their roles were truly switched, Temenos likely wouldn’t have let anything happen to him in the first place. 

The reminder of his own oath twisted in his chest like a knife; he hadn’t even been allowed to follow through on it yet, and somehow he’d already managed to fail. He’d promised to protect him. Temenos had always been someone Crick needed to protect, no matter how unnecessary he claimed it to be, no matter that Temenos had asked him to wait, and he had to— he didn’t— he wasn’t there when it mattered most—

Crick shook his head to clear it. He’d done enough panicking; he had enough regrets. They would remain no matter what he did now, which left him only one option to continue forward. 

He needed to act. He needed to find Temenos. And in order to do that, he needed more information.

He set the green journal down and picked up the blue one, unpicking the knot in the twine wrapped around it. The cover was worn by time and use, scuffed and a little dirty, fraying at the corner. Water damage warped the block of pages inside. The journal had clearly seen a lot of use— and then it had been sealed shut. When had that happened, he wondered? And why?

He flipped it open to the first page and started reading.

I can’t see the cathedral on the horizon anymore. Decent enough for a day’s work, even after stopping to help that traveler retrieve his bag outside Flamechurch.

Mindt saw me off. She believes that I am on a journey of healing; I suppose I am, in a manner of speaking. I have a hunch that I must follow. I journey for Canalbrine, the home of the theologian Lucian, who was the last to have seen the pontiff alive. I intend to discover the truth behind his murder and bring it to light.

The only one who knows the real motivation behind my leaving Flamechurch is that naive little Sanctum Knight (Crick, he would likely insist. A silly name. I much prefer ‘little lamb’— he is rather in need of a shepherd). I don’t fully understand why I told him. He is… interesting, though. Far too trusting, but not yet corrupted by the crows. Perhaps we’ll meet again, somewhere, though I suspect he would rather our acquaintance end with his reassignment. I find myself curious to see if he will grow feathers or wool…

Crick widened his eyes. This must have been written on the day they both left Flamechurch after Pontiff Jörg’s murder. It was… a travel record? A diary, maybe? To read the observations of himself set Crick’s ears burning, but he couldn’t say he’d written anything untrue— nor could he say it wasn’t interesting to finally see some of Temenos’ perspective on the matter.

Even so, he had a hard time imagining anything in such a journal would have to do with why he was missing now. But, then… five years wasn’t so long that some people couldn’t hold on to grudges, and if this was a record of that journey he took, then it would cover everything he’d done to bring the Sacred Guard to justice, as well as anything else that might have happened along the way that Crick didn’t know about. It had the potential to be a useful source of information, but…

These pages are now too empty, knowing that his wish was to see them filled not with notes, but with tales of my experiences, and the people I meet. He often spoke of the value in finding those the Sacred Flame will place in our path, and letting them walk and grow alongside us on our journey.

This is asinine. He’s gone now. What good could come from penning my travels in such a manner? My notes would have served me better… and yet, I find myself with this journal, instead, too far from the village to go back now. I won’t return until I’ve done what I set out to do.

Sentiment comes for us all, I suppose.

He shouldn’t pry further without Temenos’ permission. This was more than notes about the jobs he’d been caught up in— it contained his private thoughts and feelings, and if that wasn’t enough, there were bound to be entries about personal things Temenos hadn’t already told him of. He didn’t want to find out about him that way, no matter his own desire to know and learn. Finding out about his family from the pontiff had been… horrible, for several reasons. It didn’t matter how badly Crick wanted to understand. He wanted more for Temenos to be the one to trust him with the truth about the one thing he could be relied upon to never openly discuss: himself.

But what would he need to know to keep him safe? To bring him home? And what if that information was, indeed, contained within this journal?

He pursed his lips and flipped through the pages, quick enough not to be able to read any of the words written inside. No loose documents, nothing that looked like a clue. Just a handful of pressed flowers and pages upon pages of writing.

His cursory scroll left the book open on one of the later pages, this one with its own flower. He didn’t spend much time paying attention to flowers, of all things, but this one he recognized— its short stem and pink petals were more than a little familiar. It was commonly found in the Leaflands.

It showed me Crick.

He paused at seeing his own name again; Temenos wouldn’t have had cause to write of him often, and especially not after he and his traveling group had trusted Crick’s continued health to an apothecary in Montwise, unable to justify taking him along on their journey. He could barely remember any of it, stricken by fever as he’d been, but he’d been well enough to remember the day Temenos left— the cool brush of his fingers pushing tangled hair away from blurry, half-closed eyes, the kiss he’d placed to his forehead as a parting gift. He’d been glad, if a little embarrassed, to find out that part, at least, hadn’t been a fever-borne delusion.

I need proof, the journal read, this part written in an uncharacteristically shaky hand. I need to see for myself that he yet lives— to know that he is well, that what I saw in that darkness, what I fought, was nothing more than the cruel machinations of the fell god.

Tomorrow, our little group goes our separate ways. I will head first to the anchorage at Crackridge, then journey to Montwise, and onwards to Stormhail beyond, if I must. No matter how I despise that place… and no matter what he must surely think of me, after everything I have done.

I must know the truth.

Perhaps he would appreciate a token from home?

Crick exhaled, warm. Turned the page.

It was blank.

The remaining few pages of the journal were empty, with none of Temenos’ familiar, looping handwriting anywhere to be found. That must have been his last written entry before sealing the book. The follow-up wasn’t all that important; Crick knew how that story ended already. How could he ever forget? What he didn’t know was what Temenos meant about ‘what he saw in the darkness’, or ‘the cruel machinations of the fell god’.

A nightmare, perhaps? Or had he been caught up in yet another conspiracy with the church? If he had, he certainly hadn’t told Crick of it.

True, when Temenos came to Stormhail, presumably after the writing of this entry, he had seemed… changed, perhaps, was the best way to put it. As confident as he’d ever been, but with some new weight behind his every look— his every word. He’d claimed to be there to check on the progress of the Sacred Guard as it rooted out the last of its corruption and slowly started work towards rebuilding. 

Crick had suspected he wasn’t being entirely truthful, even before ending up drawn inexorably into his orbit, the same as always. But if the journal spoke true, then Temenos hadn’t come to Stormhail to monitor the Sacred Guard at all.

He’d been there for him.

… Well, that certainly explained a few things. Though it seemed he’d decided against giving him the flower, in the end. A shame.

Crick closed the journal and set it on the pew, pinching the bridge of his nose to avoid rubbing his eyes. Temenos had so many secrets; it was impossible to know which ones could be ignored and which ones, if any, had led to his disappearance.

What had the darkness shown him that caused him to seek Crick out that night in Stormhail?

Why had he been investigating a missing scholar? 

Who had written the letters? What were the mysterious cards he’d been sent?

Did any of it have to do with Inquisitor Roi? Were any of these things connected, or was he looking for evidence that wasn’t there, desperately searching for anything to make sense of what he found?

What was he missing?

Where was Temenos?

Exhaustion pulled, heavy, at his limbs. He needed to go back to bed; the day had been long and trying enough already. The investigation would still be there in the morning. But going to sleep felt impossible with the way his mind raced, thoughts consumed by the fates of two missing people— three, now. He needed to compare the letters in his possession with the one Loel had delivered. He needed to search for the cards Temenos had written of. He needed to go—

He needed to go. Now.

Crick grabbed the journals and hurried back to the room to gather his bag and sword. He scooped up a lantern on his way out— the path down to the lower village was lit at all hours, but it was always safer to have a brighter light to guide the way, especially on moonless nights. 

Dawn was still a few hours out by the time he left the cathedral. The stars were always so clear in Flamechurch, not obscured by perpetual cloud cover like they were in Stormhail. Usually, he enjoyed getting to stop and watch them for a while, admiring the beauty the gods had left for their creation. This night, though, Crick kept his head down as he moved along the path, unable to shake the sensation that each star was somehow watching him, instead.

The gentle glow of the Sacred Flame persisted as he passed by, unwavering against the sharp autumn winds blowing through the trees. The remaining dry leaves rasped with each new gust, their branches trembling where the Flame did not. He stepped beyond its light, and the chill of the night finally set in, raising the hair on his arms. His breath misted, barely there, in the air. He pulled his cloak around himself a bit tighter.

By the time he made it to lower Flamechurch, every house had fallen dark, the people within slumbering away. He spared a thought to pray their dreams were peaceful— and then to pray they might remain safe as he crept by the place he’d fought that strange creature. Somehow, it had only been earlier that same evening. It felt like so much had happened since then.

Nothing of it remained but the damage to the earth it had left behind. If he hadn’t seen it— if he couldn’t still make out the gouges left in the roof of the inn, the unmistakable scent of charred grass on the path where it had bled fire, the lingering tenderness of the skin on his arms where it had burned him— Crick might have been convinced it had been nothing but a terrible, vivid nightmare.

Despite the unease weighing on his nerves, he arrived at Temenos’ house without incident, breathing a shameful sigh of relief as he pushed inside and closed the door behind him. His lantern lit the space in warm light, casting long, swinging shadows of furniture along the walls.

He settled his lantern on the table, eyes finding the map he’d left there. While he was thinking of it, perhaps he should label the locations Temenos had listed in his journal— the ‘retreats’ he’d mentioned for his investigation into the missing professor. He didn’t know for sure that it had anything to do with what happened to Temenos, but if it did, it would be better to lay it all out so he could see everything and search for patterns. He grabbed a handful of white pieces from the nearby chess set and placed them on the map: Gravell, Montwise, Conning Creek, the Toto’haha… locations spread across both continents, seemingly with no rhyme or reason.

Crick frowned, considering. Maybe he should also add another black piece to Flamechurch to represent the monster attack from earlier. It would have to share a place with the piece that was already there, but…

He paused. Furrowed his brows. There had been a white piece over lower Flamechurch— hadn’t there? It had been the only one on the map, there to mark the place Temenos had gone missing. He’d placed the tower down, he was certain.

It wasn’t in the box of chess pieces, nor anywhere on the floor that he could see. It was just… gone.

Strange, but he supposed he could look for it more thoroughly later. A missing chess piece wasn’t exactly very high on his list of priorities; worst case, he would apologize to Temenos for losing it and offer to buy him a new one. For now, he wanted to compare the handwriting from the letter he’d left on the desk—

The letter wasn’t there either. 

He blinked, bewildered. Temenos’ incomplete notice to the Sacred Guard remained exactly as he’d left it, folded in the corner of the desk. But the letter Loel had delivered wasn’t there with it.

Crick stooped to search around the desk. Under it. In the drawer, through the stacks of books, in his bag— even in the storage space hidden in the stair, to ensure he hadn’t left it somewhere else. The letter was nowhere to be found.

That made two missing items. Crick was sure they’d both been there while he organized the books earlier that day. Had someone else been inside Temenos’ house while he wasn’t there?

He glanced around cautiously, one hand creeping to the hilt of his sword. Nothing else seemed to have been disturbed. A quick search determined nobody was lingering in the darkest corners of the room, or under the bed, or in the attic.

The last time he’d been there, both the letter and the chess piece had been right where he’d left them. Or… maybe not last time. He hadn’t been of the clearest mind upon returning to clean up after the fight with that monster, he could admit that much. And he’d been in a hurry on his way out; he’d left the door open. 

Had he been the one to leave it open?

He had no way to know for sure. It meant both possibilities could be true— they could either have gone missing during the attack, or they could have gone missing after he’d left for the night.

But if the former was the case, and someone had, indeed, broken in while he’d been occupied outside, why wouldn’t they have taken the Staff of Judgment? What use could someone have for a cryptic letter and a chess piece, of all things?

It didn’t make sense.

Crick didn’t like the thought that someone else had been there. He liked less the idea that they had been there while Flamechurch was being attacked. If that was true, then following the line of logic to its conclusion would mean…

… It would mean someone had used the monster as a diversion.

He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t quite get the sound past the lump in his throat. It was absurd— setting an uncontrollable beast on an innocent village just for the sake of stealing two insignificant items from a house that usually lay empty was ridiculous. Nobody would do such a thing, even if they had the ability. Whoever had been inside had to have done so after he left for the cathedral. That, or the attack must have been simple coincidence. They had become somewhat more common, of late.

Temenos didn’t believe in coincidence, and he’d all but laughed in Crick’s face when he so much as mentioned fate, even just to tell him not to suggest their second chance meeting had been anything of the sort. A strange pressure built slowly in Crick’s chest as he realized he was beginning to understand why.

Coincidence was simple. Fate was more so.

This was anything but.

Despite it all, he crept to the door and pulled it open just a crack, eyes scanning the world outside for… He didn’t know what. The promise of sunrise lit the sky in muted blue-grays and the barest hint of yellow. Flamechurch would rise soon, alongside the sun, beginning the day the same as every other: with prayer. People would filter out of their homes to the cathedral for worship once the sun had cleared the mountain peaks, each one none the wiser that anything was wrong at all.

Or perhaps one of them did know, a wolf hiding amongst the flock.

Crick leaned back, closing and locking the door. The mere thought— the doubt— tightened around his throat like a vice. Could someone from the village truly be responsible for all of this? Someone he knew that wasn’t from Flamechurch? Someone else, yet unknown? Or was it truly a kind of coincidence, after all, that someone would break in to steal things from an empty home, even if the objects themselves were anything but valuable?

He didn’t know.

He should… pray. Dawn had come, after all, and the gods…

Crick should have prayed to the gods for help. It was what a good knight would have done— what a good member of the order would have done— but if Temenos had taught him anything, it was that the gods acted only through their creation. They wouldn’t— couldn’t, maybe— help him find Temenos. That was up to him. Instead, as he knelt at the side of the bed, Crick lowered his head to folded hands not in prayer, but in supplication.

Not to the gods, but to Temenos.

“I’m not like you. I need… I cannot do this alone,” he whispered, eyes shut tight. “Tell me where you are, Temenos. Help me. Please. How do I find you?”

No response came, of course. He wasn’t really expecting one. It didn’t prevent a small sigh from escaping him as he opened his eyes and stared blankly ahead— not exactly disappointed, but still somehow more tired than he had been, his eyes aching with every blink.

Morning prayers were always followed by training, in the Sacred Guard; perhaps the routine of going for a run or working through his sword forms would shake his mind free of whatever weight had settled over it. He couldn’t quite bring himself to stand and follow through, though, gaze caught thoughtfully on the bed before him. Nothing about it had changed. The same simple wool blanket lay neatly across what he was sure was a mattress just as uncomfortable as the ones up at the cathedral. For some reason, he’d expected Temenos to be the sort of person that wouldn’t bother making his bed. He supposed he was rather fastidious in other aspects of his life, so it wasn’t too surprising his bed would be kept so orderly— not to mention he most likely rarely ever used it.

The only wrinkles in the fabric were ones of his own making, left when he’d picked up the Staff of Judgment to return to the pontiff. He traced the line where it had lain with his eyes. Once. Twice. Furrowed his brows.

It was strange, wasn’t it? Strange that the staff had been left at an angle, despite the fact that it would easily have fit length-wise on the bed. It would have been easier— more natural— for it to have been leaned up against a wall. But Temenos had chosen to lay it down, instead. He must have done so intentionally, but why? He had placed it facing out into the room. He’d placed it at an angle…

… He’d pointed it right towards the bookshelf.

Crick startled, scrambling to his feet to cross the room. His eyes scanned the bookshelf top to bottom, looking for… something. Anything. An answer to his futile plea, something he’d missed on his initial search to check for any forbidden tomes. At a glance, there was nothing unusual at all— just a shelf, packed loosely with books and paper figures and the odd keepsake that he knew nothing about. Crick wanted to ask him about them, wanted to know his each and every truth as Temenos saw fit to grant them, wanted the strange reassurance his presence brought and all the little ways he managed to drive him mad. He wanted something between them to line up for once— just once. He wanted him back.

There had to be something. Crick may not have known everything about him, but he knew well enough that his actions always meant something. He was cautious. Cynical. Prepared. Temenos had to have left a secret. It was the only thing that made sense. He just had to be good enough— observant enough, clever enough— to find it. He just had to understand.

A brown book caught his attention, placed on the shelf at about eye level. It was unlabeled in the same way many books of scripture were, plain, save for a tiny letter ‘T’ etched messily into the leather with something sharp. It looked to have been done a long time ago, faded and worn nearly to the point of being unnoticeable, unless someone was specifically looking for it.

It was upside down.

Crick reached up and pulled it free, half expecting to see writing on the inside of the shelf behind it. There wasn’t, of course; the thought was nothing but a result of his own memory layering itself over reality. The night he’d discovered the library hidden under the Sacred Guard headquarters, he, too, had left a book upside down on the shelf. He’d done it in haste, without intent— he didn’t remember doing it at all— but Temenos had told him some time later that it had been a vital clue in following in his footsteps. Only after chastising him for being so reckless, of course.

But to see one here, now, like this… Temenos could only have done it intentionally. This book, whatever it was, had been left as a clue for someone to find. If he were feeling bold, maybe even for Crick to find. A precaution— the actions of a man who knew something was going to happen to him. The actions of someone who knew he might not be around to explain.

He flipped it open to the first page. It was indeed a book of scripture— a copy of the book of Aelfric’s teachings, one of the first each adherent to the order was given to study. Every cleric would have one. Crick did, too. He knew most of it by heart.

Temenos’ copy had writing in it. Passages that were underlined, words circled, notes left in the margins— defacing scripture, another of his casual blasphemies. There were half a dozen questions on the first page alone, and no answers to be found except that which was marked in the scripture itself. His eyes skimmed across the page, and then he continued on. Whatever notes were in here were personal; they didn’t seem to have anything to do with the case.

Halfway through the book, the pages fell open to reveal a card— small and simple, its only distinguishing characteristic a bit of writing on the front. He paused. Could it be one of the cards Temenos had mentioned in his case notes?

The next page had one, too, this one with a corner painted a deep brown. And the next page, and the next, the mark steadily growing with each new card, just as Temenos had written. By the fourth, he could smell it— faint, but unmistakably the scent of blood. 

Crick’s stomach churned. Whoever sent them had certainly been intent on sending a message. He understood why Temenos had thought they were meant to scare him; he wondered if they weren’t a threat, instead. Even finding them now, all at once, sent a sick feeling crawling up his throat. 

Seven cards in total. Temenos had said there would be eight.

He found the last one stuck between two pages towards the end of the book. The card had been placed inside while it was still wet, he was sure. He took care not to rip the pages as he peeled them apart, slowly revealing the eighth and final card— drenched in enough blood to also stain the paper, the scent still strong enough that Crick recoiled against it. It had the same words written across the front.

‘What would you do to know the truth?’

He frowned. The truth about what?

The line of dried blood where the card had been underlined a passage in the scripture that Crick was familiar with— one that, until this moment, he had found comforting. Reading it now, he couldn’t find it anything less than chilling.

‘In the light of the Sacred Flame, their eyes will be ever upon thee.’

It was no wonder Temenos had been sleepless and impatient, spending all his time away from home. Someone had been watching him— stalking him. They had gone out of their way to let him know, leaving messages that seemed to be… counting down to something. Perhaps the day he disappeared.

He must have been terrified.

These cards were the proof he’d been looking for— proof Temenos wasn’t simply missing, but that something had happened to him. Someone had been after him, persistent and deranged, judging by the cards they had sent. They had completed their ritual, sent all eight cards, and then Temenos disappeared. The door had been left unlatched, something Temenos would never do. A journal had been burnt, perhaps to permanently hide whatever information lay within. The Staff of Judgment had been left behind in such a particular way, the only guide to such a vital clue, hidden away on the shelves.

He’d been abducted. He’d known it was going to happen.

Bile rose in Crick’s throat. He’d known the possibility existed, of course— the thought had occurred more than once, especially before he’d figured out a way to keep himself from catastrophizing too much— but he had hoped against hope itself that he was wrong. Any number of people would have reason to want Temenos dead, but few would have either the skill or gall to follow through on such a threat. Fewer still would be willing to go through all the song and dance of trying to intimidate him as they had, and even fewer would be able to do so without getting caught.

The person or people responsible had to be both powerful and dedicated enough to target someone like Temenos and succeed. Obsessed, even— they had known enough to offer some kind of truth to get under his skin. But why would they have taken him instead of killing him? Why would they have gone to such extreme lengths to do it? And most importantly, where would they have taken him?

Crick dropped into the chair, a little dizzy with the new realization spinning circles in his mind. There was so much more to this than he thought— more than he’d wanted, certainly. He hadn’t wanted any of this to happen at all. Regardless, he couldn’t give up now. He’d made Temenos an oath, and he intended to keep it, on his honor as a knight. As... maybe... Temenos’ knight. As his friend.

He needed to report to headquarters. They would need to know he’d found the proof they wanted. 

But first, he needed to ask the pontiff for help.

Chapter Text

Temenos leaned heavily against his staff, squinting into the expanse of darkness stretched out before him. Pointless— he hadn’t walked far enough for there to be any chance of the cavern lightening, even a little. All that existed was the bubble of world within the light of the torch he’d wrested from the wall: just him, the distant, ringing rush of sound in the distance, and the solid stone beneath—

His shoe caught on an uneven bit of ground, and he felt it give ever so slightly, some small piece clattering down, down, and plopping into the water far below.

Well. 

Perhaps not so solid. They were called ‘ruins’ for a reason, after all. He would need to be careful.

He crept along the path as silently as he could, his sense of hearing his most reliable way to determine the existence of any approaching danger in a cavern so dreadfully quiet. Each echoing noise sent a jolt through him— another tense, fraying strand of his nerves under constant assault.

Silence.

A distant splatter of water on stone.

Silence, too quiet. Unnaturally quiet; he missed the sound of the chapel’s piano filtering through his walls.

Silence.

Silence.

Temenos kicked a rock, jumping at the sudden, cracking echo of sound, far too loud for the moment. He froze in place, staff held out against anything that might have heard him for a long, breathless moment.

Nothing.

Yet more silence.

He exhaled, long and slow, and continued his journey into the dark.

Time passed, tracked in flickers of flame— heartbeats and dripping water. Eventually, he reached a large section of the path that had fallen in completely, the pile of rubble just visible above the surface of the water. Scant inches of what had once been a walkway remained intact, closest to the wall of the cavern. He wondered if it was recent— wondered if this was where they had heard the path collapse on the day Not Roi let him help with his work. 

It was possible; he couldn’t say for sure. It hadn’t been there the last time he was here— 

He paused. Frowned.

Last time?

Temenos shook the thought away. It didn’t matter, not right now. The gap was too large to jump safely to the other side; perhaps, on a good day, with a decent running start and nothing in his hands, it would have been manageable. Now, though, even looking at it was dizzying. He hadn’t seen any other paths to try. No, if he wanted to escape, this path was his only way out, whether he liked it or not. If he wanted to progress, this obstacle would need to be crossed. 

He would need to do so carefully. 

He pressed his back to the wall for balance and inched around what little remained of the stonework, testing each precarious step with his staff before shuffling over, eyes caught firmly on the path instead of the dark, churning water far below.

One step.

Two.

His foot slipped sharply off the ledge, sending another piece of the structure falling away beneath him. He swallowed an instinctive yelp, sucking a sharp breath in through his teeth as he scrambled to regain his balance, fingers biting into the wall for any purchase he could find on it.

His gaze locked on the barest disturbance of the usual rhythm of the waves in the near distance— something moving in the water, perhaps. Something large. Temenos tucked himself a little further into the wall with a shaky exhale. Better to avoid drawing the attention of anything that may or may not be lurking than to risk a fight, in his state.

He took a deep breath. Took another slow, shifting step— one foot after another.

And another.

And another.

His staff cleared the gap. The moment he passed far enough from the edge that he was no longer at risk of falling in, he squeezed his eyes shut and sank to the ground, breathing unsteady.

Temenos had done a lot of stupid, reckless things in pursuit of his goals. Calculated risks, like the one he’d just taken— wandering alone through a graveyard in a city where people wanted him dead, or taking over the role of inquisitor after his brother’s disappearance, or seeking out truths that others would always rather he left alone. Around others, he was good at locking his fears away to deal with later, shoving them behind the solid mask of control he’d painstakingly crafted over ten long years of bitter, painful experience. 

He grasped desperately for some of that control now, unwanted emotion rising like a flood and threatening to pull him under now that he was alone and there was nowhere else for it to go. He curled his hands into fists, the scraping of his nails across the stone not quite enough to ground him against it. He couldn’t afford to stop, couldn’t afford to let fear dictate his next move— he had to be better than this, better than the trembling and the short gasps for air and the painful slam of his heart against his ribs, faster, faster, and he needed— he needed to—

Breathe. He needed to breathe.

Hyperventilating would only draw more attention. Passing out from lack of air would only waste what precious little time he had to escape.

He took a shallow, gasping breath. Another, deeper. Another, and gradually, it felt less like his heart was trying to escape through his chest, and more like he was… scared.

Temenos could deal with ‘scared’. ‘Panic’ would blind him— slow him down. ‘Scared’ would keep him going, at least for now.

He dragged himself to his feet and stared into the impenetrable darkness ahead, jaw set. He could panic later, break down on his own time. He needed to get out first. He needed to figure out what was going on. He needed to think.

‘Scared’ would help him think.

He didn’t even know where he was. These kinds of ruins weren’t uncommon in Solistia, structures built long ago and since left to collapse. The water was more unusual. If he could only remember how he’d gotten here in the first place— if he could only remember why…

‘What would you do to know the truth?’

The truth about… what?

‘Do I have your attention now?’

He furrowed his brow at the ghost of a memory. The answers were there, maddeningly at the edge of his mind. Someone had asked him. He remembered stumbling home late at night, the lingering scent of a storm in the air, and Roi… Not Roi. He remembered the sound of his own pulse, thundering in his ears as he realized there was light coming from the interior of his house, even though he hadn’t been the one to start a fire. He remembered…

There was a stranger in his home.

Temenos forced himself to open the door, his smile only a little strained as he stepped inside to find a familiar face seated at his table. A fire burned in his fireplace.

“Ah… I’ve been looking for you,” Temenos said, closing the door behind him. 

He’d seen the man once before, in passing— had agreed to a request from a friend to help find him after his seemingly miraculous escape from what Temenos had been sure was an all but certain fate. Unquestionably, a deserved fate.

Not exactly a stranger, then. Not exactly anything else, either.

The man looked up, head resting on his fist. Bored. “Figured me out, did you, inquisitor? I might have known.”

He had not. He should have. The sting of irritation at himself for not being able to put it together in time writhed in his chest. Instead of saying so, Temenos shrugged, mild.

The man exhaled through his nose, maybe amused. “Did you appreciate my gifts?”

The cards— the ones he’d foolishly hidden away instead of burning them, like he should have. The ones that had been wearing away at his nerves for weeks. The ones that had asked a question he hadn’t known the answer to until moments before.

‘What would you do to know the truth?’

Anything.

Temenos carefully didn’t make a face. “They certainly did get my attention. A touch dramatic, though, don’t you agree?”

“You’ll forgive me for indulging. I couldn’t help myself. I have to admit, it’s been more difficult to stay out of your awareness than I had anticipated. You are a rather persistent creature, aren’t you, inquisitor?”

“So I’ve been told.” A tilt of his head, neither a confirmation nor a denial.

“You should be grateful to me,” he continued. “I’ve saved you the trouble of finding me yourself.”

“So you intend to turn yourself in?” Temenos asked, dry.

A chuckle. “Of course not. I’m far too busy. Even coming to see you has set my work back by quite some time... But needs must, I suppose.”

He didn’t bother disguising a twinge of annoyance. “Then why are you here?” 

“Indulging,” the man repeated, gesturing vaguely. “Studying. I wanted to learn more about the man that erstwhile enemy of mine deemed competent enough to delegate my capture to.”

“And what have you learned?”

“I’ve discovered some very interesting things, indeed. You crave knowledge of all kinds. You crave the truth. Interrogating people, burning heretical works… though I suspect if I took a closer look at that collection of yours, I would find more than just the scriptures, hm?” He crossed his legs. “You’ve quite effectively hidden the mind of a promising scholar behind all of that pious servitude.”

A hum. “If that is so, then you must know I cannot simply allow you to walk out of here a free man.”

“And you must know that a single cleric wouldn’t be able to stop me.” He sighed, put-upon. “It would be such a shame to have to kill you now. I’d rather have your help. What would you say to an exchange?”

Temenos shifted back, swinging the staff between them as he stepped closer. It hit the table hard, leaving a small, splintered point of impact near the edge. “I refuse.”

“Now, now, inquisitor. Don’t be so hasty.”

“I’m afraid you’ve made an incorrect assumption about me. You have nothing to offer in exchange for my compliance with your demands. There is nothing you could say—”

“Not even the truth about what happened to your beloved predecessor? What was his name, again? Oh, yes… Roi, wasn’t it?”

The question struck true, settling like ice under his skin. Temenos fell silent.

Not simply ‘What would you do to know the truth?’, but ‘What would you do to know the truth about Roi?’

Anything. Anything, anything—

The man’s smile was smug. “Do I have your attention now?”

“What reason have I to believe you know anything about that?” Temenos asked. His mind was already racing to find an answer, to make the connection. Roi had run off with the Darkblood Bow in hand— that huntress had gotten her hands on it, somehow, and Roi never came back— she had been working for Arcanette, and so had— “More importantly, I’m no fool. Even if you did know, that wouldn’t be enough to get me to cooperate with you. I’d much rather coerce the information from you here and now, before I turn you in to the authorities.”

“That would be quite reckless of you.”

“And why is that?”

Fire sparked along his fingertips, the glow reflecting in his eyes. “This village of yours has so much history. It’s so old, so very… flammable. It would be a terrible shame if a stray ember from this hearth managed to spread during a fight.”

Temenos barely managed to stop a bark of horrified laughter from escaping him. “You have an impressive amount of nerve.”

A hum. “You are familiar with my work, aren’t you?”

He was. He’d seen it for himself, once— the burnt-out husk of what had once been a beautiful house, home to a beautiful family. Not one of them deserved the fate that had befallen them.

Flamechurch didn’t deserve it, either. He couldn’t— he wouldn’t— let anything else happen to this home.

“Ah, it seems you are.”

Nor could he let this truth slip through his fingers.

“… An exchange, then,” Temenos said, the words grit from between his teeth. “For the truth, as well as an assurance of safety for this village. What are your terms?”

“You’ll need to come with me. Quietly,” he said. “No fuss, no fighting. When I have what I require, I will tell you what happened to your predecessor. Not a moment sooner. No harm will befall your village by my hand as long as you behave yourself… I swear it.”

Something sick rose in his stomach. “And what is it that you want?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re a clever thing, aren’t you?”

He clearly had no intention of saying more. It was a terrible deal; there was no getting around that. He didn’t have enough information— or combat ability— to bargain for a better one. Had his friends been around, perhaps, but as it stood… He was alone. The man already knew his weakest point. He’d been well and truly cornered, outplayed before he’d so much as walked through the door. 

Temenos tried not to let his own adrenaline cloud his better judgment, tried not to let his instinctive doubt set him against what might be the only safe way out of this situation.

He wondered if there was a safe way out.

A nod. “Very well.”

The man smiled. It sent a shiver up his spine.

“I’m glad you’ve seen reason. But first, I’ll need that journal you’re hiding,” he said, holding a hand out expectantly. “I can’t very well have whatever you’ve written about me getting out, can I?”

Temenos sent up a silent curse, lips pursed. He’d hoped it would go unnoticed.

“Observant, aren’t you,” he managed, pulling the book out of his pocket and handing it over.

The man didn’t reply. He flipped carelessly through a few pages before muttering an incantation under his breath. The book ignited in his palm, and he stooped to place it in the fireplace, paper down. Temenos swallowed anything he might have wanted to say at the destruction; he watched it burn in silence. 

He had to do something. He couldn’t allow this to happen without leaving a way for someone to find him. He couldn’t risk drawing undue attention by trying to do anything too unusual. 

What options did he have? What could he do? Here, in this empty home where nobody but him had set foot for nine years, what hope did he have of giving anyone a means of figuring out what had happened?

Only a small group of people would worry for him if he disappeared. Fewer still would be willing to enter his home if they thought something was wrong: no more than eight. The group he’d fought with to bring back the dawn… and perhaps one other.

His eyes flicked over to the bookshelf, turning the situation over in his mind. Those cards… he’d hidden them away. There would be no way for him to bring them out for someone to find on a whim, but perhaps if he was clever…

He let out a sigh, scooping a handful of books off the ground. 

“What are you doing?” The man asked, sharp.

Temenos placed them back on the shelves with exaggerated motions, pretending to fuss with the placement under the man’s watchful eye. “Your ‘indulgence’ made quite a mess in here. I’m putting my things away. Do you take issue with that?”

Narrowed eyes, but no other response. He glanced away; Temenos pulled a few books from the shelf, carefully flipped his oldest book of scripture upside down, and placed them back down.

A small sign, but one that any of the eight would notice, given the opportunity. Each one would remember what had occurred that horrible morning in Stormhail. They would know what a book left upside down meant.

The man would not.

That was the best he could do.

Temenos rearranged books, feigning boredom until the man stood up, wiping his gloves off on his trousers and turning to face him once more.

“That staff of yours will need to stay here, I’m afraid.”

Temenos tightened his grip on it. Only rarely did the staff his family left to him leave his hands. He didn’t need a focus to cast magic— the man likely knew that. He’d probably made the request because of how distinctive it was. If the Staff of Judgment was spotted while they were going… wherever they were going, there would be someone who could report that they had seen it.

It was more important than its function as a magical focus, or any sentimental attachment he might have had to it, of course. It was a relic of great importance for the church, and a symbol of his authority in it. It didn’t change the fact that there were days he couldn’t bear to let it go, that walking without it felt like he was missing a limb, that it was his last solid connection to the family that had left him behind.

Even so. Better left here than in the hands of the man before him, he supposed.

Decision made, he laid the staff across the bed, pointing at the bookshelf and the cards hidden within— the only assistance he could offer whoever discovered his disappearance… if anyone did. He would do everything in his power to return, but this enemy was not one to be underestimated. If he didn’t make it back, those cards would be the only remaining clues about what had happened to him. 

He doubted they would be enough. There was no time for anything else. If things went wrong…

Well. 

At least he wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind.

“Shall we?”

Temenos looked up. The man held the door open and gestured for Temenos to walk ahead of him, expression unreadable. 

He nodded, just once. He stepped out into the night, acutely aware of the presence behind him— and the metaphorical knife held against his throat.

He would find the truth.

The memory sank into his bones, heavy and horrifying. Temenos felt sick with it. Someone— Not Roi— had offered him the truth about what happened to his brother, threatened his home, and he’d… gone willingly. No matter what had happened after, no matter that he hadn’t trusted it, that it had clearly been a ploy to get him alone and defenseless. He had gone with his captor willingly.

How foolish could he be? How naive. He still knew nothing—

Temenos took a slow deep breath, eyes fixed on the nothingness ahead. He couldn’t afford to get too caught up in his thoughts, couldn’t afford the distraction or the loathing or the fear— for right now, all he needed was to escape. He could handle the rest later.

The path dragged on, long and winding. Dark. The cavern never changed, stretching beyond where he could see in all directions but one— the damp wall he leaned against when he thought he could afford a short break. Once, he’d found the sound of gently moving water relaxing; here, in this place, it was nothing but another reminder that he wasn’t safe, each rhythmic rush of water against the rocks below the ticking of an invisible clock. 

He was taking too long. He didn’t know if he’d chosen the right way, or if he’d made any progress at all, guided by nothing but a hunch— a whisper of memory, not quite there— and that ever-present static thunder in the distance. He was going to be discovered, lost and alone and too weak to truly fight back on his own, either by a denizen of the cave or by the very person he needed to escape, and whether he was dead or alive at the end of the encounter, he knew his body would end up back in one of those vats in the laboratory, burning and shifting and—

The water rose and fell off-rhythm, burbling like a slow breath of air. Temenos walked faster.

He brushed his fingers over the facets of the chess piece in his pocket once more. Six, seven, eight, nine around the top of the tower, nine like the number of gods. Bifelgan, Aeber, Draefendi, Brand, Sealticge, Alephan, Dohter, Aelfric. The eight that made up the flames, all fallen in the name of sealing away the ninth. The ninth god…

The bruise on his hand ached. It might have been a coincidence.

Temenos didn’t believe in coincidence.

What was the power that had left these markings? It was so familiar, the truth of it buried just beyond the remains of the fog pervading his mind. He’d seen this magic before— he knew it well. Contact with that crystal had caused the same kind of mark as the one that had been left on that body in the snow. The bruises across his hand and chest were the same as the ones left on… ‘him’. 

He allowed himself a growing frustration at the echoing empty space in the place someone he’d known should have been. Why would the fog have taken ‘him’, of all people, but not anyone else? His brother’s absence from his memory made sense, at least to an extent. Whoever Not Roi really was, he was pretending to be Roi. If he remembered the real Roi, he would have figured things out sooner.

There must have been something about ‘him’ that Temenos wasn’t supposed to remember. Something that would have been too strange, too important, for whatever spell he was under— and it must have been a spell, nothing else made sense— to keep him from asking questions.

What could it be? What question was he not supposed to ask? Who had this kind of control over such an obscure magic, and how?

The crystal and its madness, the bloodless husks of men lying still on the ground, the impossible dark fire, the sick, twisted nightmare that confronted him in the darkness, the Shadow that brought it to life— 

‘It even dwells within your breast.’

Temenos placed a hand over his heart, mind racing. His bruise, the dark magic carved into another, and the scar it had left— yes. That was right. It had left a scar. He’d touched it, a warm, unyielding hand holding his wrist in place as its owner spoke to him with…

‘I give you my oath, on my honor as a knight— though I know you would rather I did not…’

… with the gravity of an oath.

A knight. Temenos had no love for the Sacred Guard, nor the guard of any kingdom in Solistia. All save one: the Sanctum Knight who had offered a blade to protect him when he called, who had bent a knee and sworn an oath not to the inquisitor, but to him. The only knight who would ever do such a needless thing, and the only one Temenos trusted to keep the promise.

The empty space finally gave him its name, the clear face of a man he’d known and cared for. Someone who… perhaps, once, had cared for him, too. Sandy hair that might have been curly if he let it grow out further, kind blue eyes as warm and gentle as the Sacred Flame itself. Someone hopeful, but not blindly so. Honest. Easy to tease, and quietly brilliant, and frustratingly self-sacrificing. Temenos was the reason a scar ran from his hip to his opposite shoulder, healed to the best of his ability, but lingering— maybe permanent— and marked with strange, spidering purple lines from the evil magic infusing the blade that nearly took his life. It was the same as the marks Temenos now wore, too, on his chest and hand: the touch of the Shadow, the wicked god Vide himself.

His name was—

“Crick,” Temenos murmured.

Crick, Crick, Crick.

How could he ever have forgotten?

If Temenos could get out of this place, if he could only find Crick—

A glimmer across the surface of the water caught his eye, and he glanced up, blinking. It was lighter, now, unmistakably— just enough to make out the shape of the path ahead, and the barest hint of light through an impossible wall of thunderous, rushing water at what must have been the mouth of the cavern, straight ahead.

A waterfall.

Temenos continued on, steps more hurried now. If he was lucky— if he was very, very lucky— it was possible he hadn’t been taken quite as far from home as he’d thought.

This close to the waterfall, the air was damp and heavy, saturated with the mist cast off the surface of the water. It was hopeful and foreboding, all at once— a glimpse of freedom nearly within reach, the sourceless feeling of eyes on his back reminding him that he was still far from safe. He glanced over his shoulder for a brief moment, and his foot slipped into a clump of something wet at the edge of the stone with an audible squelch. Moss, growing up and through whatever gaps in the ruins it could take root in, more visible the closer to the entrance he got. He pulled his shoe free and tapped it on the ground to dislodge the worst of the mud.

It was cold, he realized— enough to be able to see his breath in the air, even so close to the spluttering torch in his hand. The wall was cool where he touched it, and so was the water pooling in its cracks and divots. Frigid, even. Far too cold for the time of year.

Admittedly, a cave would often be cooler than its surroundings, but so close to the outside… Temenos frowned. It was midsummer; if he truly was still in the Crestlands, as he thought, then it should have been warmer.

Was he still in the Crestlands?

… Was it still summer?

His sense of time had been off, of late, true. But surely not enough for the seasons to have changed. It wasn’t possible that enough time had gone by without his knowledge for summer to have passed entirely. And yet… his memory could no longer be relied upon. He knew that. All he could rely on were his senses, and his senses were telling him that no Crestlands summer had ever been this cold. Even in the coolest part of the day, he wouldn’t be able to see his breath. Not even in this part of the mountains.

Something icy tapped him on the head. He whirled on it, staff brandished against—

Nothing.

Water slid slowly from his hair down into the collar of his shirt. He reached up to scrub the sensation away and let out a shaky exhale, not quite able to laugh at himself for his own overreaction. Nothing but a drop of water with unfortunate timing. Even over the roar of the waterfall, he could hear them falling all around, splashing onto the rocks or back into the water like so much rain.

Nothing was there. He was fine.

He was going to be fine.

Temenos took another step forward, and the water exploded.

A hand reached up in a sudden rush of sound, gripping the side of the walkway in front of him. Giant claws scraped across the stone, digging in to anchor the sopping wet mass of fur and teeth pulling itself free of the water below. He stumbled backwards, tripping over nothing and letting out a short curse as the torch slipped from his hand, rolling off the edge. The light went out with a hiss. He scrambled to his feet, hands blindly following the contours of the wall as he watched the silhouette of something emerge to block his path.

Its fur lay flat against it, heavy and dark with the weight of the water sloughing off its form. Its eyes glowed bright in the darkness, illuminating the space around them in just enough pale blue light to make out the unmistakable scarring on its limbs and throat— the thing itself mutilated, but not beyond recognition. No, Temenos knew this creature well; the shape of it haunted his nightmares.

A felvarg.

A sharp gasp forced itself from his throat. 

Aelfric the Flamebringer, may your light— 

He took a shuffling step backwards; his foot slipped on the crumbling edge of wet masonry, setting his heart pounding. The creature dragged itself up and glared at him with a low, rumbling growl deep in its throat, dripping water across the stone.

The creature shifted closer. Trapped, Temenos braced himself and lifted his staff to pray. If his captor was still in the cavern, then he would need to move quickly, now— it would be rather difficult to remain hidden after doing this.

Light suffused the darkness of the ruins around him, blinding for its suddenness and as powerful as he could manage, called into existence with a dizzying drain on his already dwindling spirit. It lanced through the creature, right on target. The moment it made contact, Temenos pushed off the ground and tried to duck around it, to get out of its line of sight.

The creature swung a limb straight at him, not so much as flinching against the light. It didn’t make a sound, giving no indication it had even felt the magic. It wasn’t hurt. Wasn’t blinded, despite the spots still swimming in Temenos’ own vision.

It hadn’t worked.

It should have worked— a spell that powerful would have felled any lesser creature, unless—

Its claws came down. Temenos heard a shout— his, maybe, though he couldn’t be sure. He felt, more than heard, a deafening splash as he hit the water, a heart-stopping drop off the edge of the ruins into icy, inky black depths, and the world went dark.

Chapter Text

The pontiff’s voice echoed through the wings of the worship hall, where Crick stood in watchful silence as he gave his sermon. He glanced out over the gathered crowd; every seat was filled, the eyes of what must have been every villager in Flamechurch trained on Pontiff Osias at the pulpit. To see everyone in one place was staggering— the village was small, compared to many other places Crick had been, and yet when its people gathered like this, hearts open to the Flame and to each other, there seemed to be so many.

Crick wondered if the crowd was simply a result of the pontiff’s rare attendance, or if the events of the day prior had encouraged each and every one to come together in the wake of disaster. While guiding people into the cathedral, he’d heard idle discussion from passersby of intent to join forces and begin work on cleaning and rebuilding the structures that had been damaged in the attack once the service had concluded.

His heart warmed at the thought. He wanted to help in any way he could; the people of Flamechurch had been nothing but welcoming to him, even after the incident with the Sacred Guard.

But any time he spent doing that was time he wasn’t looking for Temenos. His stomach lurched, inexplicably guilty at the mere thought. He’d been missing for so long… how much longer did he have? What if— all eight gods and the Sacred Flame itself forbid— he was already too late?

“Knight Commander.”

Crick glanced over his shoulder at the murmur of his title from behind him, eyebrows lifting in recognition. He scanned the room once more before replying, voice low. “Good morning, Theon.”

A nod. Theon said nothing else, seeming content to join him in his vigil. The pontiff’s voice continued, a warm and comforting blanket. Crick didn’t dare close his eyes— he was to keep watch over this sacred space, and it was a duty he intended to take seriously— but the shifting colors illuminating the altar in light cast through the window from the morning sun, the sound of the gentle stories he’d found his faith in, would easily have lulled him to sleep, especially after a restless night. Absently, he wondered if this was what it would have been like to have someone he trusted read him a bedtime story, or perhaps sing a lullaby— the safety, the warmth.

He frowned at the whisper of something like memory, not fully formed. More the feeling of familiarity than any kind of tangible thought, a thin sort of sentimentality for something he couldn’t quite grasp. A melodic voice, low against the haze of his own swimming consciousness and an undercurrent of pain. Perhaps someone had done something like that for him, once… but when?

Eventually, Theon sighed, drawing him out of his thoughts and reminding Crick of his presence. He muttered something under his breath before saying, “The Archbishop doesn’t trust him.”

What?

“What?” Crick looked over at him again.

“Inquisitor Temenos,” he said, voice hushed so it wouldn’t carry. “I overheard a conversation between His Holiness and Archbishop Brigit last spring. I know better than to say anything in most cases, but… I think it’s important you know. She started the knight liaison program because she wants to improve relations between the Sacred Guard and the Order of the Sacred Flame, but the inquisitor wasn’t originally on the list of clergy we were meant to protect. He was added later because the archbishop thinks he needs to be monitored, and she doesn’t have any authority over him.”

Crick frowned. The pontiff’s voice continued from the pulpit, fading to the edges of his awareness. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that’s why you were chosen. She wouldn’t let them choose just any of the rank and file to hold someone like him accountable. They chose you because they know you’ll keep him on the right path— or, failing that, report back so they can deal with it.”

“Why does she think he can’t be trusted?” Crick’s stomach churned. “He can be… abrasive, but he’s not… He isn’t some criminal.”

Theon tilted his head, maybe curious. “I couldn’t say. I’m just telling you what I heard.”

Crick looked down, scanning the stone beneath his feet as though it would provide him any answers to his questions. If Theon was right, that first reassignment notice had come despite the rules and the broken chain of command because the archbishop only cared about Temenos as far as he could be monitored, not because she thought he was important enough to protect. When Crick had reported back that he wasn’t in Flamechurch, she must have decided it no longer mattered, and tried to have him reassigned.

It seemed he truly had caused the Knight Major some trouble by refusing to simply go along with the archbishop’s plans. One of these days, he would have to apologize for the inconvenience— and then, perhaps, offer to buy him a drink for taking his side against his direct supervisor.

Crick had only met the new head of the Sacred Guard once, during her first visit to Stormhail after the church placed her in the role. She had seemed nice, if a little strict. 

Kaldena had seemed that way, too.

Were the Sacred Guard and the Inquisition simply destined to oppose each other, he wondered? Would the archbishop’s strictness manifest as a willingness to dispose of someone she couldn’t control? Or was he jumping at shadows again, seeing the ghost of his previous captain in someone who didn’t deserve it just because she, like so many others, had fallen victim to Temenos’ reputation? 

It wasn’t as though Temenos hadn’t worked to ensure he had full control of how he appeared to others. Crick had seen it in action— once, had believed in the mask himself. The thin veneer of ‘humble cleric, lighting the way for all’, and then, deeper, ‘persistent hunter, ruthless in his pursuits’. He was both of those things, of course. He was neither. People met him and made their judgments: clever, simple, nosy, blind, talkative, reserved— an enigma. And yet rumors of the Holy Inquisitor of the Order of the Sacred Flame circled across Solistia, feared and respected and reviled in equal measure. An unknowable, inescapable seeker of truth at any cost.

Temenos was complicated, true, but not as careless as people seemed to think. Crick only knew that because he’d taken the time to try and know him— because he’d seen little, fleeting glimpses of the man underneath that curated reputation and decided he liked what he saw. Enough to want to stay at his side, despite his teasing, and his rule-breaking, and the way he seemed to be able to see straight through a person, and his frustratingly masterful ability to dance around things he didn’t want to talk about. Most people, he knew, wouldn’t bother to keep looking. It came as no surprise the archbishop hadn’t.

Even so. Even knowing all that, and knowing she couldn’t have known he was in danger when she made the decision— he hoped— the thought that she had so little regard for Temenos’ safety beyond the ability to monitor him sat poorly on Crick’s nerves. He had become a knight to protect people, but this—

He would not allow them to make him into a tool to be used against someone he cared about. Not ever again.

“… Thank you, Theon. I appreciate you letting me know.”

His only response was a sharp nod, and then he stood alone once more.

That increasingly familiar feeling of doubt settled heavily in his gut. If someone so high up in the order didn’t trust Temenos, was it possible there were others? Was it possible the church could be involved? 

He couldn’t help but wonder if the suggestion the pontiff had made that morning to publicly request information about Temenos’ disappearance was a good idea, after all. He and the archbishop worked closely together; aside from the head clerics of each church, they were the two most important leaders of the order. They had worked together to create and implement the knight liaison program.

Would they have conspired to get rid of the inquisition?

Crick shook his head. Temenos had known them both. He had known he was in danger. If there remained those that couldn’t be trusted within the church, surely he would have made note of it somewhere, and Crick had seen nothing of the sort. But, then, there was the matter of that burned journal…

He wanted to believe in them, he truly did. Pontiff Osias had been kind to him. He’d seemed genuinely upset at being told of Temenos’ absence— and more so when presented with the evidence of his abduction. He’d taken the threat seriously. But Crick had been bitten before, and the stakes were much too high for him to be careless. If the wrong person found out they were looking for him, Temenos’ life could be at risk.

The gathered crowd erupted into gasps and murmurs. Crick winced; the pontiff had made his announcement, then. Too late to change his mind. He would simply have to make his own judgments.

Crick scanned the worship hall more intently, watching individual faces for suspicious reactions. Everyone seemed to be paying the pontiff’s words the attention they deserved, with varying degrees of concern— from mild worry to sharp gasps of horror. Nobody got up to leave, as though to hide anything. A few people bowed their heads in prayer, eyes shut tight. Despite it all, he found himself relaxing a bit at the sight. He didn’t get the impression that anyone here might be responsible.

He couldn’t know the hearts and minds of everyone in Flamechurch, of course. He’d only started to know even just a few. But he knew he wouldn’t make it any further alone. He wasn’t Temenos; he would have to find his own way to get answers. And for now, that meant relying on others. Perhaps, if he was lucky, one of them would have some new information to share.

He would trust them. He would do as Temenos taught him and keep his eyes open. He would keep looking.

That was all he could do.

People filtered out of the cathedral slowly after the service ended, stopping to make hushed conversation here and there. The lighthearted atmosphere had shifted, leaving a quiet tension in its stead. Crick overheard a few murmurs as people walked by—

“… thought he’d just wandered off again…”

“… whole family now. They didn’t…”

“… pray the Flame will guide him home safely.”

“Knight Commander Wellsley, sir!”

Crick resisted the urge to jump at the sudden shout from behind him. He turned to see Elio approaching with an older gentleman at his side— vaguely familiar, but Crick couldn’t place him off-hand, aside from knowing he was a permanent resident of the village.

He smiled, wan. “Just ‘Crick’, please, Elio. Is there something you need help with?”

Elio stopped a respectful distance away, crossing an arm over his chest. “His Holiness asked if I would direct this man to the lead on the inquisitor’s investigation.”

Crick lifted his eyebrows. “That would be me. My name is Crick, sir. What can I do for you?”

The man offered him a polite nod. Unease settled on him like a second skin, sweat beading at his temples as he worried an old, patchwork scarf between his hands. “Name’s Graeme. I’m the innkeeper. Temenos— he’s really missing? Not normal missing, but missing?”

He looked almost as tired as Crick felt; he supposed relaxing enough to sleep after the damage done to his home in yesterday’s attack had likely been as difficult for him as it had been for Crick.

“… I’m afraid he is,” he said, and Graeme’s frown turned down that much further. 

“You’re looking for him?”

“Yes, I am.”

A sigh. “Oh, that boy… what has he gotten himself into this time?”

Crick blinked; few people, even among the older residents of Flamechurch, were familiar enough with Temenos to refer to him in such a manner. He chanced a look at Elio, wondering if he might have had any insight, but the younger knight had all but checked out of the conversation entirely, standing at attention and pretending to neither see nor hear what was going on, like all good knights learned to do so early in their careers.

He looked back to the innkeeper. “That is what we’re trying to figure out. Do you know anything that might assist in the search? Did you happen to see or hear anything the night he went missing, or do you know if he was acting unusually, of late?”

“I didn’t know he was… well, I suppose he’s always had a nose for trouble,” Graeme muttered, brushing his fingers over the embroidered mark of the Sacred Flame at the end of his scarf. “Shouldn’t be too surprised it would catch up with him eventually. Look, I know Temenos about as well as he’ll let anyone. Flame knows that boy kept to himself, but… I’m sure I’ve got something you’ll want to hear.”

“And what is that, sir?”

He pursed his lips, knuckles gone white with tension. “I saw him leaving the village on the night the pontiff said he went missing. And he wasn’t alone.”

Crick widened his eyes. “… Please, tell me what you saw. Who— no, wait. Not here. Follow me.”

He thanked Elio and led the man down the hall, away from the main doors of the building. The dining hall would be empty of any wandering clerics for some time yet— hopefully, long enough to have the conversation they needed to have.

“Please, have a seat. Can I ask how you know Temenos?”

Graeme settled uneasily in the offered chair. Crick pulled out a chair of his own and sat down, resisting the anxious urge to bounce his knee. Eventually, Graeme spoke.

“I’ve known Temenos for a long time. I’m getting on in my years, you know. Been around here for a while. In a village like Flamechurch, we watch out for our own. Kids— especially the foundlings— they’re watched by everyone. Some need it more than others,” he said, managing a chuckle. “Temenos has always been a little troublemaker, whether he meant to be or not. And he and Roi were the late pontiff’s… Needless to say, we kept an eye out for them.”

Crick huffed through his nose. “I see.”

“They ended up at my place a lot. Always together; those two were inseparable. Figured it was better they end up somewhere one of us could watch them than getting into trouble somewhere else, so I let them stay. They usually came by to eat. Weren’t supposed to, there was always food up at the chapel or the cathedral for them, but Temenos was a picky eater, and that brother of his was too nice for his own good. Wanted to do whatever he could to make him happy, so he asked me if I would teach him to cook. Poor kid tried, but… some people were just not meant to do certain things,” he said, expression equally fond and terribly sick. It shifted into something heavy as he continued. “After Roi disappeared, Temenos changed. I don’t think many people noticed. He’d always been more reserved than most, keeping his feelings to himself and not really trusting anyone but Roi and Pontiff Jörg, even as a kid. Back then, he was just shy. Mostly grew out of that. But he withdrew after losing Roi. Didn’t see much of him after that. He still comes by to eat every now and again— and I’m glad for it, I don’t think he cooks for himself— but with that schedule of his, it’s hard to say if I should ever be expecting him or not. That’s why I didn’t…”

He didn’t finish his sentence. Crick didn’t need to ask him to.

After a long moment, Graeme shook his head. “Sorry. Don’t mean to waste your time. Just the reminiscing of an old man. Bad habit.”

“Not at all. It might be overstepping to say, but I… actually appreciate it.” Crick ducked his head. “I wasn’t sure, at first, if there was anyone left in Flamechurch who cared for him at all. Nobody seemed to worry about him being gone for so long.”

Graeme nodded, subdued. “It’s not really any wonder people didn’t think to worry. He leaves the village all the time— wanders off to do Flame knows what as it suits him and comes back weeks later like nothing happened at all. Anyone who worried after him would be used to it. He can take care of himself, you know? Has for a long time. And usually, he’s the one protecting us. I didn’t think this time would be any different. You know him?”

“He’s my charge.” Crick swallowed. Paused a moment before admitting, “My friend. I would see him brought home safely. To do that, I need to know— what did you see on the night of the summer solstice?”

“Right. I was just… leaning out the window to smoke. Late— the sun had fallen. Heard footsteps down the way. When I looked, I saw two people out walking. One of them was Temenos— that hair of his is unmistakable. I thought about waving, but… I didn’t want to interrupt whatever conversation they were having. Thought it was probably important, him being the inquisitor and all. I wish I had, now. Maybe I could’ve…” He trailed off, expression stormy.

Crick knew the feeling well. Regret— helplessness. He knew better than to tell him that dwelling on what might have been was a pointless exercise. He was sure he already knew. “Can you describe the person he was with?”

“I didn’t get a good look at them, but they were wearing a dark, tiered cloak. Too heavy for summer. About Temenos’ height, maybe a little taller. Walked with a little bit of a limp. Lost sight of them both before they left town, but it looked like they were heading towards the main path out.”

“Did you see either of them return that night?”

“Haven’t seen either of them since. There’s something rotten about all this, young man. First Roi, and now…” Graeme shook his head. “Do you think he’s… alright?”

“I pray that he is,” Crick said, clenching his fists tight enough that he heard his gloves creak under the strain. “And I intend to find out.”

Crick exhaled heavily as he left the cathedral, squinting up at the clear blue sky. Now midday, it was no longer cold enough for him to see his breath in the air like he could in the earliest hours of the morning, though the chill was still noticeable. The mountains cooled early in the year, thanks to the weather coming down from the north, but even so, much of autumn had already come and gone since his arrival in Flamechurch at the start of the season. 

Still, he felt no closer to finding Temenos. Each new piece of information baffled him more than the last; there was so much to remember, and half the time, he was hardly sure of its relevance to the case at all. 

It was exhausting. Even so, he would not give up. Not until he had answers.

Motion caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, a human-sized figure lumbering towards him through one of the beds of flowers in the cathedral gardens, as though it had emerged from the trees. He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes narrowed.

“… help…”

Crick paused. Blinked. He stepped off the stone and into the grass. The figure came into focus as he approached, a ragged form dragging itself across the dirt with a large branch, held tight in trembling arms. One leg trailed uselessly behind it, torn apart below the knee and covered in blood. It was human, he realized. Someone injured, all but crawling out of the woods. 

Someone familiar: the local courier.

Crick gasped, horrible recognition shooting ice through his veins, and rushed the rest of the way across the garden. They collapsed into him the moment he came near enough to touch, and he lowered them carefully to the ground, shouting back into the cathedral for help.

Their voice was weak. “… Mister Knight…”

“Loel!” His eyes caught on their injured leg, caked in dirt and dried blood. Their jacket was tied around it, loose enough to reveal the injury: a row of thin holes punctured into their skin just below the knee, the wound angry and red. The shallowest ones had clotted, but the worst were still bleeding, and Crick folded the remains of the jacket they’d used to wrap it back over, putting some pressure on it with a few murmured words of prayer. “You need an apothecary. I can’t risk trying to heal you, not with your wounds in this state. What happened?”

“I was… on my way back. Yesterday, maybe, I don’t… I-It got my leg. A monster, out on the mountain.” Loel’s words came out like a shudder. “It— I don’t know what it was. A creature I’d never seen before, with a boulder of a tail and these horrible, burning eyes… hateful eyes…”

Crick tensed. A few voices called urgently from somewhere behind him. Good; they’d heard him after all. “What color were its eyes, Loel?”

“Blue,” they hiccuped, tears spilling down their cheeks. “It was going to eat me, I know it was, but then someone… someone called it off. And it listened. Please, please, you have to help…”

“The healers are coming. You’re going to be alright.”

“It’s still out there— it was headed this way—”

Crick shook his head, squeezing their hand. “You have nothing to fear. The beast is dead; Flamechurch is safe. Can you tell me about the person you saw? The one controlling it.”

Loel blinked a few times, dazed. Their lip wobbled as they spoke. “… Black cloak. Heavy. It had layers, l-like a scholar’s. I think his hair was brown, or… or red? He was too far up the road, I couldn’t… I don’t…”

“That’s alright. That is more than enough. You did well, Loel, thank you.”

Their words dissolved into incomprehensible mutterings as the church’s healers arrived to tend to their wounds. Crick allowed them to take Loel away, leaving him knelt in the garden alone, with blood smeared on his gloves. 

A peaceful silence settled over the space. Birds chirped in the distance, the best indicator of the lack of any new, approaching dangers. 

Suddenly reminded of his own exhaustion, Crick dragged himself to his feet, head spinning. Not knowing what else to do, he continued his walk down the mountain. He would only be in the way if he followed them inside; he could come by later and see how Loel was doing, once the healers had done their work. He still needed to ask them about the letter.

His mind lingered on the thought of their injury. The marks had been large, but relatively clean, encircling their leg. A bite mark, to be sure, and though he didn’t have a corpse to reference, he clearly recalled the creature he fought— its thin, razor sharp teeth included. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was, indeed, the same beast that had attacked Loel. The timing lined up.

Something a little sad curled in his chest, mostly outweighed by a petty sort of satisfaction. He never found joy in taking a life, but in service of protecting others, he would do what he had to. It was fortunate that when the monster arrived in Flamechurch, he’d been close enough to keep it from harming too many others.

Loel’s words, though, were what he found truly unsettling. If they were to be believed, the monster that had attacked hadn’t been there by accident— it was being controlled. Or, at the very least, had a handler of some kind. Someone had guided it into Flamechurch. Someone had set an arcane beast on a village full of innocents, a suspicion he’d had and immediately tried to reject.

He’d wanted nothing more than to be wrong.

Crick thought over what Loel had told him of the person they’d seen with the monster on their way back to town: a man with reddish-brown hair, wearing a dark scholar’s cloak. Perhaps a scholar himself. Someone with command of unnatural creatures. Someone who had been near the village recently… Potentially the same person who was responsible for the thefts at Temenos’ house. Of course, Crick couldn’t know for sure that the incidents were even related, but little else made sense. The situation hardly made sense as it was.

Despite it all, Crick found the cloak to be the most interesting clue. Scholars were common in the Crestlands, thanks to the library in Montwise and the booksellers commonly found in Merry Hills, but rare in Flamechurch, with limited exception to those interested in theology. They were rare enough, in fact, that he’d yet to see a single one during his time spent in the village. And yet, just today, he’d heard of two.

He wondered distantly if there was any chance the man Loel had encountered was the same man Graeme had seen walking with Temenos on the night he went missing. A similar cloak was hardly enough evidence to confirm the theory, but he mulled the idea over nevertheless, unable to fully dismiss it. 

It was possible. It was also possible he was once again looking for connections where there were none to be found.

He thought about the map once more. Multiple monster attacks in and around Flamechurch, one out in Borderfall, and two in the vicinity of Montwise. All the news he’d heard from the Sacred Guard seemed to indicate the attacks were only happening in the Crestlands. It was likely, then, that the beast tamer— or whatever he was— was located somewhere in the Crestlands, too. 

Crick frowned. If that was true, the Sacred Guard’s search was certain to be long and arduous. The mountains were beautiful, no doubt, but more dangerous than people gave them credit for. People wandered into them unprepared, lured by the breathtaking vistas and golden foliage, and went missing more often than he would like, many of them never to be seen again. Searching the mountains would take time, and in the sprawling network of forested caves, deceptively calm waters, and dangerous slopes, there was every chance they might not find him at all.

And if the scholar responsible for controlling the monsters terrorizing the area was, indeed, the same man that had visited Temenos that night, then he might never be found, either.

The thought settled poorly on his nerves. Even with the possibility of him being close by, finding someone in the mountains was still a near impossible task, to say nothing of the potential that Temenos had been taken by someone in control of strange arcane beasts. 

That part of his theory made the least sense. And yet, as far as he knew, there had been no demands for anything from the church in exchange for his return, and it had already been so long. They likely weren’t interested in ransoming him, then— they wanted Temenos specifically. 

What reason would a beast tamer have to abduct a cleric of the Sacred Flame? What would someone like that need Temenos for?

He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. It was entirely speculative, all based on a series of what could easily have been coincidences. He was still missing something, he was certain of it. Something important.

The sounds of construction caught his attention as he walked along the familiar path to Temenos’ house— saws cutting through wood and hammers hitting nails, their wielders chattering away. He glanced over the ridge to see a few people standing on the roof of the building neighboring the inn, shouting requests at the people working below.

He called out when he came near enough for his voice to reach. “Hard at work already, are you?”

One of the workers on the roof straightened, putting her hands on her hips. “Lots of work to do! No time to waste. Winter’s on its way, and we can’t leave these folks without a home, to say nothing of the inn itself.”

Lots of work to do, indeed. Crick had work of his own, but— “Is there anything I can do to help?”

She glanced over him appraisingly. “You look like you’re about to fall over, Sanctum Knight.”

“I have no doubt, but I’ve weathered much worse, I assure you.” He reached up to scratch the back of his head. “It has been a long few days, true. But the people of this village have been kind to me; I would like to offer whatever help I can to repay it. If nothing else, I can carry things.”

A hum, maybe approving. “That armor won’t do you any good with this. Come back without it, and we’ll put you to work.”

Despite it all, he smiled. Perhaps some time spent doing manual labor would clear his mind and help him think— maybe even make the connection he was clearly missing. Working up a good sweat had seen him through many a problem in his life.

“Thank you. I’ll return soon, then.”

Chapter Text

Temenos hit the ground hard, landing with a wet splat and jolting back into awareness as liquid burned back up his nose and throat. Pain raked across his torso like lines of fire. On instinct, he rolled over to curl up on himself— to cough, to protect himself, to make the sensation go away— only to be met with a boot at his shoulder, pushing him onto his back.

“Don’t do that. You’re injured. Drink this.”

The voice placed a vial of an unknown liquid to his lips. He spluttered at the first rush of its contents, choking as it was forced down his throat, heavy and steady and unrelenting. The medicinal taste settled like acid on his tongue. Eventually, though, the vial did run dry, and the last drops of whatever it contained joined the water slipping down his chin.

“There, now. That wasn’t so bad, hm?”

He peeled his eyes open and blinked to clear his vision. A man knelt at his side, reaching up to place the vial on a table nearby. For a brief moment, it was Roi, returned from the grave to save him from a watery fate of his own. Or perhaps it was simply that Temenos had finally joined him. Though surely if he were dead, he wouldn’t still be in so much pain. He didn’t expect to be joining Roi in the afterlife, anyway.

He blinked again, and it still looked like Roi— brown hair falling into green eyes, and a beard, which the real Roi would never have tolerated. He didn’t look anything like what Roi was meant to look like, but it was undeniable that this man was the Roi of his memory. 

And yet he also looked like someone else. He didn’t know why the Roi he remembered bore such a strong resemblance to the professor he’d been investigating. He shouldn’t have. He didn’t.

Right?

“You’re… Harvey,” he croaked, dazed.

“Finally put it together, did you? I thought you were meant to be clever, inquisitor.”

Temenos closed his eyes again, swallowing an agonized groan at the pain and disorientation, like someone had dropped him into a jar full of knives and shaken it. “My memories… What did you do to me?”

Harvey clicked his tongue. “Always focused on the wrong questions. You’re wasting a very precious resource right now. What I have done is given you a draught to partially restore your spirit. If you don’t wish to die in this cave here and now, I suggest you make use of it.” 

Bleary, he glanced down at himself to take stock of the situation. Blood stained the tattered remains of his shirt, torn open in four places where that felvarg had clawed down his torso and knocked him into the frigid water. The wounds beneath were significant— even discounting the stinging pain, Temenos could already feel the drain on his energy, the way his breathing came faster than it should have due to lack of blood. It had been bad enough before, but now…

He was right. An injury like this could only be left unattended for so long, and he wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d been attacked. Or who had pulled him from the water. Had it been Harvey? Surely not; he remained perfectly dry, and anyway, why would he bother doing such a thing? But, then, why had he done any of this?

An indignant spark flared to life in his chest. Temenos had never been particularly good at taking orders— least of all from those he didn’t like, and this was a man better referred to as a monster. No one who had committed the atrocities Harvey had deserved to be called human.

Regardless, it seemed the monster wanted him alive, at least for now. He wasn’t sure if that made the situation better or worse.

The thought gave him enough nerve to sneer. “What if I don’t?”

“Oh, Temenos.” Harvey sighed, pressing the flat of a knife he hadn’t seen to the soft skin under his jaw. His pulse raced against it. “You must be so used to getting what you want. That isn’t going to happen here— do you understand?”

Temenos ground his response through his teeth, wincing. “I never get what I want.”

“Then you’ll be no stranger to our new arrangement. Close those wounds, or I will make ones you won’t be so willing to ignore.” His words were accompanied by the sharp sting of the blade at his neck, pressing in just enough to emphasize the point.

Temenos couldn’t quite roll his eyes, dizziness threatening him even for trying. He swallowed a flash of nausea. “Get that thing away from me. I won’t simply… lie here and accept my death.”

The knife retreated slightly. He struggled to focus enough to call for that instinctive spark of magic. Distantly, he recognized that was bad— very bad, in fact. His wound would likely require something a little stronger than a normal healing spell. If he couldn’t gather his wits enough to use it, in his state, it would likely prove fatal.

He wasn’t ready to let anything smother the spark of flame within him just yet.

He folded trembling hands over the bloody gashes across his chest, eyes falling shut for the focus it would provide his attempt at the most powerful healing magic he had. His whispered prayer for plenty came out slurred, as did its incantation.

It must have been good enough for Aelfric— the magic of the spell he’d been blessed with at the mountain altar as Aelfric’s chosen cleric washed over him, warm and familiar. The wounds stitched themselves together, melting away and leaving little evidence he’d been hurt at all, save for the blood remaining on his skin and the barest hints of silvery scars that he knew would fade with time.

Though he knew it would return to normal soon enough, for the first time in what must have been some time, indeed, Temenos felt… good. Hale and whole, held aloft by the magic of the Flamebringer. He nearly gasped with the sensation, not quite having realized exactly how bad it had been— or, else, he had simply forgotten, adapting to a new, twisted kind of normalcy under the watch of a monster.

The eyes of that monster were sharp, intently focused on the flow of his magic as it worked across his body. Once the spell dissipated, he hummed, straightening. Pleased, perhaps. “Impressive. Very well done, Temenos.”

The praise might or might not have been genuine, but it was laced with enough condescension that Temenos did roll his eyes this time, pressing up carefully on his hands to avoid slipping in the small puddle of bloody water he’d created. He settled his gaze on Harvey, trying for something disaffected and certain he was failing. “Any cleric could heal such a thing.”

“But not just any cleric could use the spell you chose, now could they? That one was gifted to you specifically. I’m honored to have had the opportunity to observe a magic so very… singular.”

Temenos couldn’t resist a shiver. He wrapped his arms around himself, shifting back.

“Ah, yes… Now that’s out of the way, there is also the matter of your ill-conceived escape attempt. You made it farther than I expected, I’ll say that much. Even so, I truly thought you were smarter than that. I’m very disappointed in you, Temenos.” The words were a knife all their own. Temenos struggled not to flinch against them, coming from the lingering remnants of the false image of his brother. He’d remembered, had well and truly shaken the fog of the spell Harvey had put him under, and yet his memories— his Roi was still…

“I believe I told you the night you broke into my home,” Temenos bit out, glaring. No matter his appearance, he was not Roi. “You have a rather critical misunderstanding of me.”

A hum. “You do seem to be more driven by your emotions than I’d initially anticipated. You have a reputation, you know. A man who cares only for the truth, and not what it might cost. Clever, logical, ambitious, with the nerve to do what must be done for his goals. Not too dissimilar to myself.”

Disgust welled in his chest. “You would not have altered my mind as you did if you truly thought I was of your ilk.”

“A test. And one you failed. I suppose I should have expected it, knowing the irrational source of your magic. And with whom you kept company.” Harvey’s eyes flicked across him dispassionately, as though searching for something— flaying him open. Temenos didn’t prefer being on the receiving end of such scrutiny. “I work primarily as a researcher, of course, but I am also an educator. I cannot simply continue on without affording you the opportunity to learn from your actions. So tell me how you think I should punish your failure.”

A bubble of laughter escaped him; he wasn’t certain if it was amusement or horror that drew it out. “You are many things, but an educator is not one of them.”

“Quite the contrary. I was a lauded scholar in Montwise, until…” He trailed off, something hard passing through his eyes. “But never mind that now. Fear and pain are the only ways to ensure a lesson truly sticks. Should one not beat a disobedient dog? And for a runaway… Yes, I suppose that will do, since you seem to have no opinions of value.”

Temenos seethed at the comparison— he’d had more than enough of being referred to as a hound. Even so, he bit the feeling back, schooling his expression into neutrality once more as Harvey stood and wandered across the room, pulling open a drawer to rummage for something.

He sighed. Closed the drawer. Opened another. “Quite a mess you made in here.”

Temenos allowed himself a moment of vindictive satisfaction at having inconvenienced him. It was quickly replaced by the realization that this moment granted him a fleeting, crucial opportunity to act while his captor was otherwise occupied. He needed to make the most of it.

His mind raced for plans, potential consequences, ways to escape or fight back against whatever sick punishment Harvey had decided on, and came up terrifyingly empty. He knew he didn’t have the strength or the magic to fend him off, despite what his spell had done to temporarily restore his energy. Even if he did, and if he somehow managed to escape again, that felvarg he’d encountered would likely still need to be dealt with. He didn’t have the information, the ability, the backup— no one was coming for him— 

He scanned desperately for anything he could use to his advantage— a weapon, something heavy to stun him or knock him out, or even a knife to hide away and take him by surprise later, but—

“Here we are.” Harvey returned with a length of rope slung over his shoulder. Something unusually sharp and undeniably fearful lurched in Temenos’ chest as he continued, “Runaway dogs get leashed.”

No more time to think. No time to plan. 

All he could do now was fight.

Temenos called for holy light with the last dregs of his spirit, pressing back into the wall to avoid being hit by his own magic as it struck. The expected dizziness nearly overwhelmed him; he couldn’t stop. He could not stay here.

He latched onto the nearby workbench and kicked out, colliding with the knee of the leg Harvey had been limping with while he tried to recover from such a heavy hit. He let out a growling curse as his leg buckled beneath him. Temenos took the opportunity to force himself to his feet and run, despite the darkness threatening his vision, only for a firm grip on his ankle to disrupt his balance and pull him back down to the ground, hard.

A heavy weight pressed him down into the stone at the center of his back, pinning him in place. He thrashed against it, lashing out with whatever he could manage as his arms were yanked behind him and bound.

“Take your hands off of me—!”

“You really don’t learn,” Harvey hissed, words dripping in venom. “Troublesome thing. Be still.”

Something slammed into the side of his head. He choked on a cry, struggling to shake the ringing in his ears, the way the world spun and tilted as Harvey wrested him back to his knees, securing the remainder of the length of rope around the heavy leg of one of the workbenches to keep him in place. 

“There. I do wish we could have done this the easy way.”

Temenos dropped his head back to the table, all but gasping for air as he waited for his vision to stop spinning in the sudden stillness. The ropes burned into his wrists with the slightest movement, too tight even to flex his fingers without the reminder of their presence searing across his skin. 

Fear prickled through him, sharp. Information, information— if he couldn’t have freedom, then he needed—

“Why are you doing this?”

Harvey craned an eyebrow. “Why?”

“You went to all the trouble of bringing me here. You lied about your identity. You’ve been taking my blood,” he said, winded. “Why? I won’t help you. You must know that. And yet neither have you killed me... or allowed me to die.”

“Oh, I’m not going to kill you. Not yet,” he amended. “You’re far too useful. You may not help me willingly, but I am more than capable of simply taking what I want, and you have already provided me the key to my work, whether you know it or not.”

So Harvey did want to keep him alive, if only for some ulterior motive— something to do with the blood he’d been taking from him, perhaps. Eventually, though, when that motive was realized, his usefulness would run out, and then…

“I fail to see what use I could have for your vile experimentation.”

“Is that so? Truly a shame. You have such power… your mastery over light magic is unlike any I’ve ever seen. As if the power of the gods you claim to serve is written into your very blood— the light of Aelfric himself. Not quite as concentrated as in those descended from the Lumina clan, but you have so much more control. I suppose if you aren’t aware of its true potential, then it falls to me to properly make use of it. No, I won’t kill you until you’ve served your purpose.”

“And what purpose is that?” He asked, heart racing.

He clicked his tongue a few times. “Ever the nosy investigator. That’s for me to know. I’m far too busy to indulge you, so just sit there quietly and be a good little specimen until I call on you.”

A shudder clambered up his spine. Harvey stood, dusting off his trousers and turning to leave. Temenos’ heart skipped a beat; he couldn’t let him leave, not yet. He needed more information— anything he could use to his advantage. 

“You haven’t impeded my ability to cast spells. What’s stopping me from attempting to escape again?”

He glanced over his shoulder, unimpressed. “Aside from your current lack of spirit, which I suppose you could try to wait out, and the creature I’ve created to guard this place that you have no means of defeating, you mean? Absolutely nothing. Oh, except… Well, I suppose there is one thing. Do you remember our original agreement?”

His heart slammed in his throat. He said nothing.

“You were so very obedient, then. But the situation has changed, and you have now broken that agreement. Clearly, you didn’t take me at my word. It was no idle threat— it was a promise,” he said, tugging on his gloves thoughtfully. “There are so many knights of the church nearby as of late. Perhaps bringing one of them here to assist with my work would better serve to prove to you how serious I was.”

He swallowed the urge to point out the fact that he already had, if the loose pieces of armor in the nearby crate were any indication. The realization that everything in that crate had likely been there because their owners had fallen victim to Harvey settled like lead in his stomach. Even so, he had to try— “The Sacred Guard and I have rather a strained relationship. Their losses, while regrettable, are no concern of mine.”

“Not even the one you so desire to have in your bed, inquisitor?”

Temenos had to work harder than he thought he would to keep his reaction off his face. Exactly how long had Harvey been watching him? How much did he know? Instead, he frowned minutely and did the only thing he could: he lied. “I’m afraid that I don’t follow.”

“Oh, come now. Despite our differences, we’re much the same, you and I. I can recognize obsession when I see it.”

“We are nothing alike,” Temenos hissed, a nauseated sort of lurching in his gut at the very thought.

“Don’t insult my intelligence. It’s a simple matter of observation. It did come as a bit of a surprise, I must say; even for a Sanctum Knight, he’s rather… naive. More brawn than brain, certainly, but perhaps that’s why you’re so fond of him. You do love a manipulation, don’t you?” He laughed at his own joke— phrased like a question, but one that required no answer. “Do you have little fantasies where he figures out exactly how depraved you are? Where he discovers the desperation in your every letter, the way you think of him at night, that yawning chasm of deep, aching need… the need to possess him, to own him, mind and body and spirit? Do you think he would be disgusted if he knew?”

“Enough.” Temenos clenched his fists. “I have to assume you have a point?”

A chuckle, dry. “He’s looking for you, you know.”

Temenos let himself scoff out a laugh.

“You don’t believe me?” He simpered. “Poor inquisitor… it must be so lonely, not trusting anyone. You trusted me a few days ago.”

“And you were lying,” he said, trying for ‘easy’ and landing somewhere closer to ‘bitter’.

Harvey hummed, noncommittal. Shrugged. “Neither here nor there. Now, your beloved knight is in Flamechurch. He’s looking for you. He is not the only one. And if you misbehave again— if you act out against me— then I know right where to find him… along with everything else in that defenseless little waste of a village.”

Temenos’ stomach churned. A lie, a lie... It had to be.

“You certainly have the freedom to decide if I’m telling the truth or not. But could you live with yourself if you were wrong?”

His heart sank. On the night Harvey had broken into his home, Temenos had hoped, in his own way, for someone to discover what had happened to him, but for it to be Crick…

Pride and exasperation bled into each other, as they often did when Crick was on his mind. Though he had no real reason to be searching for him— he was the last person he would have expected, if only because of how his duties kept him trapped in Stormhail— Temenos supposed it wasn’t unreasonable to assume he might have grown concerned after not getting a response to his last letter. He was certainly clever enough to discover the clue he’d left. He was a good enough man to worry, regardless of his personal feelings.

He was just reckless enough to try and seek out his trail, if such a trail remained.

That foolish little lamb. Always so willing to place himself in front of the wrong end of a sword for Temenos’ sake. Though, in this case, he supposed he was being held below a blade he couldn’t even be aware of— and Temenos was the one whose actions would determine if it would drop. Of course, even if he was lying about Crick, Harvey had threatened not just him, but all of Flamechurch, and a village full of clerics and farmers would make for a much easier target.

Temenos’ eyes caught on the curtain disguising one of the vats across the room, then on the blood-covered table nearby, mind moving too fast to stop himself from imagining a person there, instead of a monster. Harvey wouldn’t hesitate to repeat what he’d done to Osvald’s wife, Rita, even if only to prove his point. Neither was he above subjecting even children to his cruelties— he knew that very well. He’d been there to heal a stab wound by Harvey’s hand in the stomach of a girl who had barely seen ten summers. He’d witnessed her fear, equally of him— the stranger knelt at her side as she bled out— and of death, something she had already seen more than her fair share of.

Elena had survived, but Temenos would not be responsible for subjecting more innocents to the whims of a monster.

“… I understand.”

“Very good. I so look forward to working with you.”

Chapter Text

Crick stood back with the rest of the villagers as the sign for the newly-repaired inn was hung proudly by the door for anyone to see. It surprised him, sometimes, how fast something could come together when so many worked to make it happen. And just in time, as thick clouds began their steady march over the village, promising a deluge later that night. Not more than a week had passed since the inn had burned, and though it had been far from unsalvageable, the damage had been extensive. 

Pride filled his chest to see it now, looking like the fire damage and gouges from sharp claws had never been there at all. If Graeme so wished, it would be fit to open this very day. Business would be good if he did, Crick thought absently, eyes tracking the swirling fall of dried leaves to the ground from the trees at the edge of the village. Though the solstice holidays were the busiest for pilgrimages, the autumn season saw its fair share of travelers to Flamechurch, too— there to witness the natural beauty of true autumn in a place where the foliage kept its colors year-round. Artists and pilgrims alike flocked to the village this time of year. Rain notwithstanding, Crick was sure they would appreciate having somewhere warm to stay with the temperatures slowly falling towards winter.

Wherever he was, he hoped Temenos was warm and dry, too.

“Here.”

Crick blinked, pulled from his thoughts as a handkerchief fashioned into a small bag was dangled in front of him. He tilted his head. “What’s this?”

One of the older women who had been helping not by cutting wood or directing other workers, but by providing meals and clean water to those who were, shook the parcel gently, her smile amused. “First batch of dried fruit is ready for the season. All this would have taken a lot longer without you, Sanctum Knight. We can’t pay you, not that I think you’d take it anyway, so the least we can do is feed you. Go on, take it.”

Well. He was left with little choice, then. Crick accepted the fruit with a grateful smile.

“It was my honor to help. Thank you.”

She moved on to the next closest person in the small crowd they’d formed, leaving a warm, curling feeling in his chest in her wake. He clutched the bag a bit tighter, fishing one out to eat and enjoying the pleasant sweetness of it. He tucked the rest of them away for later.

Before too long, Crick found himself off at the edges of the crowd, mind already wandering without any way to occupy his thoughts. He didn’t want to draw too much attention by seeming distracted at a celebration; he’d drawn more than enough by being so while helping with the construction. Though the company had been nice, and the work laborious— having trained to be a knight for so long, he was among the strongest in the village, and they were not afraid to take advantage of that— he feared his mind had been running circles around another problem entirely, unable to fully disconnect from his own worry. The others helping with the work had been kind enough not to say too much about it, only ever asking if he was alright when his distraction nearly resulted in a hammer to his own thumb, or a collision with another person.

He was fine, of course. He was…

“Knight Commander.”

A familiar voice at his side drew his attention to the knight that had managed to sneak up on him while he was lost in thought. He straightened on instinct, expecting Elio or Theon, but was surprised to instead see another, his long, dark hair left down and an arm folded over his chest in a salute. The glimmer in the knight’s eye was subtle, but Crick knew him well enough by now to identify his particular brand of humor, and he sighed, long-suffering.

“Please, Ort. I have had more than enough of that from the knights that are already here.”

A chuckle. “Sorry.”

He and Ort had been on somewhat separate paths for several years, their assignments keeping them apart after the restructure of the Sacred Guard. Crick, who had been promoted shortly before things settled, often remained up at headquarters to assist with the recruits as the organization rebuilt itself, or sometimes traveling with some of the knights in his squad to take care of a large threat on the road.

Ort, meanwhile, had refused the same promotion more than once, claiming he was content to ‘keep his boots on the ground and help people that way’. A valiant ideal, to be sure, but Crick suspected Ort’s decision had more to do with his lingering guilt about what had happened with Kaldena all those years ago. He hadn’t yet found the right opportunity to bring it up directly. The Flame would guide him along his path, and Crick was happy to extend his hand as a friend until he was ready to follow it.

He wanted nothing more than to embrace his friend, but settled for a firm clasping of hands, heart full at the mere sight of him. “You look well, Ort. I’m glad to see it.”

A little of his earlier amusement bled back into Ort’s smile as he looked Crick over. “As do you. Seems being out here in the sticks has finally worn some of that staid nature of yours down. I remember a time when you hardly took your armor off in downtime, let alone while on duty.”

“Ah— yes. I have been aiding with the reconstruction of the inn where I can,” he explained, cheeks warm. “Part of it was burned in a monster attack several days ago. My armor would have been a hindrance, so I’ve gone without. It is being kept in the nearby chapel, if you’d like to accompany me there. I am no longer needed here.”

“By all means, lead the way.”

Crick took the long way around to avoid making Ort clamber up a ladder in full armor— not a pleasant experience, as he could attest, even if the ladder was strong enough to hold. Before they passed out of view of the square, Ort took a deep breath, and Crick turned, prepared for him to speak, only to see his gaze cast out towards the horizon, over the village and the nearby fields with grazing sheep, and into the golden-green mountains beyond. The cloud cover over Flamechurch had yet to roll across that part of the sky, leaving it illuminated in the light of the sun.

Crick smiled. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, something close to ‘awe’ on his face. “I have spent time in the Crestlands before, of course, but Montwise and Merry Hills have a distinct kind of beauty. Old fortress towns, full of history. Here, it’s… different. As though you can feel the Sacred Flame’s blessings in the very air.”

“I agree. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. The Sacred Flame is so close, just a short hike up the mountain. You’ve come all this way; you should see it. I will guide you there,” he chirped.

Ort hummed, pleased. “I would like that. It is time I offered my own thanks.”

Their walk continued in silence until they made it to the chapel. The back room he had generously been allowed to lock his armor in was almost deafeningly quiet as they stepped inside.

Crick took a long, slow breath, pressing his back to the door as it closed behind them. He opened his eyes to see Ort lifting an eyebrow at the display, but only shook his head in response.

“Where have you been since I saw you last, Ort? Any new stories to tell me?”

“Nothing so exciting. I have been stationed out in Montwise, helping the others keep an eye on that squad of yours in their commander’s absence,” he said, voice dry but smile teasing. “Our job has been to monitor for any signs of arcane beasts, keep the roads safe for travelers, that sort of thing. Of course, we are also searching for whatever might be causing these creatures to attack, but there’s been little progress on that front. A few days ago, however, I received orders from on high to come here with some information you apparently requested.”

“I’m glad they sent you. I need someone I can rely on,” he breathed, a little shaky. Now that they were alone, and quiet had settled over the space— away from the eyes of the villagers who relied on his strength— Crick felt his composure once more begin to crumble at the edges.

Concern flickered over Ort’s face. “The Flame lights the way. Now tell me what’s going on. Headquarters has been strangely quiet about whatever is happening here. All I’ve heard is that you were assigned to the knight liaison program. How did that happen?”

“They told me they couldn’t get anyone else to agree, but…” Crick shook his head, willing away the burning of his eyes. “I don’t think that’s true. They just wanted— They don’t care about him, and… Oh, Ort, it’s all wrong. This should never have happened, and now he’s been gone for so long…”

“Crick? I don’t understand, what’s happened?”

“… It’s Temenos,” he managed quietly, voice breaking.

All traces of confusion fled his face immediately, replaced by solemn understanding. Ort dropped a steadying hand to his shoulder.

“Tell me everything.”

When Crick finished his story, Ort steepled his fingers, expression tense. He remained silent for a long, long while; Crick sipped mildly at his tea to settle his nerves, waiting for him to process all he’d heard. He’d managed to keep himself from breaking down during his explanation, but still, he hated feeling so weak. Was he not supposed to be strong? And yet somehow, Temenos always managed to be such a raw point of weakness for him.

Eventually, Ort breathed out a sigh, not quite slumping back into his chair. “That is quite a situation.”

Crick nodded, morose.

“Honestly, Crick, what am I supposed to do with you?”

He blinked, taken aback. “I’m sorry?”

“If only you were,” Ort grumbled, dropping his chin to his palm. “You have quite the nose for trouble, my friend. I’m starting to wonder if it isn’t intentional.”

Heat flared across his cheeks. “It’s not as though I am seeking it out! Temenos is the one constantly getting himself into trouble, and—”

“And you are constantly trailing after him,” he smirked. “With a guiding flame like that, it is no coincidence trouble always seems to find you, too.”

Rather than dignify Ort’s teasing with a response, Crick held his tongue, willing the burning of his face away. Why did he ever tell his best friend anything?

“There, now. That sort of expression suits you better.” Ort took a sip of his own tea, in that moment reminding Crick a little too much of Temenos for his own comfort. His somber attitude returned as he swirled it in his cup, thoughtful. He sighed. “I only wish the inquisitor’s troubles weren’t so dangerous. You intend to find him.”

It wasn’t a question, but Crick nodded anyway. “I do. I feel like I nearly have it… like the truth is just beyond my reach. There is something I’m missing, vital to solving this mystery. And once I do, I will bring him home.”

A nod. “I would expect no less. Well, let us see if the records I brought are of any help to you, then.”

He set his cup down and reached into his bag, laying a series of papers across the table. Crick shifted his chair to read them better.

“Most of these are focused around the recent monster attacks, but I also found a few more things I thought might be of use. This one here,” he said, pointing to the page on top, “is a list of every incident the Sacred Guard is investigating in the Crestlands.”

Crick scanned over it. As expected, several monster attacks had been detailed, including their victims, but also cases of banditry, assault, and rustling, among others. There were five missing persons cases in the past six months alone: Temenos, of course, as well as a Sanctum Knight, a scholar and merchant who ran a business together in Montwise, and another cleric— this one from the church in Borderfall.

He frowned. Sister Anthe and Brother Galen hadn’t said anything about someone going missing during his interview with them. Admittedly, they had been more focused on the immediate concern about the church collapsing, and they had presumably reported it when it happened. There wouldn’t have been much cause to bring it up to him, too. Even so, if he had the time, perhaps he would ask about it later.

“Have there been any attacks outside the Crestlands?”

“None that have been reported, as far as I’m aware. They aren’t exactly localized, but they do seem to be contained to this region.”

“Then whatever is causing it may well be within the Crestlands, too.” Crick looked away from the page, furrowing his brow at one of the crimes on the list. “Attempted kidnapping?”

Ort nodded. “A young girl, several months ago. She was in Montwise visiting the library with her caretaker. It’s fortunate I was on patrol that night; I’d hate to think what might have happened otherwise.”

Crick worried at his lip, thoughtful. It was a bit of a stretch, but… “Did you happen to see the person responsible?”

“Only his cloak. But after the incident, I interviewed the girl and her caretaker, and they knew the man. A professor who used to work at the library, expelled from the scholar’s guild due to the nature of his research and presumed dead until that same night. Seems he kidnapped her as a child, as well, to experiment with her blood.” He made a face. “The details are beyond me, to be honest, and in this case, I’m glad for it. All I know is that he needs to be stopped.”

A professor? Where had he seen something about…

Crick paled as realization dawned on him. “That professor… His name wouldn’t happen to be Harvey, would it?”

“You know of him?”

“Not exactly. Temenos was investigating him before his disappearance,” he explained. Crick stood and grabbed his own bag, retrieving the journal containing Temenos’ case notes. He flipped to the pages detailing his investigation. “I thought he was simply looking for another missing person. I didn’t think…”

Ort frowned. “Why was the inquisitor searching for him?”

Crick shook his head. “He doesn’t say. But this section of notes is accompanied by several other documents— ledgers of missing items from shipments to Montwise, and letters penned by an unknown hand. It details his previous retreats, most marked ‘sealed’. A similar letter to the ones he kept here disappeared from his house just a few days ago. I suspect it happened during the monster attack on the village. Whatever the case, if Temenos put these notes here, of all places, then they must somehow be related to his search for Harvey. It must be important; I need to know more about him.”

“His case file is back at headquarters. I can have it brought here.”

“I fear there isn’t enough time. Months have passed. If that is all we can do, then I would ask it of you, but… You took the incident report that night,” Crick said, eyes widening. “Ort, can you tell me what the professor looks like? I know you didn’t see him, but—”

A nod. “Standard procedure to ask. The girl’s caretaker was a scholar herself; she had sharp eyes. It made my job quite a bit easier. Let’s see. The suspect is a man with brown hair that might appear red, depending on the light. Green eyes. Not too much taller than average. I made note of his slight limp after chasing him off, and she told me that was new. Perhaps the result of an injury.”

Each word was yet another confirmation of the horrible, sinking realization settling into his very bones— a confirmation of Crick’s wild, desperate theorizing from nearly a week earlier. The evidence lined up all too perfectly, the truth it formed slotting neatly into place.

The beast tamer Loel had seen with red-brown hair; the man Graeme had seen with Temenos on the night he disappeared, about the right height and walking with a limp; the professor Temenos had been investigating by searching for missing medical equipment… They truly were one and the same.

A scholar by the name of Harvey.

“Ort, this is it,” Crick said, voice rough. “This man has been responsible for… for everything. The monsters and missing people, both.”

Crick felt sick at the mere thought, renewed fear for Temenos’ safety a strangling grip on his heart. Presumably, this Professor Harvey had taken Temenos for the same reason he’d tried to kidnap that girl: to perform some kind of blood experiment. Something to do with his strange monsters, he wondered? Or was it simple coincidence that both things were happening at once?

“Then the inquisitor is in graver danger than we thought,” Ort said, severe. “He’s gotten himself mixed up with a known criminal who has no qualms with the abduction, torture, and murder of innocents. Most of his suspected victims are never seen again, and the ones that are... I’m truly sorry to say, Crick, but it might already be—”

“I won’t accept that,” Crick shook his head. This, at least, he had to doubt. He clenched his fists to stop them from shaking. “Not without evidence.”

Ort pursed his lips. Nodded. “If that is so, then what we need most is to know where to look now. Did Inquisitor Temenos leave anything to indicate where Harvey might be, or are we to attempt a search of the entire Crestlands?”

“I don’t…” He thumbed through the journal once more, the same as he had a thousand times. Nothing new stuck out to him. “I have been trying to figure that out, but as of yet, nothing.”

“He may not have known, either,” Ort mused. “Or he did, and that is why he was taken.”

“Either way, he must have at least suspected something. He has all of this information…”

Crick paused. That was right— all of the loose pages he’d left near Harvey’s case. At the bottom of each one relating to a delivery, Temenos had sketched a small map in the margins, each one labeled as ‘route taken’. No other notes accompanied them, and yet— 

“I have been shamefully blind. He was trying to tell me, and I just couldn’t see.” He unfolded one of the ledgers. “These deliveries of medical equipment, gone missing between Clockbank and their intended destination in Montwise. The routes are marked here; most of the journey is within the Crestlands. He must have had the same suspicion we do— that the one responsible is somewhere nearby.”

“Being so close would make it easier to track the inquisitor’s movements, as well, if that was part of his goal,” Ort pointed out.

Crick’s stomach twisted into knots. He nodded. “Temenos is a powerful cleric, and not easily surprised. Trying to abduct him from his own home would be no easy feat, but it would be made easier if they didn’t have so far to go. If it could all be done under the cover of a single night, perhaps…”

Ort rummaged for a map, tugging it free and splaying it on the table. He circled a large swath of land around Flamechurch with his finger. “Everything in this circle is less than a day’s travel. If we narrowed the scope to account for proximity to the main delivery routes… It is still too much for one man to search, but with a trained group, it could be done effectively enough.”

Crick’s next words escaped before he could stop them. “I am uncertain if the Sacred Guard would dedicate the resources.”

Regret bloomed hot and sharp once he realized what he’d said. After all the work that had gone into changing the Sacred Guard for the better— Temenos’ work, and the church’s work, and the work of every knight that remained through their lowest point to rebuild an organization people could rely on— he still found himself doubting. He didn’t want to be willfully naive, but neither could he allow himself to believe the worst of the world would prevail.

Faith. Faith, he had to have…

“I’m confident they will. This isn’t only about finding Inquisitor Temenos, but about solving several interconnected cases, including the one that is the Sacred Guard’s highest priority.” He tapped the map a few times. “If we find Harvey, we find the inquisitor, and we find the source of the arcane beasts.”

The name of their suspect— the man behind everything— settled on his nerves like lead. He was so close now. But there was still work to be done, and he could not stop yet.

“You are right, of course.” He usually was, about things like this. Crick steeled himself with a breath. “We’ll need to send notice up to headquarters as soon as possible. It will take time for them to send assistance, and I will not leave Temenos’ life in the hands of this man a single moment longer than I must.”

Ort nodded his agreement. “In the meantime, we can keep looking through the information we have to see if there is any way to further narrow the scope of the search. I suspect we’ll need all the advantages we can get.”

“Right.”

“But all that can wait an hour longer,” Ort said, folding his arms. “Clean yourself up. I’m buying you lunch.”

Crick frowned. “I am the one who should be buying for you. You’ve done more for me today than I can ever thank you for.”

“And there will be more in the coming days, if I have any say. Two more favors marked off my debt to you.” Before Crick could scold him about there being no debts between friends— again— he continued, “Now go. I’ve been subsisting off travel rations for days; a nice, hearty stew will serve us both well on a gloomy day like this. Or perhaps a meat pie…”

Crick huffed a breath through his nose. Paused. Nodded, just once. “… Thank you, Ort.”

“Here it is.”

They approached the center of the upper village on their way to the cathedral, where the Sacred Flame burned steadily at all hours of the day and night, no matter the weather. Crick stopped close enough to feel its warmth chasing the chill of autumn from his nose and cheeks, taking in a lungful of crisp air.

Ort approached the Flame reverently. He remained further back than Crick, eyes fixed firmly on its gentle flicker. Crick turned away to allow him a moment, remembering how overwhelmed he’d been on his first visit. The inscription near the base spoke true, however, and soon enough, peace settled over any who came to visit, assured that, whatever was going on in their lives, they would find their way through it.

‘To illuminate the path forward, that all who stray might have a guiding light.’

Such was the power of the Sacred Flame.

“I am surprised you’ve never come to see it before now,” Crick said, quiet. “For as long as I’ve known you, your faith has remained unwavering… I used to wonder, at times, if it had ever been shaken by anything.”

Ort glanced over at him, something weighty behind his eyes. He looked away before Crick could decipher its meaning. “Of course it has.”

A nod. “I know. Once, I wouldn’t have wanted to believe it, but I’d like to think I know better, now. What matters most is where we choose to place our faith, and that what we believe in is worth it.”

Ort’s responding smile was small, but warm. “Well said. You really have changed, Crick.”

He didn’t ask if that change was for the better. Despite the way it forced him to accept his own mixed feelings— doubt and faith both, an eternal tug of war determined by values— he knew the lessons he’d learned, forged through his own spilled blood and tears, had been for the best. Frustrating though he may be, Temenos was a good man, and he had taught Crick well enough. They still didn’t always see eye to eye, with Temenos remaining fairly cynical and Crick often holding firm to his belief that greeting the world with hope and an open heart was better than closing himself off because of his own pain.

The world was good. He truly believed that, beyond a shadow of a doubt. It was good, but terrible things happened, and people were good, but some did terrible things. The scholar they sought was one such person, and Crick was no longer naive enough to think that simple goodness would be enough to save anyone. He didn’t know the full extent of his crimes, but he knew any man who would do the things Harvey had was nothing short of evil.

And now that evil had Temenos. Still, he didn’t understand why.

He couldn’t help but wonder, very quietly, if it wasn’t already too late.

“We’re going to find him,” Ort said.

Crick blinked. “Did I say—”

Ort rolled his eyes. Shook his head. “You didn’t have to. You may have grown up some, but that face of yours is still as honest as ever.”

Ears burning, Crick folded his arms. “Pray do not tease me, Ort.”

“It’s my solemn duty, I’m afraid. As it is my duty to remind you of the oath you made to the inquisitor on his last visit.”

Crick sighed, resisting the urge to draw his shoulders up and hide in them. At the time, more than five years ago now, Crick had been offered the promotion to knight commander, but had not yet accepted it. It was odd— yet another instance of getting everything he should have wanted from the Sacred Guard, serving only to leave him unable to reconcile the excitement at having such an honor bestowed upon him with the fact that somehow, he still wanted something else more. It happened on his first reassignment from Flamechurch, and again in Canalbrine after being tasked with escorting Vados back to Stormhail. A subtle trickle of disappointment amidst his pride. And despite it, certainty of what he truly wanted.

After everything that had happened between them, Temenos had become someone important to him. Someone he wanted to protect, even if it meant stepping away from the rest of the Sanctum Knights. 

Selfishly, he’d just… wanted to talk to him about the important decision to be made. He’d wanted his thoughts. Temenos had a way of putting things into perspective for him; he’d done just that, if not in the way Crick had expected. Or wanted. But, then, it was Temenos, after all. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised that Temenos would deny his offer to leave the promotion behind and instead remain at his side, that he wouldn’t accept Crick’s vow to protect him as his knight. Though it had not been a harsh rejection— not unkind, he was never cruel— it had been firm, and Crick felt its lingering sting even now.

After everything Temenos had done for him, Crick knew he could have done nothing else. He had to make his desires clear. He meant it earnestly, and fully intended to follow through— but only when Temenos was prepared to allow it.

He didn’t regret making the oath. He struggled, now, not to regret admitting it to his friend in the aftermath. 

He glanced away. “You already know he did not accept me.”

“Will you allow that promise to mean nothing, then?” Ort asked. “Or will you keep your word, your very honor as a Sanctum Knight, and fight to protect someone in need?”

Whether or not he had accepted his oath back then, Temenos was now Crick’s charge, and he was in danger. He had to find him. He made a promise.

He could do no less.

“Keep faith, my friend. In the inquisitor, and in yourself. The Sacred Flame will guide us true.”

Crick closed his eyes.

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.

Emotion swelled in his chest, and he nodded, throat tight. “As ever, your words give me strength.”

Ort hummed. “Then I have done my duty. Let’s draft that letter. The sooner we send it, the sooner our search can begin.”

They continued into the cathedral, heading for the room Crick had been— admittedly— rather lax about actually using, of late. He would have to introduce Ort to the clerics after they sent the letter. And once it was done…

Hope filled his heart. In a matter of days, they would be able to set out to bring Temenos home. In a matter of days, all of this would be over.

Crick awoke that night to an ear-splitting clap of thunder, close enough to shake the very foundations of the village. He blinked a few times in the low light, hazy. Everything was as he left it: the map spread out before him, the soulstone still lit in its sconce, his place in the chair at Temenos’ table.

He pinched the bridge of his nose to avoid rubbing his eyes. How long had he been here? He told Ort he would be going on a walk to clear his mind, as well as pick up any reference materials they might need for the next day from the house. He’d made it just in time for the heavy clouds to honor their promise and release a torrent of rain, flashes of lightning brightening the evening sky. No longer safe to return up the mountain in such a storm, he had sheltered in Temenos’ house, waiting for the rains to cease. He must have gotten caught up in his work and fallen asleep by accident.

Crick winced. Ort would be—

A loud, pounding knock on Temenos’ front door sent adrenaline lancing through him. Perhaps it had been long enough for Ort to come looking, despite the storm. And yet…

His eyes flicked to his sword at the call of a low, rumbling voice from outside.

Unfamiliar.

“Temenos! Open up. We need to talk.”

Chapter Text

The worst thing about all of this, Temenos decided, was that he still didn’t know why it was happening. Admittedly, not everything had a good reason— sometimes, things simply were the way they were, and no amount of searching for deeper truths would result in any meaningful answers. But watching Harvey now, working in eerily focused silence and doing an excellent job of pretending Temenos wasn’t even there, he recognized the hallmarks of deep-seated intent. 

During their travels, Osvald had always spoken of Harvey with some degree of respect, despite the atrocities he’d committed. He was brilliant, he’d said, a worthy rival in their mutual battle of wits to uncover the truth of the magic they both sought. But above all, Harvey had always been consumed by an almost single-minded pursuit of his goals. Motivated, though by what, Osvald hadn’t known until it was far too late.

Temenos was determined not to be the same. And yet, so far, he knew next to nothing about what Harvey was doing, or why he needed Temenos to do it, or why he’d gone to such lengths to lie to him in such a cruel way.

He knew a few things, though. Harvey had mentioned needing his blood— something about the power in it, a magical potential he wanted to make use of. The very thought was absurd, of course. Temenos had always been a relatively powerful cleric, he knew that much, but his magic had nothing to do with his blood. That wasn’t how magic worked. Some people had more natural talent with some element or another, but almost anyone could use magic, with enough effort. And light magic had little to do with the normal principles of magic, either way.

But he also knew Harvey’s experimentation with life in the past had been wrapped up in his creation of the Book of Demons. He knew he’d taken Osvald’s family not simply for the sake of trying to prove himself the better scholar, but also because their lineage was somehow key to that work. Their blood.

He knew he’d killed Osvald’s wife, Rita, and used her essence— though what that meant, exactly, hadn’t been clear at the time— to create a shambling golem of rock and twisted magic that had spoken to them in Rita’s own words, a corruption of her voice and memory that he had no doubt haunted Osvald to this day.

Temenos’ eyes flicked to the containers scattered around the edges of the room, each one with a different creature suspended inside. Some he thought he recognized as the various types of monsters living in and around the Crestlands, and some he didn’t recognize at all. Each one was alive, burning with a muted flame not unlike his own. His heart clenched in his chest.

Could some of them have once been human, too?

Obscured by the liquid, the monster in the vat nearest him seemed to be contributing to the light of the room, a subtle blue-white glow somehow emanating from beneath its flexing scales. Light flared with its every slow, measured breath, brightening and fading in a hypnotic rhythm. 

In… Out… 

In… Out…

In…

Temenos’ eyes fell shut.

His bindings sent fire screaming across his wrists as his body relaxed against them.

His eyes shot open again, and he let out a thin gasp, heart pounding. He glanced frantically over at the single candle burning in the far corner, tucked away amongst a collection of oil lanterns better suited to lighting the room. Temenos suspected it was for timekeeping, rather than any light it might provide; Harvey had changed it just once, replacing it with one of the same type and length. 

The candles commonly used in the church were about half the height, but burned at what seemed to be a similar enough rate for Temenos to estimate the passage of time with a degree of certainty. Candles made for the candle clock in the cathedral burned for three hours, separating a single day into eight distinct parts. If Temenos was right, a little more than six hours should have passed since he first noticed it. The general numbness in his hands and legs seemed to agree.

The candle burned in the same place it had been; no meaningful amount of time had passed, then. He averted his gaze from the glow, trying and failing to ease the headache pressing insistently at the inside of his skull.

Most of the time, the laboratory was quiet, filled with nothing but the ambient bubbling of liquid and the unusually comforting sound of concoction ingredients being ground together in a mortar. He supposed the feeling must have been a result of its familiarity; traveling with a dutiful apothecary would ensure anyone grew used to the sound, given enough time.

It was… mind-numbing. If he wasn’t careful, it would lull him to sleep. More than once, Temenos had caught himself slipping into his usual hazy state of unconsciousness, despite being so on edge, just for the fact that nothing seemed to be happening. During the times he felt himself begin to drift off, he pulled on his own restraints for the way the burn of the rope jolted through him, keeping him awake. Falling asleep was as good as being defenseless— anything could happen, and he would never know. He needed to know if he stood any chance of making a plan against it.

He tried to content himself with observing. As it was, all he could really hope to accomplish in his position was to make the right observation— something, anything, that would allow him to carve a path forward. Something that would allow him to act, instead of this miserable holding of breath, waiting for something even worse to happen.

Harvey was rarely still for very long, always doing something— flipping through tomes for reference, or carelessly dropping a bloodstained messenger bag into a crate, or grinding multicolored shards of soulstone glass and mixing the resulting powder with what looked to be blood. Every now and again, he would inject the resulting liquid directly into the largest creature through a hatch in the top of the vat it was suspended in.

Perhaps the magic contained within soulstones could somehow imbue a creature with elemental power it didn’t naturally have. That… sort of made sense. It was curious, though— of all the soulstones scattered around the tables, there were none of light to be seen. Harvey only seemed to have soulstones of the other five cardinal elements, as well as the occasional crystal of magic derived from the power of the Shadow, like the ones that had been used against him.

Temenos frowned. He supposed it would explain why he wasn’t using them for light, instead electing to illuminate the laboratory the old-fashioned way, with fire of insufficient quality to prevent the clammy, suffocating sort of warmth that filled the room. It made the scent of blood already thick on the air that much more unbearable, every unpleasantly warm, slimy brush of skin on the stone under him leaving him longing for the icy chill of the isolated section of the cavern he’d been staying in up until this point. 

Nevertheless, it was odd. Quite the oversight, for a scholar who had once dedicated his life to the search for the seventh source of magic. Why would he be missing the fifth?

He didn’t have enough information to make any firm conclusions. If Temenos could only get him talking again, it would be much easier to get meaningful information from him. In his experience, most scholars couldn’t resist talking at length about their research; perhaps the right comment on his work might goad him into revealing his secrets. If it didn’t…

He thought back to the last time he’d attempted to get answers from him, not too long after Harvey started ignoring him in favor of his work. On any other occasion, Temenos would have relaxed, knowing he was no longer the subject of his full attention, but in this case, he would rather have the information he desired. 

Either way, he hadn’t gotten it. Harvey hadn’t so much as looked at him, speaking just loud enough to be heard as he carefully fed a syrupy liquid into a vial.

‘I would prefer to contain that blood of yours in a healthy body, to ensure it can be used at optimal power, but there is no reason that body must be able to speak. I trust you take my meaning?’

He hadn’t said anything since.

But now, the information to be gained was worth the risk of calling him on his bluff. He wouldn’t be cowed by such threats any longer, idle or otherwise. He had little else to lose, after all— and either way, he doubted he would have the capacity to regret it for too long if it didn’t work in his favor.

“If your aim is to create elemental affinities, you’ll find you’re missing an element.”

Harvey paused at his words, eyebrows lifting mildly. “Oh, so you are clever.”

Temenos bristled. He swallowed the feeling down.

“Clever… but wrong, of course. My intent is not to induce affinity, but resistance. Nor am I missing an element. Easy mistakes to make, for the ignorant.” He plucked a shard of glass from his mortar and held it up to the light. “Naturally occurring soulstones are growing fewer in number, did you know? They’re produced via a process of crystallization that occurs after the death of powerful enough arcane beasts, and only under specific conditions. But magic is inherent only to certain kinds of beasts, and due in no small part to the rise of humanity, there are now fewer of them than there once were.”

The lengthy response set his nerves alight. Finally— a chance. “So you’ve taken it upon yourself to restore the balance of nature? A noble goal, if misguided in your methods.”

A snort. “Don’t be foolish. If there is a way to synthesize what I need, instead of obtaining it naturally, it would behoove me to learn how, before they all disappear from the face of Solistia. Fortunately, most of the foundational elements are still relatively plentiful and well understood by modern academia: fire, ice, etcetera. And so their power is easily enough created by artificial means. When one understands the science behind a magic, one can recreate it at will. Surely even you can understand that.”

Temenos had learned as much during his initial lessons after receiving the scholar’s license. It had helped— understanding even the basics of how flame worked made it much easier to call on, and so they had taken the time to thoroughly study each element before he’d been allowed to cast any magic at all. 

But that wasn’t the case for all magic. Even Osvald, the most skillful caster in their group by a wide margin, had struggled to grasp the principles of light magic once it was his turn with the cleric’s license. Temenos, who had always been rather gifted with it, hadn’t been able to explain it to him beyond simply repeating what he told everyone:

‘That is an answer you must find for yourself.’

It wasn’t a helpful teaching tool. It was nothing more or less than the truth. Harnessing faith was a complex, extremely personal task. All he could do to help was guide people down the path of finding their own answers, should they choose to follow it.

“Light magic is by far the most troublesome. And the most difficult to create. It isn’t based in hard science, like the others… No, its basis is rooted in faith. How can measurable phenomena be so dependent on something so nebulous?” He drummed his fingers on the table, not seeming like he expected an answer until he turned to Temenos, brows furrowed. “And how can someone like you be such a powerful source of it, I wonder?”

Harvey’s earlier words to him returned, an echo that sank in his chest.

‘The light of Aelfric himself.’

His blessing. His role as chosen cleric.

Any natural affinity he’d had for light magic had likely been compounded unknowable times over on the night he had visited that shrine and been forced into responsibility he would never have chosen. An unwanted gift, after all that had been taken from him. If Harvey was right— if his blood truly contained power, then that potential must have been passed onto him by the divine. For Temenos to bleed, in Harvey’s eyes, was to waste a precious resource. 

He must have been using it as a replacement for the missing elemental soulstones. It made a sick kind of sense, even if he didn’t understand how or why.

Did Harvey know?

He didn’t have to wait but a moment for his answer. Harvey chuckled to himself. “I suppose the attention of a god must take precedence over your own faithlessness, hm? What a terrible fate.”

Temenos had certainly spent his fair share of time thinking much the same. A blessing to one was a curse to another, and Temenos had never been very good at accepting the will of others on his life. He wasn’t sure if he’d been more amused or indignant that the gods, normally so content to stay out of the affairs of mortals, had decided to reach down and directly impact his life, specifically. It was rather ironic, all things considered.

He’d grown used to the idea, over time. He’d come to think of it as just another truth, neither good nor bad. After the fight that had been enough reason for even their slumbering gods to act, if only to push their responsibilities onto others, Temenos hadn’t wasted any more time dwelling on it. What was done was done. 

But now, he couldn’t help but remember those early days, when he had been so sure his so-called blessing had instead been a curse, inflicted upon him out of spite or humor or malice. Now, it certainly felt like a curse.

“You’ve been a very convenient source of power. Though the nature of its origin makes it too strong to use directly in any significant quantities— it has a nasty habit of destroying my creations from the inside— I have discovered a way to synthesize small blood crystals that are more useful for this application. I’ll have to be more cautious with how I experiment with it now, though… Thanks to that stunt of yours, you’ve little to spare.”

Temenos narrowed his eyes. Even if all that was true, he had to wonder: to what end? There had to be a reason for all of this. Harvey himself had admitted there was something else he wanted to achieve. What purpose was there for this experimentation? If he was indeed attempting to create elemental resistance, what use could he have for a creature resistant or completely immune to all forms of magic? Was it a simple grab for power?

“I suppose I should give you some credit. Though you’ve been nothing short of a nuisance, without that blessing of yours getting in the way of my original plan, I might never have discovered what I needed to harness light magic. That power will be mine, now. It’s all thanks to you, Temenos.”

What could Harvey have needed him for before that discovery?

He carefully didn’t look over at the monsters contained within the vats at the sides of the room, something sick rising in him. Hazy though it was, the lingering memory of his time inside one chilled him even now, an indistinct punctuation mark of pain lurking in the mist. 

They had found similar vats in Harvey’s old laboratory in Montwise. Monsters had broken free of them as they passed, horrible amalgamations of flesh and magic that seemed to be in terrible pain, even as they lashed out. 

He’d turned Rita Vanstein into one of them, too.

“You were going to use me to make one of your… creatures.”

“Yes.” He said it like it was obvious— something Temenos should have figured out from the start. Perhaps he should have. “Your resistance to my newly developed process was rather frustrating, I’ll admit, but it gave me reason to investigate. You might even call it a blessing in disguise. And when it’s time, the old process will work just the same.”

With confirmation, Temenos could only manage to half listen to Harvey’s words, mind caught in a tailspin of cascading connections and a sudden, desperate need to know—

“What did you do to my brother?”

If Harvey was perturbed by the change in topic, he didn’t show it. “Haven’t I already told you?”

Temenos bit his instinctive, contrary response back, unable to fully commit to it. He’d asked after Roi that day in the workroom, that much was true... even if he thought he’d been asking Roi himself. Harvey had answered him. Somehow. Those memories were still there— the truths he’d heard, the ones his body had reacted to, even if his mind hadn’t been able to process them at the time. The magic had since worn off. Now, if he tried, he could remember what he’d been told.

‘There was a boy, once… They brought him to me, half-dead and delirious, though with pain or something else, I couldn’t say, I’m afraid. The magic of that bow he found certainly took its toll on his mind, even before his capture. What a sight… Wasting precious blood by spilling it on the ground and mumbling something about secrets, praying, calling for his family. His father, his little brother. Oh, how he cried… Truly pathetic. He was going to die either way; I saved him from the mundane death he would otherwise have had. I used him to greater purpose. I made him into something incredible.’

No… no.

“You are familiar with my work, aren’t you?”

Horror welled in his chest, thick as scripture. He could hardly breathe for the weight of it. “Why? Tell me.”

“Why? Oh, Temenos… It’s quite simple, really. He stuck his nose somewhere it didn’t belong, and as a result, the people I was working with at the time needed him gone. I didn’t get to spend as long as I’d have liked with him,” he sighed, looking almost wistfully up and into the darkness. Temenos’ stomach turned violently. “It was such a whirlwind affair… catch and release. Getting rid of evidence comes with its own rather pressing set of deadlines, you understand. He was among the first of my creations to utilize the body of the subject as well as their blood. He didn’t have half the promise you do, of course, but even so, what a success. You should be proud of him.”

At long last, he had it: the truth. Final confirmation of his decade-long suspicion about his brother’s fate, directly from the man responsible. If he buried the sick, hollow grief, if he buried the rage and the sorrow at the injustice of it, at how bitterly cruel it was— if he buried the thought of the kindest man he’d ever known bleeding out in a laboratory, cold and scared and alone—

— like Temenos—

— warped beyond recognition, twisted and changed into a thing of someone else’s design and left to die again just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time— 

If he buried all of that, it was… closure, of a kind. He could let it be closure.

The truth hurt— it hurt, it hurt like no physical pain he had ever experienced— but it was always better than not knowing.

Wasn’t it?

“Oh, what I wouldn’t do to have the opportunity to study a specimen like that again after so long… but the most likely scenario is that he was killed, I’m afraid. So few of my creations survive long beyond their release.”

His words were a knife, twisting in his chest. The ache settled into his bones, a strangling sort of despair that he could do nothing but sit with. He should scream or cry or rage. He wanted to; it pulled at his insides, an agony ripping and tearing at the fraying shreds of his control. But he couldn’t; he wouldn’t. He had to hold those feelings close, had to guard against… 

Against…

Did it even matter anymore? Roi was gone. Soon enough, Temenos would follow, the same as he always did. No truth could make him feel better about it. Why bother pretending? His vision misted, heat building behind his eyes. 

Roi, Roi, Roi… He hadn’t deserved— He wanted him back— 

He took a steadying breath, and the sensation lessened— for the moment, made bearable, if only just. Tucked away to be dealt with later, like everything else.

Harvey didn’t deserve the satisfaction of seeing his pain. That’s what it all came down to; that’s what it had always been. A decision made of his own vain, pointless pride. Yet another of his personal failings.

“I’ve been so curious,” Harvey said carelessly. “But now, I can simply ask.”

“Ask what?

“Do you even remember what he looked like?”

Temenos’ breath caught.

“I’ve had limited opportunity to test the effects of the memory spell I translated while crafting the Book of Demons. In my other experiments, the spell completely replaced the memory of the targeted individual in the mind of the subject. They only clearly remember that person after renewed exposure, if they do at all. The more flexible the mind, the easier the recovery process, it seems.”

His heart sank. “What are you saying?”

“The memory of your brother will likely be twisted forever,” Harvey smiled, something cruel and delighted in it. “Whenever you think of him, your first thought will always be of me. A consequence of the spell, I’m afraid. It’s happening even now that you understand who I am, isn’t it? His memory looks like me. You can’t remember what he truly looked like. And because he’s gone… you never will.” 

Monster. Monster, monster— the word caught in his throat, choking, drowning in an impossible, mournful sorrow that stole the air from his lungs. Temenos had fought evil before, had come face to face with a genuine god that had incited so much needless violence and pain for its own wicked ends, and still, he knew each atrocity had been performed by human hands. True evil hid in the skin of humanity, like storybook wolves disguising themselves amongst the flock.

The skin was convincing. Oh, it was convincing, but if one only looked closer…

“Tell me, how does it feel to lose the thing you loved most?”

… he was nothing more or less than a monster.

“How does it feel to love nothing at all?” Temenos spat, the words clawing free.

Harvey had the audacity to laugh, straightening. “Only one of us sleeps through the night, inquisitor. You still wake up at night, even after all this time. You wake up in the dark and think of—”

— Roi’s final words on the night he left. His father’s body on the ground, crimson gashes through pure white robes. His own trembling hands, slipping off half-frozen blood on rent metal, and the static echo of the only coherent thought he could muster: they cannot take him from me, too, they cannot—

“How wonderfully haunted you are, Temenos.”

A white hot spark of indignant fury flared. He couldn’t let it catch; he ruthlessly smothered it, saving it for later. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Don’t I, though? Weren’t you the one who told me?”

Temenos wanted nothing more than to discard the notion entirely, to reject it and tell him to be silent. But he couldn’t; it was true. Mind free of any magical influence, he could clearly remember each little truth he’d given up, every piece of intimate knowledge he had willingly offered, thinking himself safe with someone he trusted. The death of his father, the nightmares that left him wide awake and shivering night after night, the way he’d wandered into a shrine after dark one sleepless night, drawn in by a mystery, and left different than he’d gone in. Changed. Blessed. Chosen. The thought was sickening, a lurching nausea he couldn’t attribute to hunger.

Nearby, the creature he’d noticed earlier shifted in its container, eyes falling open to reveal bright light within. Holy light— Temenos could feel its call as clearly as he could the Sacred Flame itself. They seemed to lock on him for a single heartbeat, two, and then it stilled, eyes closing once more.

His pulse raced. Those people… 

“Are they… awake?”

Harvey made a small, considering sound. “Not entirely. That one has been somewhat more restless than the others. More susceptible to magical influence, perhaps. I suppose it is about the right time.”

Before he could ask what he meant, Harvey set to work at the back of the vat. He flipped some kind of switch, and steadily, the liquid inside drained away, allowing Temenos to finally get a clear look at the beast within, view unobstructed.

Just as he’d thought, scales covered its form, each one about the size of his palm. They shifted slightly as it settled on its own weight, quietly creaking like the sound of walking through an old wooden building. Ichor welled in its mouth and splattered to the ground with each heaving breath.

Temenos inched away, pressing himself as far into the table as he could as the creature was set free from the glass. It didn’t move— didn’t make a sound, its head lowered and appearing almost docile. Or perhaps simply fearful. Its eyes, solid sclera of light, flickered rapidly back and forth, illuminating the farthest reaches of the room. Distantly, he wondered if it could actually see at all.

Harvey had told him his blood contained power, but he hadn’t truly believed it. To have such clear evidence, divine light spilling from the very being of a creature that had been injected with his blood… 

It let out a wheezing sort of groan, the only sound it had made, as that same comforting light tore gashes like streaks of mournful tears down its face. Tearing it apart from the inside, he recalled, throat tight. Slowly. Painfully.

To pray for it, knowing the very light he called upon was responsible for its suffering, felt wrong, but it was all he had. Prayer was all he could offer, the only thing he could ever—

Flamebringer, may your light guide this poor, wretched soul. 

Harvey reached up to pat its muzzle. “There we are. Yes, it’s time for you to go, isn’t it?”

For one terrible, wrenching heartbeat, Temenos thought he was going to kill it— slaughter it in front of him with the knife in his hand, punishing it because he’d carelessly drawn Harvey’s attention to it— but instead, he reached around its neck to the chain keeping it still, heedless of the maw of sharp teeth on a creature he had doubtless tortured, a mere flinch away from his face. 

The chain rattled against the remaining section of glass as he worked, but the creature paid it no mind. Though he couldn’t know the exact focus of its gaze, Temenos couldn’t quite shake the feeling that it was looking at him. Judging, perhaps. Condemning, if it had the capacity to do so.

He would understand if it blamed him.

With one more clatter of chains, the beast was free, and it rushed through the open door, taking its fractured light with it. Temenos heard the distant splashing of water— the responding cry of another creature, somewhere in the dark.

Harvey set about cleaning his hands in the basin of water across the room. “I wonder where he’ll go now. Seeking safety, no doubt, with whatever instincts or remnants of his mind were strong enough to hold on through the transformation. When I found him, he was on his way to Flamechurch… perhaps that is where he’ll end up.”

A deep, pitying sadness twinged in his chest. Though far from it now, the creature had once been human. Warped and corrupted with help from Temenos’ blood, and reanimated by such a horrific science. That was the final result of Harvey’s experiments— what he’d done to Roi, and to Rita Vanstein, and to unknown countless others—

“How much of their minds remain?” He asked the question before he could stop himself, voice surprisingly even as he struggled to keep his breathing steady in its wake.

“Testing has been inconclusive. My creations are not intelligent in the same way a person is, or even a beastling. But if the blood and body of the same person are used together, sometimes it will… remember, in a manner of speaking. It will hold on to places of importance, fundamental words that guided or haunted them in life…” he trailed off. Grinned. “It’s fascinating to witness. How much of someone’s memory, of their will, is contained even when brain function ceases? Where is the true line between life and death? Is there such a thing as a soul? Don’t you want to know, inquisitor? Don’t you want to know the truth?”

He was a monster.

And when that monster got what he wanted— when Temenos’ usefulness ran out— that is what would become of him, too.

Chapter Text

The heavy knock rang out once more, echoing the rapid drumbeat of Crick’s pounding heart. Should he answer it? Send them away? Tell them Temenos wasn’t home, or maybe ask why they’d come to his house so late? Any subtle shift of his armor could alert the person at the door of his presence inside. He sent up a quiet prayer that they would leave instead, decide that standing in the pouring rain waiting for a man who wasn’t at home wasn’t worth the effort, and—

Crick nearly missed their grumbling sigh for the way his nerves lit up at the rattling of the door as whoever was outside tried to open it, foiled by the lock. 

Were they trying to break in?

It could only be someone who knew Temenos lived here. They must not have known he was missing, which would mean they most likely weren’t from the village. Almost everyone had been at the cathedral when the pontiff made the announcement. Regardless, whoever it was would have to be particularly audacious to try and enter the inquisitor’s house without permission— let alone in the middle of the night, unannounced.

But, then, someone had already broken in, hadn’t they? He thought back to the day he discovered that a letter had gone missing in his absence. Could whoever was outside be the person responsible? Was it possible it was the very man he was searching for, the one who commanded power over the arcane beast that had attacked the village that day?

Could it be Harvey, returning yet again to the scene of his crimes?

If it was, Crick needed to answer the door. The man responsible for so much suffering, the man who had taken Temenos— he could stop him here and now, finally get his long-awaited answers—

Before he could move, a strange sound drew his attention back to the door. The section nearest the lock clouded over with what was unmistakably frost, icy patterns working their way across the handle with sharp, metallic clicks. 

He lunged for his sword, drawing it as the lock turned. The door swung open with a sharp gust of wind. A hulking, cloaked man stepped through the door and placed a strange-looking key into his pocket, pausing as he registered the blade pointed at his throat.

Something akin to mild interest passed through his eyes as he looked Crick over, the gaze lingering a little too long for his comfort. Clearly an inspection of some kind— he was being scrutinized, though for what, he didn’t know. Crick couldn’t manage to shake the feeling that he’d seen this man somewhere before. Nothing more than the ghost of familiarity— a silhouette against a raging fire, the clanking of a metal chain in the frigid dark.

“You are breaking and entering in the presence of a Sanctum Knight,” Crick said, putting as much authority in his voice as he could. “Identify yourself.”

The man glanced silently back at the door, expression impassive. He didn’t move— didn’t seem particularly threatened by Crick or the sword in his hands at all. After a moment, he reached up to push the hood from his head, revealing graying brown hair and sharp, sunken eyes beneath a pair of rain-spattered spectacles. The feeling of familiarity intensified. He knew this man from somewhere, had seen him before, he was sure, but where— why couldn’t he remember—?

A crash of thunder broke the silence. The man spoke first, his low voice hoarse like he hadn’t had occasion to use it in quite some time. 

“I see Temenos finally chose to stop embarrassing himself and act. Even so, that is no excuse not to respond to my summons—”

“He isn’t here. Now tell me who you are,” he commanded. “Why do you seem… familiar?” 

The man said nothing for a long while, staring with an unnerving neutrality. Eventually, he furrowed his brow. “Ah. Fever.”

“What?”

With a long-suffering sigh, he turned to close the door behind him. “… My name is Osvald. Temenos and I traveled together several years ago. I am likely familiar to you because I was present after you were nearly killed in Stormhail. I imagine your memory of the time is incomplete; severe fever is known to cause such lapses.”

Crick rifled through his own mind, frowning. His memory of the days and weeks after being attacked were… hazy, that much was true. Dreamlike, when he managed to remember any of it at all. Even so, it wasn’t exactly uncommon knowledge that Crick had nearly died that night. The entire Sacred Guard knew, as well as several scholars and apothecaries in Montwise, and anyone who was at the trials in Timberain. Anyone could have come across that information, and he wouldn’t be able to cleanly refute it. The knowledge itself wasn’t enough to go on.

But he wasn’t simply claiming to know of Crick’s injury; he claimed to have traveled alongside Temenos, which was another matter altogether. Temenos hadn’t spoken much about the journey he went on, or at least not to him, but he knew seven others had been in his traveling party— people he’d admitted to seeing as friends, the last night they were together. People he trusted. Could this man truly be one of them?

Osvald. Osvald like the man Temenos had written about, just briefly, in his case notes. The one that had some kind of run in with Harvey, if he recalled— one that was initially presumed to be fatal.

“You’re… one of his friends.”

Maybe the one that had asked Temenos to assist with the hunt for Harvey and gotten him involved in the first place.

“’Friends’,” Osvald repeated, like tasting the word on his tongue. He looked… thoughtful. Curious, maybe. When he met Crick’s eyes again, sharp, the expression had vanished, replaced with the same off-putting neutrality from before. “You would have to ask Temenos. I don’t know his feelings on the matter.”

Crick adjusted his grip on his sword, heart racing. “And what are your feelings on the matter?”

He waved his hand in the air, as if to knock the question away. “I don’t deal in things as nebulous as ‘feelings’. Only in hard facts— that which I can prove.”

He didn’t like it. People didn’t break into their friends’ houses. Something about the situation felt so wrong, and yet… “Then why have you come here? What facts would bring you to someone you won’t even call a friend?”

Something in Osvald’s face shifted, dark. Crick saw his hand twitch— braced for the worst, and then— 

“My daughter,” he said gruffly. “She was attacked.”

Despite it all, Crick found himself lowering his blade, ever so slightly. “Your daughter?”

A nod. “Temenos was assisting in my search for the man responsible. Where is he now?”

“He isn’t here,” he repeated. Could he trust this man with the truth? If he was Temenos’ friend, then surely he’d want to know— perhaps he would even want to help find him. But if he was lying… “He’s… missing.”

The flash of concern across Osvald’s face was unmistakable, though it settled quickly into something heavier, more analytical. A good sign. He hoped. “How long?”

Some of the tension bled from Crick’s shoulders. “Since the turn of summer. The solstice. I… I have been searching for him for a few weeks now.”

Osvald swore under his breath, a fist clenched at his side. “Too long. I told him to be cautious. The man we’re after is dangerous. What have you discovered?”

Crick lowered his sword. Swallowed, hard. “I have reason to believe he’s been abducted. Someone was stalking him, before he disappeared. Slipping blood-soaked cards under the door. His case notes were burned in the fireplace, and he left his staff behind. I returned it to the church for safekeeping. We connected it to other missing persons cases around the Crestlands, as well as a seemingly unrelated case Temenos was working on, investigating a professor called—”

“Harvey.” The word came out like a growl.

He nodded, lips pulled tight. “Tell me what you know. Please.”

“You’ve done well to make it as far as you have. Harvey was once a scholar of some renown, though he only got to where he was by involving himself with a cult seeking to revive the dark god.” He said it a little too casually for Crick’s liking, but before he could ask, Osvald continued. “He stole my research and claimed it as his own, all the while experimenting with the power of life in search of the seventh source of magic— killing people and taking their blood to create new life of his own. We confronted him in Gravell. I thought him dead, consumed by his own magic, but further evidence came to light to suggest he yet lives. Since then, I have been searching for him. As he has been for me. Temenos has been an invaluable asset to my search.”

Crick resisted the urge to drop into the chair behind him, lightheaded. Each new answer prompted more and more questions— the cycle was endless. He wanted to ask about the cult, what he meant by the seventh source of magic, about their confrontation, what evidence they discovered that made them think Harvey still lived— but the map on the table had a chess piece marking a hideaway in Gravell, and there were unnatural monsters, new life, in the Crestlands, the likes of which no one had ever seen, and—

And in the end, only one question really mattered to Crick, anyway.

“Why would someone like that take Temenos?”

Osvald stood perfectly still for a long moment, arms crossed. He may have been thinking, but it was difficult to say for sure; Crick couldn’t read his expressions at all. He’d have found it more unsettling if he hadn’t known Temenos for so long. Like attracted like, he supposed, even if in different ways. Were all of his traveling companions so difficult to read?

Eventually, Osvald spoke again. “It is likely Harvey abducted Temenos to draw me out. Once, we were rivals, and he wants to prove himself superior. He has already gone to murderous lengths to do so. He attacked my daughter in Montwise, as well, but was unsuccessful. I have been… in hiding, in a manner of speaking, during my search. Unreachable by all except Temenos, to keep them safe. I should have known Harvey would figure it out eventually.”

If so, then Harvey was obsessed not with Temenos, but with Osvald. It made some amount of sense, but… could it possibly be the truth? Who would abduct someone for a reason like that? Would anyone truly go to such ridiculous lengths just to prove their own superiority?

His expression darkened as he thought about Kaldena, and how far she had gone for her twisted idea of revenge on the world. How far Cubaryi had gone to follow her. There was no doubt about it— he knew more than well enough what the worst impulses of humanity were capable of, rational or otherwise. And with everything he’d heard about Harvey from Temenos’ notes, and from Ort, and now from Osvald…

It was possible. Just possible.

“You said Harvey killed people to use their blood. Could he still…” Crick trailed off. Swallowed, a little nauseous at the thought of asking. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t. If the answer wasn’t what he wanted, he would have failed, long before he ever arrived in Flamechurch— even before his assignment. And this failure would bring with it the loss of a dear friend. “Do you think Temenos could still be alive?”

“I don’t know.” Short and to the point— a gut punch, nevertheless. After a moment, Osvald continued. “Whether he would kill him immediately or wait for my arrival to do so, I cannot say.”

Ice settled over him as his meaning became clear in Crick’s mind: either way, Temenos’ life was forfeit. It was only a matter of when.

But until he had undeniable proof otherwise, Crick would keep faith. Temenos deserved at least that much. 

He met Osvald’s eyes, firm. “I would see him brought home safely. Nothing less.”

“Then we are of one mind.”

Thunder shook the mountainside. Crick’s voice caught as light flashed through the gaps in the shutters, changing the way the shadows fell as the light in the room shifted from yellow to blue and back, as though the brightest lantern he’d ever seen had somehow passed them by. Osvald noticed it, too, frowning at the window.

“Strange lightning, this night,” Crick found himself saying, voice hoarse and mouth inexplicably dry.

The look he got in response was thoroughly unimpressed. “Lightning comes before thunder.”

It was the only reply he got before his ears caught another sound from outside, slow and measured and heavy. Rhythmic squelching, like footsteps through mud. Too big to be human. It was followed by a barely there, choked cry, cut off as soon as it had started with a sickening crunch.

Crick lifted his blade once more, heart pounding. “Sir, stand back.”

A scoff. Flame ignited in Osvald’s hand, licking over his fingers and drawing the shadows of the room even longer. He reached his free hand for the door and pulled it open with no hesitation, revealing the emptiness of the night before them. They stepped out into the rain, lessened to a mere drizzle.

Just outside, the enormous tracks of some kind of animal crossed in front of the door and continued on towards the forest, water already pooling in the deep impressions left in the mud. Each imprint was larger than Crick’s entire hand, even ignoring the dragging marks of what must have been claws extending from each one.

He wasn’t sure he would be able to identify any creature based only on its footprints, but he was certain it wouldn’t have mattered even if he could; the sheer size of it, as well as the ghostly blue light that had briefly illuminated Temenos’ house, was more than enough sign that this was likely another of Harvey’s creations. It would need to be stopped before it could hurt anyone.

If it hadn’t already.

Seemingly in agreement, though without a word, Osvald followed the trail in the direction whatever left it had gone, the fire in his hand growing dimmer— maybe to avoid catching anything ablaze as he crept into the trees. Not wanting to let someone else put themselves at risk, Crick followed silently, eyes narrowed against the dark.

Sheltered by the leaves, only the occasional drop of rain managed to reach them. It made each drop that much louder against his armor. Crick pulled his cloak over the bulk of his armor to muffle what sound he could as they continued into the dark, following the tracks— and then the cold light that slowly but surely lit the forest as they drew closer, and then the bloody bits and pieces of… something, left in its wake. Something that had resisted, writhed, lashed out, until it hadn’t anymore. A messy streak dragged through the mud alongside it, smoothing out as they wandered deeper and deeper into the forest along the trail it had left behind.

Gods, please, let it just be an animal.

Please.

Not far now. Crick could just make out a sound that he could only describe as crunching over the blood rushing in his ears. Osvald drew to a halt, and Crick stopped beside him, resisting the urge to wince at the splintering cracks of the bones of whatever poor thing the beast now before them had made its victim, laying bloody and mercifully still at its feet.

Light spilled from deep cracks in its skin, shifting through the trees as it stood over the mangled body. It cast its spotlight gaze at them, perfectly still and silent— were it not for the sound of viscera splattering from its maw back to the ground below, Crick might have thought it some kind of horrific statue.

Its scales creaked as it lowered into a crouch, shattering the illusion.

Osvald glowered. “A chimera. Harvey’s handiwork, without a doubt.”

He wanted to say something about how it looked nothing like the one he’d fought previously, or maybe about the cracks in its skin being a sign that it was about to disappear in a white-hot pillar of its own light, or to tell Osvald to stay behind him, but he couldn’t quite manage to tear his eyes away from the body on the ground.

Too late. He’d been too late— again—

“It’s… eating something.”

Osvald said nothing. A second, smaller flame illuminated the mud at Crick’s feet, and through the grime, he could make out a chunk of something separated from the victim: a dirty, fist-sized ball of wool. The remains of a sheep, dyed red in its own blood.

That’s where all the missing animals have gone, Crick thought, only a little delirious. Bitter relief flooded his body. Not rustlers, after all.

The flame disappeared. “It seems to be in pain.”

“The light,” he managed, quiet. “The last one… Its own light tore it apart from the inside. With the state it’s in, this one won’t last much longer.”

Osvald tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “Interesting. What could cause such a phenomena, I wonder?”

The beast finally shifted to face them more directly, claws scraping along the ground. Crick stepped in front of Osvald, sword held defensively.

“Stand back. I will protect you from harm.”

Osvald hummed, expression unreadable. He muttered something quietly, the fire in his hand shifting and warping and reflecting in his eyes. Some kind of spell, Crick realized, though not one he recognized. It didn’t seem to do anything to the creature, and faded after only a short moment. As the light of his magic went out, the beast’s light intensified, and it let out a quiet, strained chitter— like a groan of pain cut off before it could even try to make the sound.

The creature opened its mouth, as though in a soundless scream, and lunged. The light overtook it just as its claws would have reached Crick’s blade, instead dissolving into the air and leaving nothing but the residual heat and a splatter of mud across his face. 

Crick sheathed his sword. Swiped at his cheek.

Aelfric the Flamebringer, may your light guide this lost soul.

“… Fascinating.”

“Sir?”

Osvald’s eyes, returned to normal, lingered on the place the creature had been mere moments ago. He frowned minutely. “It was weak to weaponry, but not magic. Most creatures are susceptible to at least one form, even the most powerful arcane beasts.”

Crick’s stomach turned. “Could that be Harvey’s doing?”

He was silent for a long moment, considering. “I believe so. It’s possible he’s found a way to imbue his chimeras with magical resistance, somehow. Does he want that power for himself…?”

“But—” Crick trailed off. He didn’t know enough about it to make any concrete judgments. Osvald was surely far more knowledgeable than him in this matter; it would be better to defer to him.

Osvald, however, seemed to disagree. He was unexpectedly patient as he spoke, arms crossed. “Speak your mind. What did you observe?”

“The— the light,” he stammered again, feeling somehow chastised. “If it’s resistant to all magic, why would its own light hurt it like that? And the color… that’s holy light. Like the Sacred Flame. So these monsters are being destroyed by their own light magic.”

A nod. “I concur. Well done.”

Oh.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing happening before,” Crick continued, unwilling to reckon with the praise at that particular moment.

“Nor I.” Osvald put a hand to his chin and stroked his beard. His heart panged at the similarity to the way Temenos stood when deep in thought. “Perhaps an excess of arcane energy would put enough strain on the body… But he would need an exceptionally powerful source of faith for that to be the case. The color alone indicates this power he’s found is divine in nature, but what could…”

He cut himself off, something approaching ‘fury’ working its way across his face.

Crick frowned. “Sir?”

“Temenos.”

“What do you…” He fell silent. A raindrop hit the side of his face and slid away. “You think he’s somehow using Temenos to create these beasts?”

“Temenos is among the most powerful human practitioners of light magic in known history. If Harvey has found a way to siphon energy from one creature to another, doing so with Temenos’ magic would almost certainly result in excess power in the recipient.”

Temenos was a very capable cleric— one with command over his magic like no other Crick had ever seen, of that there was no doubt. But for Osvald to say something like that with such certainty… Based on the studies he’d done to learn some healing magic of his own, the power of a cleric was tied directly to the strength of their faith. Could someone like Temenos, who doubted his own gods so much, truly be so powerful?

Unconsciously, he drew a hand to his chest, fingers running the familiar trail of scar tissue he knew lay below his clothes and armor. He knew nothing of the strange, evil magic that had left spiraling patterns like veins at the edges, but he knew injuries. He’d suffered more than a few of his own, over the years, and had witnessed them in others. Caused them, sometimes. To be a knight was to wield death in service of a cause, and Crick knew that. He knew how to avoid killing because he was intimately familiar with which actions, which injuries, would kill a person. He had to be. 

Kaldena had known that, too. She’d only left him alive that night, balanced precariously on the edge of life and death, so he would suffer before he died. She knew he would suffer; she knew he would die. Nothing short of a miracle could have healed such a wound.

But then Temenos had.

Temenos had performed an honest-to-gods miracle, and if that wasn’t enough evidence, nothing would be.

How would an exchange of power like that even be possible, then? Did it hurt? Was Temenos in pain? Was the process permanent? If Harvey experimented with human blood, could he somehow be using Temenos’ blood to create these monsters that had been terrorizing the Crestlands for so long? Had he been taken just to serve as a convenient source of stored magical power— like little more than a living soulstone?

Crick’s breath caught in his throat. “If that’s so, then for these creatures to be here so recently, he might still be alive.”

A nod. “It’s possible.”

“Then he needs—” — me, he needs me— “— us. We need to find him. Harvey, he’s— he’s using him, we need to— there has to be a way to find him. If he’s creating monsters, he can’t be hidden just anywhere. We should return to Flamechurch at once and prepare to go—”

“Don’t be hasty.” Crick ducked his head under Osvald’s sharp words, ears burning. It seemed he was, indeed, familiar with Crick’s youthful recklessness. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t entirely grown past it. “Think. How is searching for him now different than it has been up to this point?”

Frustration built in his chest. Truthfully, he didn’t know. The only real difference was that he had Osvald’s knowledge now— he had access to someone smarter than him, someone who knew what Temenos had been doing before he went missing. It didn’t tell him anything about where he’d gone, or where he’d been taken, or if he was even alive, but there had to be a way. With everything he’d learned, there had to be a way to find him. A clue in the bloodstained cards, or a way to somehow sense the magical power being taken from him, or—

No.

Wait.

The solution was so much simpler than that.

“The ground is still wet. We can use the mud to follow its tracks,” Crick said, lifting his brows.

Osvald hummed, perhaps approvingly. Crick had never been the most skillful tracker, but with the rain slowing, and a trail so clear, surely even he could…

“Crick!”

Ort stumbled out from through the trees, lantern held shakily in front of him and eyes caught somewhere behind— stuck on the sight of the gore that led him this far. He turned to Crick with concern and relief clear on his face. 

“Crick. Are you alright? What happened?” He paused, frowning. “Who is this?”

“This is Osvald. He’s a friend of Temenos. I’ll explain on the way, there’s no time,” he said, grabbing Ort’s upper arm. “The creature left tracks. They will lead us to Harvey. To Temenos.”

Ort straightened. Nodded, expression severe. “You will have my aid. When do we leave?”

He looked to Osvald, who stood with his arms crossed, expressionless. It would be Crick’s decision, then.

“I don’t want to lose this opportunity because of more rain or morning travel. Gather what you need,” he said. “We leave tonight.”

After dark, the road was quiet. The sounds of falling water droplets from the recent storm rattled through the leaves, a constant hushed murmur of sound splattering on the grass or into puddles formed on the stone beneath. Any conversation between them was quiet and stilted. Osvald— the father of the little girl Ort had rescued in Montwise, it turned out— wasn’t much for talking, and Crick was too caught up in his own head to be much better, ears strained for any unusual sounds in the night.

He’d been warned, during his training with the Sacred Guard, about wandering after dark. Powerful monsters prowled the roads, they said, silent as the shadows they stalked and more than capable of giving even the strongest knight wounds grievous enough to kill. He wondered, sometimes, if those stories had been their way of making sure there were fewer witnesses on the street to keep quiet. After all, was it not the job of the Sanctum Knights to protect these very roads? 

Now, though, they just felt… empty. The night was almost too quiet, animals and monsters alike either sheltering from the weather or frightened into hiding by the unnatural threat of Harvey’s beasts.

Crick kept a dutiful eye out for the trail they followed, grateful for Ort’s assistance. He’d always been better at tracking, even during their training— Crick was too loud as he walked, or as he breathed, or as he stood in what he thought was silence and simply existed, something about his body too clumsy for stealth. With a sword, though, Crick was the better of the two of them, those same ungainly limbs given focus and purpose in that extension of himself— in the means by which to protect others. Even so, he tried to mimic some of Ort’s natural calm, not wanting any potential danger to hear them before they heard it.

Every now and again, the tracks nearly disappeared in the thickest parts of the foliage, sending a sharp spike of panic through him. They always eventually returned to the sheltered grass and dirt beneath the trees. Crick was glad for it; had the creature been more inclined to crawl up and over the many rocky outcroppings of the Eastern Flamechurch Pass, or even to follow the stone of the roads laid for carts and pilgrims, they may well have lost its trail altogether.

They followed its tracks through the pass for hours, crossing into Borderfall just as the barest hints of sun began to peek over the mountains. Making out the trail was easier in the new light, allowing Crick to smother the lantern that had been guiding them. Even faint as it was, the morning sun seemed to highlight the beast’s path— all the way to the edge of the cliff overlooking the waterfalls the region was known for. Scrabbling gouges in the mud at the edge showed where the creature must have dragged itself out of the water below, scaling the cliffside before continuing on to Flamechurch.

Crick stopped. “The trail ends here.” 

“Could it not continue across the lake?” Ort suggested, gesturing to the place where the rocks picked back up on the other side.

Osvald shook his head. “It’s possible, but I doubt it. There’s a cavern here… an ancient set of ruins hidden behind that waterfall. We should investigate them.”

Ort blinked, bewildered. “Behind the waterfall? How do you know?”

“One of our traveling companions discovered it while perusing old maps in Montwise. The ruins are still present, though traces of them have been all but erased from modern maps.”

“That would make it the perfect place to hide,” Crick said, frowning at the distant wall of water. It was difficult to imagine such a story could be true— caves hidden behind waterfalls were the things of bedtime stories— but Osvald hardly seemed the sort to tell tales, least of all about something like this. “And right off the delivery paths Temenos had marked in his journal… if not exactly in the way I expected.”

A nod.

“How can we gain access?”

Osvald jerked his head with a quiet grunt. He led them back to the main path and followed it around, over the long rope bridge connecting the two halves of the Crestlands, to get to the other side. Above the largest waterfall, a wide river split, fed from two separate directions— one, perhaps, draining the snow melt from the Winterlands, and the other running directly from where he thought the region’s church might be.

He thought back to Sister Anthe and Brother Galen’s report of the night the church had been attacked, and the impossible sound of rain falling on the roof. He would have to see it to know for sure if it was possible, but perhaps… perhaps it hadn’t been raining at all. Perhaps the sound had simply been water dripping from a creature that had crawled from the river running below.

Their path diverted from the one leading to Montwise on the other side of the bridge, instead requiring them to carefully traverse a series of sharp, narrow switchbacks down to the level of the water. Crick cast his eyes around for any more tracks that might suggest the creature had come from this side, but found nothing.

Ort stopped short of the water. “Look.”

Crick followed his gaze to the edge of the lake, where a large, battered piece of some kind of wood rocked rhythmically in the water. Nothing unusual— fallen branches were a common sight. This one had likely been swept into the lake by one of the harsh gusts of wind typical of the area. But branches from Crestlands trees weren’t normally so smooth, were they? Nor were the trees local to the area quite so dark. 

Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t a branch at all, but rather, a staff, waterlogged and broken at the head. He fished it from the water, eyes narrowing at the deep, splintered gashes running across it— a neat row of four, as though damaged under the claws of a great beast.

“There must have been an attack nearby,” Ort said, frowning. “Was it the same creature we’ve been tracking?”

Osvald held a hand out for it, wordless. 

Crick passed it over. “What do you make of it, sir?”

Narrowed eyes. “The markings suggest a member of the varg family.”

He chilled at the memory of facing down one such creature with Temenos at his side, and the body of the pontiff on the ground, his blood pooling over the stone.

“Could it belong to one of the people that have gone missing?”

“Perhaps.” Without any warning, Osvald snapped the remains of the staff over his knee. He examined the break with a considering eye. “It hasn’t been in the water for more than a few days, at most. Not fully saturated.”

“We will need to have the Sacred Guard seek out reports of more recent attacks,” Ort said. “Can you tell anything else from it? Who it might have belonged to, maybe?”

“It wasn’t used often. There’s limited evidence of the magical residue that would be left on a conduit that saw frequent use.” He brushed his hand across its surface. “… Though it was recently used to channel an abnormally powerful light spell. See here— this hollow, where it began to fracture. It only happens as a result of a spell powerful enough to leave a mark on inferior equipment.”

Crick frowned. “Who could use a spell of such power?”

“Not many. Fewer still with light magic. It may very well be Temenos’ doing.”

His heart ached. Funny, how something like hope could hurt so terribly.

“Do you think they’re really in there, then?” Ort asked, muted.

Conflicting emotions warred within him. If they were, it would end all of this so much sooner— he could make sure Temenos was alive, bring him home, finally make good on his promise from five years ago and keep him safe— 

But he shuddered to imagine Temenos being held against his will in a place like this, hidden away in a long-forgotten cave behind a wall of water, so close and yet so far from the safety and warmth of the village he had grown up in. If he truly was here, was he okay? What state would they find him in?

Was it too late, after all?

The shimmering rainbow cast off the mist in the morning sun framed the entrance in captivating gods-granted light. In the moment, it felt more like a taunt than any kind of guidance.

If Temenos was in the ruins, Crick would have traveled directly over him on his way to Flamechurch.

A cruel taunt, indeed.

“Maybe,” was all he could bring himself to say for a long while. Eventually, he managed, “At the very least, I believe it is worth the risk to search it. We’ve seen no further evidence of tracks on this side. If he’s here, and we move on, instead…”

A hum. “Right. Shall we?”

Crick stared down the roaring waterfall before them, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. He took a breath. Nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Nine.

He couldn’t reach for the chess piece in his pocket.

Bifelgan, Aeber, Draefendi, Brand, Sealticge, Alephan, Dohter, Aelfric.

Vide.

The door to the laboratory remained open, more often than not. Through it, Temenos could see nothing but darkness— the natural darkness of a cave, he knew, with how many he’d wandered into over the years for one reason or another. It didn’t feel the same as the darkness of that long night, all those years ago. It didn’t threaten to choke him from the inside, didn’t have any will of its own to reach out and try to smother the flame inside him, or to kill him or anyone he’d grown to love.

The darkness should have been inviting. Beyond that threshold lay an expanse of ruins he could vaguely recall, now, even if his companions never had reason to explore them quite so deeply. He knew where the entrance was, knew where that ancient, rusted weapon had lain undisturbed for so many years, knew where the stone altar and the flooded dais below sat, where perhaps some people he didn’t know anything about had once made sacrifices in their worship of… something. He could hide in that darkness, if he could only free himself of the accursed ropes holding him in place and slip away while Harvey was wherever he went on the rare occasion he wasn’t in the laboratory working. That’s what he should have done originally, Temenos thought, only a little bitter. He shouldn’t have been so reckless in his first attempt at escape; he should have known something would get in his way. Nothing could ever be so easy.

But what was done was done, and no amount of wishing or regret would change it. He hadn’t had all the information at the time, and that was all there was to it.

Not that he was any better off now.

He glared into the darkness, gaze sharp enough to pierce holes in the blanket of it. Now that he had more information, he found it less inviting. It didn’t frighten him, didn’t pull on a bone deep, instinctive fear like the Shadow did, but he did find it… unnerving. It was so complete, so total, and there were things inside. Monsters that were much more real, much more dangerous, than the ones he’d feared stories of as a child. One that would just as soon see him dead, and one that wanted to use him— unmake him, change him into something unnatural, like it had his brother. He wasn’t sure which one was worse.

He’d spent so many years of his life searching for the truth, and so much had been lost along the way. Each of his truths had come at such great cost, as though there were some kind of law of the universe requiring sacrifice for understanding. Too often, that cost had been a life. Never his own, no matter how he sometimes found himself entertaining the pointless fantasy of asking the gods for an exchange in the darkest hours of the night— in true, exhausted moments of weakness. Even if they were listening, they wouldn’t have done anything. Most likely, they couldn’t. He knew that. That wasn’t how it worked, and his own childish hurt feelings wouldn’t change their deaths. It wasn’t as though the gods had done anything for him in this place, anyway, besides using his own magic to draw his attention to the reality of the situation. He had to do it himself; he had to figure it out, just like always.

Was it finally his turn to die?

Temenos nearly laughed at the thought. No— even his death couldn’t come that easily.

It would be so much worse.

His fingers itched with the desire to hold something, to twist something tangible in his hands and mull it over like he would his staff, if he still had it. A cup or glass of wine, perhaps. A book. A pen. The chess piece burned a hole in his pocket, his awareness of its presence and the fact that he couldn’t touch it a nearly maddening combination.

He ran over the facets of it in his mind again, once, twice. A third time, and he could almost relax into the sick comfort of the thought that at least he wouldn’t be around for too long once Harvey was done with him. He’d said it himself: most of his creations didn’t live long. It would be just his luck to manage to beat the odds for something like that, though, wouldn’t it? The one time he would rather not.

Maybe someone would kill him before he could hurt anyone. A knight seemed likely— they’d actually been making themselves useful, since the restructure. There were bound to be at least a few on the roads nearby, protecting pilgrims or maintaining the safety of the mountain trails.

If there was any justice in the world, he would want it to be Crick.

He did laugh this time. Crick would hate that. He would chastise Temenos for even joking about something so morbid, cheeks red more from anger than embarrassment, for once, and tell him to value his own life more. Temenos would tell him that it wasn’t a joke, that he didn’t want to die— nobody else knew the truth about Roi yet, he couldn’t just… But if he had to go, he would only trust Crick to do it. Or perhaps Throné, but he wasn’t sure he could do that to her. And then those kind eyes he loved so much would glisten, the emotion clear on his face and thick in his voice when he spoke, saying something gentle and heartfelt and earnest that would surely embarrass them both.

He would mean it, too, and wasn’t that the worst part? Temenos would be left with no choice but to agree to at least try and take the threat of his own death more seriously, because those kinds of mournful expressions didn’t belong on Crick, and he would hate to be the one who put it there again.

Crick would want him to live. Crick would want him to fight for his life, like he had once asked Crick to fight for his, and Crick hadn’t failed him. He survived, against all odds, and he would ask Temenos to do the same, regardless of whether he was truly somewhere out there searching for him or if Harvey had simply lied— if he’d fabricated Crick’s presence as a particularly cruel means of leverage over him, as he suspected was the case.

Horrible little lamb. Even in his own mind— even in a situation like this— Temenos could not be free of his influence, and yet Crick himself remained blissfully ignorant of the power he held over him. That was for the best. He still hoped, in a petty, vindictive sort of way, that he haunted Crick’s thoughts, too.

Well. There was nothing else for it. 

He had to try.

What could he do?

Temenos twisted his wrists in the ropes as far as he could before the searing pain forced him to stop. He pulled, just barely, to see if there was any give. 

None. The table jerked slightly at the motion. If there was anything on top of it, moving too much would almost certainly knock it over. Any unusual sounds might be enough to bring Harvey back from wherever he’d gone, particularly if anything broke. Though if something shattered near enough to him, he may be able to grab a shard of it. Such a thing might be enough to cut him free. But if he made that much sound and nothing of use fell… He wasn’t sure that was a risk he was willing to take yet.

Even if he had the spirit available to him, casting a fire spell too close to his own body would be a bad idea. It may set the rope ablaze, but if it traveled too far, he would certainly catch his shirt, too, to say nothing of the potential damage to his hands and arms. The point was moot, of course— he would have to rest to significantly restore his spirit beyond the dregs of magic tingling in his limbs, and sleeping wasn’t an option.

The reminder of his own exhaustion pulled heavily at him, a sinking weight. None of these ideas were new; he was thinking in circles, he knew he was, but what other options did he have? Harvey could come back at any moment, and still, Temenos had no way to win against him. Not on his own. Was he truly so helpless in this place? Was there nothing he could do to fight?

A distant roar rang out through the cavern, setting his nerves alight. The creature guarding the ruins— the corrupted felvarg that attacked him— had been a largely silent threat, with few exceptions. Though in hindsight there had been obvious clues, Temenos hadn’t even known of its existence until he made it close enough to the waterfall at the entrance of the ruins for it to find him. His heart slammed in his chest, eyes fixed firmly on the pitch-black darkness beyond the door. If it was making itself known now, something important must have happened. Something must have changed. But what?

His ears caught the rapid clicking of shoes on stone. Moments later, Harvey rushed through the door, a bloody bag in his arms and something manic in his eyes.

“He’s here.”

Crick.

The thought came unbidden, almost instinctive, accompanied by a horrible lurch of mixed emotion. Relief, confusion, hope, fear, fear— 

It would be better if it wasn’t him. It didn’t make sense that it would be. Harvey had to have been lying about Crick, but even if he wasn’t, it didn’t mean he’d left enough of a trail for him to follow. And either way, Temenos knew better than to want.

It was always better to question.

“He?”

Harvey ignored him, dropping the bag to the table behind him with a weighty slam and immediately setting to rummaging through a drawer somewhere Temenos couldn’t see him. After a moment, he heard the familiar sound of the mortar and pestle, that comforting scraping and grinding only serving to heighten his nerves.

His mind raced, struggling to put the pieces together. The blood Harvey was using him for was secondary to some other goal— all this time, he had been waiting for something. Or for someone. Someone Temenos could help him find, somehow? Or someone he could more easily find if Temenos suddenly disappeared? The only cases he’d been actively working on were to find Roi and Harvey himself, so that couldn’t be it. Who else would someone like Harvey have such a vested interest in finding?

… Osvald.

Of course.

Harvey had abducted him because he was the only one in contact with Osvald. He’d gone into hiding to protect his family, but Temenos— Temenos knew. They’d been working together to find Harvey and stop him for the final time.

But Harvey had found him, first.

How foolish; how could it have taken this long to figure it out? The realization was numbing, a wash of cold water down his back. None of this had anything to do with him. He’d been unwillingly dragged into someone else’s game, little more than a pawn who proved to be more useful than it should have.

It wasn’t even about him.

“You just wanted attention.” Temenos finally managed to find his voice, scathing. Pitying. “The only man you view to be your equal had more important things to do and wouldn’t come out to play, so you did all of this just to draw him out. Your obsession is disturbing, not to mention pointless. Osvald doesn’t even know I’m gone. Nobody is coming for me. Surely you must have figured that out by now.”

“I’d started to worry that might be the case. It took an unusually long time for anyone to even notice you were gone… Months slipped by without a sign from anyone, let alone him.” The words caught Temenos by the throat, shocking the anger out of him. Months. Had he truly been gone for months, or was it just another of his lies? He didn’t know, he didn’t— “You’d have been the ideal victim, really, under any other circumstance. And though you did turn out to be useful, despite everything, you aren’t what I want. I even went after someone he actually cares about, just to see. And eventually, my patience was rewarded.”

Harvey set the mortar down and pulled an envelope from his inner pocket. He flipped it open, holding it up for Temenos to see the message written within.

‘We need to talk.’

His breath caught. The handwriting was Osvald’s, there was no mistaking it. Their meetings had been few and far between, these past few years, their only communication done by post. Unmarked, discreet, in case one of them was being watched.

It seemed they hadn’t been discreet enough.

In the event of any kind of emergency, or similar urgent need to say something that couldn’t be safely written down, they’d agreed to meet in the abandoned church on the outskirts of Montwise. Depending on when the letter had been sent— and he had no way of knowing when it had been— Temenos would have missed the summons. It was possible Osvald might have come looking for him. He knew well enough to be cautious if he did, but…

“It arrived several weeks ago, after that knight of yours showed up and started sticking his nose in things. With Osvald looking for you, too, now, it was only a matter of time before they put it together and figured out where we are.” 

Temenos closed his eyes against the wrenching stab of something far too close to hope for his liking. He spoke so easily about ‘them’, as though it were fact, as though there were any chance that… 

But Harvey couldn’t be trusted. His words were lies— practiced lies, but lies nevertheless.

They had to be.

“Admittedly, this is much earlier than the arrival I had calculated. I should have had another several days to work, and longer for you to recover, but… ah, well, I wasn’t expecting the Sanctum Knight. Perhaps he’s smarter than he looks. Once I’ve accomplished my goals here, I’ll have to thank him personally for saving us all some time and leading Osvald right to me. Wouldn’t you like to see him again, inquisitor?”

“You won’t so much as lay a finger on him,” Temenos snarled. He pulled against his restraints, heedless of the burn. Whether he was there or not— “Osvald stopped you before without any help. Nothing has changed since then. He will do it again.”

“Oh, you stupid little thing. Haven’t you realized yet? Everything has changed. Before, I wanted Osvald to fall at my hand, overwhelmed by my superior magic. I wanted to see the despair on his face as the light drained from his eyes. I wanted him to know I had won. My chimeras weren’t enough to defeat him, then. They weren’t meant to be. But now… now I have you. And because of your power, my creations are all but invincible. I am all but invincible. No magic can defeat me now.”

Temenos shook his head. “It won’t be enough.”

“Of course it will. You have presented me with the perfect opportunity to finally get what I want most. I really should thank you,” Harvey said, almost a laugh. “But don’t you worry. You’ll have your reward soon enough. I’d hate to seem ungrateful, so I’ll return the favor… I’ll give you what you want most.”

His stomach turned. Any kind of twisted ‘reward’ Harvey would give was certain to be something no one would want to receive. And in his case… “I don’t want anything from you.”

A hum, maybe amused, but no other response. He returned his attention to the concoction he’d been putting together, completely focused on the mortar and pestle in his hands and the herbs joining the slowly forming paste within. Grape leaf, pomegranate leaf, strengthening serum…

Temenos watched as he added one final ingredient to the mix: a small flower he knew he’d seen before, but couldn’t quite recall the purpose of. Castti had always kept its petals and stems separate, neatly labeled in little glass bottles, but Harvey had placed the plant in whole. Once it had been incorporated to his liking, he poured the mixture into a vial. 

He caught the scent of its contents, different from anything he could remember being given up to this point. It smelled medicinal, as usual, but with a lingering, heady edge of sweetness he couldn’t place. Perhaps most importantly, it drew him back to late nights bleeding into early mornings on the road, evenings spent curled up by a fire at an inn with an untouched glass of wine in one hand and a considering eye on the tinted bottle Castti had pressed into the other, as she always did on nights like those. There was a distinct, undeniable nostalgia to the heavy, earthen scent of slumber sage, familiar and bittersweet and unable to be masked by whatever else was mixed in. The scent alone made his head spin. He blinked, hard, and the sensation faded.

“The smell is… unlike your previous concoctions.” He shouldn’t have had to work so hard to keep his voice from shaking.

Harvey paused, eyebrows lifting slightly. “What a formidable nose you have. You are, indeed, correct; I’ve run out of my usual draught. The ingredients are quite hard to come by in a place like this, you understand. What I now hold in my hand is nothing but a simple replacement to achieve the same effect. In other words, it functions as a blood thinner. I’ll need rather a lot of it for this final experiment, you see.”

An obvious lie. Whatever he’d concocted, it was not what he claimed— at least, not entirely. Temenos had been given enough slumber sage in his time from someone well-intended to know it by scent alone, and now, that scent was strong.

It would likely serve him better to pretend he was willing to play along. If Harvey freed his hands, it might give Temenos a chance to grab something and fight back, or throw the vial and break it, perhaps using the opportunity to run, if he thought he was fast enough. Unfortunately, it was likely Harvey would be too cautious to do anything quite so foolish in the final hour. Temenos knew what he had planned for him.

He would not walk into such a fate willingly.

“You needn’t lie to me. You and I both know you have no intention of keeping me alive after this.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He let out a weary sigh. “I’m sure you’re going to make this as unpleasant as possible for both of us.”

Temenos smiled, all bite. “Why don’t you release me and find out?” 

Another sigh.

“If you insist.”

Harvey set the vial aside on a table beyond Temenos’ reach and plucked a small bottle from a rack, holding it up to a lantern and swirling it a few times before taking a syringe and drawing out its contents: a large amount of a clear liquid, glinting in the firelight. He flicked it a few times and turned to Temenos.

“The more you struggle, the more this will hurt.”

“Keep that thing away from me,” he hissed, pressing back into the table. He reached fruitlessly for his magic, sparks of light that never flared into their full power.

Harvey ignored him, reaching down and pulling his arm at an uncomfortable angle against the ropes. He shoved the unfastened sleeve of his shirt up past his elbow to make the injection, forcing him still by tugging sharply on his arm with enough force that he thought it might break.

The liquid burned up his arm, flooding his body with a nearly unbearable warmth. His heart raced, breaths coming harsh as it took effect, the limited strength he’d regained bleeding slowly from his limbs, as though draining control of his own body.

“What did you…” His voice was heavily slurred, and then it didn’t come at all. He just had the presence of mind to acknowledge the effect of a silencing spell— unpleasant for a cleric at the best of times, when the consequences of being unable to cast were usually bad enough, but now…

Harvey returned to his side— when had he left?— and reached behind him to cut the rope tying him down. His arms fell slack to his sides; had he a voice to make the sound, he would have let out an agonized groan at the sudden lack of tension, at the new rush of static sensation and pain that had long since faded, now returned in force. Instead, he took a few slow, steadying breaths, eyes fixed on the door beyond Harvey’s shoulder. His gaze fell to the floor as a wave of dizziness overtook him.

“Isn’t this what you asked for, Temenos? You wanted me to untie you. Now you’re free to resist as much as you like.” His voice was sickly-sweet, a derisive coo that Temenos wished he would choke on. “But, then, you couldn’t even escape properly; what exactly did you intend to do if I let you go?”

The drug left him unable to so much as lift his arms to push Harvey away as he grabbed his hair and pulled his head back sharply. His mouth opened in a pained gasp; Harvey brought the vial up and tilted its contents down his throat.

He couldn’t contain his revulsion, his panic, as he instinctively swallowed to keep from choking, the scent of slumber sage and something only distantly familiar to him overwhelming. He didn’t want it, the thick slide of sweet acid on his tongue, the needle, the dizziness, any of it. It was wrong, wrong, he wanted to go home—

The vial emptied mercifully quickly, its taste lingering as the stinging grip on his hair dulled and faded. It was all he could do to glare, head spinning.

Moments later, the room lurched violently to one side; Temenos barely recognized the feeling of hands catching his shoulders, unable to keep his eyes open. His head lolled forward.

“There, now. Just like that. I’ve got you…” It was a voice he couldn’t quite recall through the heavy fog pulling at the edges of his mind, but one he instinctively hated. “Pathetic, aren’t you? And selfish, keeping all that power for yourself; didn’t that church of yours teach you to share? Oh, I like you so much better this way. Silent… helpless. I should have done this the moment you started causing me trouble. If only it wouldn’t have been such a waste of resources.”

Anything he would have tried to say in response died in his throat before the words could escape. Sensations grew indistinct, consciousness slipping away like so much sand between his fingers. No more pain. No more thoughts. Just an irresistible urge to finally succumb to the rest he so desperately needed.

No. 

No, no, not like this.

The last thing he heard before the world faded to nothing was that same abhorrent voice in his ear as he was lifted off the ground, something nauseatingly warm in it. “It’s time for you to do what you came here for.”