364 Days Until the Fall of House Romulus
The new day broke bright and heavy, the manor thick with the memory of the night before. No banners stirred. No voices rose. The warmth clung to the stone as if to remind them what had been spilled.
The priest arrived in silence.
His carriage was black, the horses draped in dark cloth, their hooves kicking dust into the already warm air. Sunlight slid off the lacquered wood. His robe was layered and heavy, black upon black, the hems embroidered in deep crimson. Red amulets set in gold circled each finger, catching every shard of light the day offered. At his side hung a great book, bound in leather dark as old blood, its lock shaped like an eye that saw all.
His face was pale beneath the hood, drawn tight with age and purpose. His eyes glinted in the shadow of the cloth, heavy-lidded, knowing, and dark with something unspoken.
Romulus met him at the steps. Without hesitation, he bowed. He kissed the priest's hand, as law demanded. Valentina followed, her face carved in stillness, her lips brushing the priest's hand. The nobles and guards bent knee, foreheads lowered to sun-warmed stone.
The priest's gaze passed over them all, lingering on no one, until it found Mikhael. And there it stayed. The look was not warm, nor kind, nor even curious. It was hunger, quiet and patient, the kind that devours slowly. It was lust, not only of flesh, but of power, of secrets. The desire to possess, to break, to know.
But the moment passed. The priest's voice rose, hollow, final.
"There has been treachery. The gods see. The Messenger sees. Justice will be done."
The priest's hand hovered over the tome at his hip, fingers twitching once across the worn leather binding. His eyes slid across the courtyard, slow, measured, before fixing on Mikhael. They did not move again. That stare did not just linger. It possessed. It stripped him bare without permission. The priest's lips parted, not quite smiling.
"Send that angelic boy to my chambers," he said, his voice smooth, solemn. "I would… become acquainted with what your house has cultivated."
The words were soft. Almost kind.
Everyone heard the rot beneath them.
Mikhael felt his pulse in his throat. He stood still, but his fingers curled without meaning to. That sick churn was back in his stomach, twisting hard. He did not need to understand every layer. He felt what it meant. People around the edges of the courtyard held their breath. No one moved.
Romulus turned toward the priest, his expression carved in stillness. He took one long look at Mikhael, then back at the hooded figure beside him.
"He served this house with distinction last night," Romulus said, tone low. "He is not just a boy."
There was silence. The priest's eyes did not move.
Romulus's voice sharpened just enough to draw blood.
"He is mine. I would see him put to better use."
Another breath of silence. Then Romulus bowed his head, the concession clipped, cold.
"But if you insist, High One… your pleasure comes first."
A guard took a single step forward, ready to obey.
Then William Minerva's voice cut clean through the tension.
"But surely, the High Priest's time is far too valuable to be spent… indulging such curiosity, while justice itself remains incomplete."
All eyes turned.
William stepped forward, hands folded in deference, his tone perfectly respectful.
"If the boy is to be… received," he said with a slight bow, "let it be once the seal is drawn and the ritual fulfilled. Let the sanctity of this day remain undisturbed. Let no minor indulgence draw focus from the rite."
The words were chosen with surgical precision, a shield wrapped in silk. Not defiance, but redirection. Not refusal, but a reminder of duty.
The priest's eyes slid from Mikhael to William. The silence bloomed, longer this time. The pressure of it made the heated air feel thicker.
At last, the priest said only:
"So be it."
He turned without another word, robe trailing across the courtyard stones. But Mikhael felt it. That weight had not lifted. It had only been delayed. The priest wanted him. And now he knew it.
Romulus raised his hand, sharp, final. "Clear the courtyard."
Servants obeyed without hesitation, vanishing through side passages like they had rehearsed this moment. The courtyard, once swept and dressed for ceremony, now held only dust, sun, and silence. The weight of ritual had replaced any pretense of celebration.
The Reaper entered minutes later. He carried a squat iron chest in both arms. His coat hung clean despite the heat, and his shoes, polished as always, clicked against the stone, untouched by dust. Mikhael had seen him often, delivering reports, collecting sealed orders, but the unease had not faded. There was something too clean about him. Too measured.
He said nothing. He placed the chest down before the priest and stepped back. His hands, pale and vein-lined, still bore the dull stain of dried blood beneath the nails.
Romulus knelt and opened the chest. A soft red light spilled upward. Dozens of amulets rested inside, packed in thick black cloth, some glowing with steady crimson, others dimmer, pulsing faintly with fractured veins of dark. The kind that did not just hold power. The kind that remembered where it came from.
The priest did not touch them. He passed his hand slowly over the top. One line of energy pulsed upward, faint and answering.
"This will suffice."
Romulus nodded once. "Begin."
Two temple adepts began the work. Their robes bore seal-stitched hems, their hands black with old ink. They dropped to their knees in the center of the courtyard and began to work.
Circles came first, measured arcs drawn in chalk and ash, layered outward like gears. Glyphs followed, symbols pressed into powder, edges traced with iron rods and bone dust. Red, silver, and black powder was poured with near-religious precision into the gaps between lines.
Mikhael stood still. Watching.
Emma lingered near him. She said nothing, but her presence had not wavered. Johan remained close as well, arms folded, unreadable.
The priest was not watching the seal. He was watching Mikhael. Once. Briefly. But it was enough.
Emma's elbow brushed lightly against his, grounding him. No one spoke.
The adepts rose. The seal was finished.
The priest placed the last amulet into the seal and dropped to his knees. Both hands to the ring. No chant. No warning.
The seal flared.
Once. White. It swallowed the world.
Then—
Weight.
It came down like stone across the back.
Mikhael's body collapsed. Not by choice. His hands slammed to the floor. Forehead to sun-warmed stone. Around him, they were already down. Romulus. William. Johan. Emma. Valentina. The priest.
No command was given. It was just truth: you kneel, or you break. Not reverence. Not ritual.
Submission.
The air changed. Denser. Thicker. Wrong. As if the world had taken something in it was not built to hold.
Then the steps. Two. Measured. Effortless. Boots against stone, yet no echo followed.
The seal did not glow now. It just let go. And then, silence. Not quiet. Silence. Like the universe exhaled. The pressure eased.
One by one, heads began to lift. Romulus first. Then the priest. William. Johan. Emma. Mikhael last.
He looked up and saw them.
Two figures, standing within the seal.
The one on the left was still as death. Tall. Skin pale. Black long hair so straight it could have been cut from ink. His face was smooth, androgynous, untouched by time or concern. His eyes were dark glass, not empty, but holding something behind them you were not meant to see. He did not blink. He did not breathe.
He simply was.
The other, brown-haired. Lean. One gloved hand on his hip, the other twitching, as if taunting gravity. A slow grin curled across his lips, not wide, just certain, the smile of someone who knew he was the end of your book. He laughed once, softly, and something cracked inside Mikhael.
His thoughts, once so sharp, turned dull. Blunt. Small.
What had he been thinking? Burning a manor? Toppling a Duke? Destroying the Empire?
He felt sick. It had not seemed like madness before. It had seemed like purpose, a slow, methodical plan, revenge with weight behind it.
Now?
Now it felt like a child's story. A daydream whispered by someone who had never known what stood at the heart of this system. Someone who had never looked into this.
He was not staring at enemies. He was staring at the reason no one fought back.
Even the strongest bowed. Even Romulus knelt.
The Empire did not rule through men.
It ruled through them.
And for a long moment, Mikhael hated himself. For daring to believe. For thinking he could break something that had no cracks.
The priest was still on the ground. But he moved now, not to rise, but to worship. His arms swayed out to his sides, trembling, as if he meant to embrace them both. His voice cracked.
"Messenger's hands... walking among us."
His face shone with something between awe and rapture, the kind of expression that did not belong to a man anymore. Only a believer.
The air was still. Not the quiet of peace, but the reverent stillness that comes when something sacred stands before men who do not know if they are worthy to breathe. The priest stepped forward slowly, like a man approaching a god's altar. His robes whispered against the hot stone, arms lifting, his hands open in offering.
His voice, when it came, was steady. Not loud. Not theatrical. It was ritual.
"Behold," he said, eyes wide, "the swords of the gods, bestowing judgment upon us."
He dropped to his knees. The thud echoed in the silence. Arms spread wide, his head tilted skyward like a prophet shown the end of the world.
"Vireth, untouched by flame, who brings destruction upon those unworthy of the Messenger's prayer."
The name fell heavy, not shouted, but spoken like scripture. Still, the black-haired figure did not move.
The priest's voice wavered only slightly before rising again.
"Naevin, the blade of gods, who cuts the infidels without hesitation, without mercy."
There was no reaction from the brown-haired man either, only the faint hint of a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth, as if the words were beneath him and yet still his due.
The priest bowed lower, forehead pressed to the stone, breath shallow.
"They are not men. They are the will of the divine, made flesh."
Nobody moved. The silence that followed was not absence, it was weight. Emma stood beside Mikhael, her shoulders tense, her face pale. Johan's jaw had locked, his gaze fixed but far. They did not speak.
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Neither did Mikhael. His eyes were not on the Inquisitors. They were on William.
The Duke of House Minerva had not moved. His hands were folded calmly in front of him, his posture unbroken, face carved into noble stillness. But Mikhael felt it, barely perceptible, like a crack behind polished glass.
It was not awe that radiated from William. It was rage.
His eyes were locked on Vireth, not with fear or reverence, but with a gaze so sharp and focused it felt like a dagger braced against bone. No shaking. No expression. Just stillness that burned.
Mikhael did not understand at first. Then he did.
"Vireth had done something. Something personal. Something terrible."
The rage poured off William like heat from stone, but Vireth did not notice. Because Vireth did not need to notice. To men like him, rage from someone beneath you is not a threat. It is weather. It is noise. It is nothing.
Vireth's eyes narrowed as he tilted his head upward, squinting at the clear sky. He raised a pale hand to shield his eyes.
"Of course," he muttered. "Summoned in the middle of summer."
The silence held. No one moved.
He glanced around the sun-soaked courtyard, expression unreadable.
"No canopy," he added. "You would think a Duke could afford shade."
Romulus stepped forward immediately, his voice tight but smooth. "Forgive me. We have prepared shade inside. Please, you will be more comfortable there."
Naevin chuckled softly, glancing sideways at his companion. "He wants us comfortable," he said.
Vireth did not answer. He was already walking.
"Merciful host," Naevin added with a grin, falling into step behind him.
As they passed the priest, still prostrated with his forehead pressed to the stone, Naevin slowed.
He leaned slightly toward Vireth and said, just loud enough to be heard, "Oh look. An eager little puppy."
The priest did not move. Whether from discipline or terror, it was impossible to tell.
Naevin's smile lingered, thin and satisfied, as he stepped into the shade beyond the seal.
Mikhael stood frozen. The heat had not lessened, but the presence of the Inquisitors was like smoke, suffocating even after they were gone.
And beside him, William still had not moved. Only the whiteness of his knuckles betrayed him.
The hall was cooler, dimmer. Light filtered through tall slits in the the stone, catching on seal-etched walls and the faint shimmer of suspended flame. The air here did not hum with reverence. It waited.
The Inquisitors entered without a word. Naevin moved first, drifting toward the long table at the center of the hall. He did not so much sit as lounge, dropping into one of the Duke's chairs and slinging his legs up onto the polished surface with a sigh of contentment. Dust from his boot smeared across the grain.
Vireth followed behind, slower. He took the seat beside him without fanfare, spine perfectly straight, hands resting on the table's edge. He did not fidget. He did not lean. He sat like he had been built for it. A noble statue dressed in flesh. Even Valentina, proud as she was, could not match that stillness.
The others gathered cautiously, Romulus and Valentina, William, the priest, Emma, Johan. Mikhael stood near the wall, unsure if he belonged in the room at all. Valentin was missing, still in his room, sick with shame from yesterday's events. Mikhael did not bother cheering him up this time.
Romulus cleared his throat gently. "May I offer you something to eat?"
Naevin glanced around the room, eyes flicking from wall to wall like a cat in a new den. Then he smirked. "What a fancy tavern we have stumbled into, eh, Vireth?"
Vireth did not look at him, but there was the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth. "Something refreshing," he said softly. "The heat dries my throat too quickly. Fruit would suit nicely."
Romulus nodded immediately, gesturing to a servant. "Of course. Right away."
Naevin drummed his fingers lazily along the table's edge. "And wine," he added. "If the gods must judge, they might as well do it drunk."
The priest flinched, but said nothing. The servants moved quickly. The nobles did not speak. Because the Inquisitors had not come to eat. They had come to watch. And, eventually, to act.
Naevin sat up slightly and turned his attention to the room. "So. Where is it we are supposed to go? That old man Ecclesiarch mentioned some Zids. Where do we find them?"
The priest, still lowered in reverence, began to speak, to explain the events of the previous night, the duel, the seal, the retreat, but Naevin waved him off mid-sentence, already bored.
"Yes, yes. We have been briefed. Just tell us where their estate is. That is all we need."
Romulus straightened. "Their estate lies far to the south," he said carefully, "near the border of the province, close to the mountains. Four to five days by horse, longer if the terrain slows you. The roads are… difficult."
Vireth clicked his tongue and popped a grape into his mouth. "I do not suppose they would be willing to draw a teleportation seal for us now," he said, voice smooth and dry. "Pity."
"I will lend my finest horses," Romulus offered quickly. "And carriages, if you prefer."
"Lend?" Naevin repeated, lifting a brow. "You cannot lend something to us that already belongs to us. You are the one borrowing."
Romulus bowed slightly, eyes low. "Of course. My apologies, Your Holiness."
"We could just run there," Vireth murmured. "It would be faster."
Naevin made a sharp tsch sound with his tongue and rolled his head to the side, mock-annoyed. "You will carry our gear then, eh?"
Vireth did not respond. He took another grape and ate it slowly, as if the conversation bored him.
And then:
"I will do it."
The room turned.
Mikhael stood near the wall, his voice even, his face calm. His chest was tight, but he kept his shoulders straight. "I will carry what you need."
The words were not loud, but they carried through the hall. Vireth's gaze lingered a heartbeat too long, as if some old face from a temple mural had slipped over Mikhael's, then whatever he thought he saw passed and his eyes went flat again. Naevin turned his head toward him, a slow smile forming on his lips, sharp and amused.
"You will, will you?"
Romulus moved quickly, as if to shield the boy from his own voice. "He is just a boy—"
"I can handle it," Mikhael said, without looking at him. The words were not brave. They were not defiant. They were simply true.
Naevin looked at him a second longer, then leaned back in his chair and exhaled, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle.
"That is what they all think," he said. "The ones who end up useful, or dead."
He turned toward Vireth without another word. The darker Inquisitor had not moved. His gaze remained fixed on Mikhael, eyes still and flat.
"Let him come," Vireth said.
And that was it. No praise. No warning. Just the door opening, or perhaps closing, depending on how one looked at it.
No one else in the hall spoke. The nobles stayed silent. The priest did not lift his head. Even William stood motionless, his mouth half open, as if rethinking something that had already been decided.
But the boy had stepped forward.
"So, they departed yesterday," Naevin said, turning his gaze to Romulus, almost lazily. "And you said it takes what… five days to reach their estate?"
Romulus, still shaken by Mikhael's interruption moments before, took a breath to collect himself. "Yes, Your Holiness. If you leave today, you will likely meet them on the road. Which may, may give you better odds."
Vireth gave a quiet chuckle, as if he already knew what Naevin's response would be.
"Better odds?" Naevin repeated, tone flat. "Odds are in our favor whenever and wherever we are."
"I meant no offense—" Romulus began, but Naevin cut him off with a wave of the hand and a shift in tone.
"You will be blessed with hosting us for a few days then," he said, rising from his chair. "I am not in the habit of chasing people down in the woods like some cutthroat."
His voice changed, sharpened, bitter with the taste of the word itself, as if he was making himself angry just to feel something.
"Is that what you take us for?" he asked, eyes locking on Romulus. "Forest assassins?"
His irises sparked red. Not glowing, but burning, like the brief flash of lightning behind storm clouds.
Romulus dropped to one knee without hesitation. "Please forgive me. I meant only to serve your will."
Mikhael stood motionless. He had seen Romulus cold. He had seen him cruel. But not like this. Not kneeling. Not begging. The image struck something deep in his chest, something he had dreamed of, and yet now found almost pathetic.
Naevin let out a long breath through his nose, like air escaping steam, and sat down again. Silence reclaimed the hall.
Then came the quiet pop of a grape being crushed between teeth. Vireth stared ahead blankly, chewing. Naevin shot him an irritated glance.
Vireth plucked a single grape from his plate, held it between thumb and forefinger, and offered it across the table.
"You seem flustered," he said. "Take it. If you behave, I will give you some more."
Naevin made a low tsch sound, grabbed the grape, and then, defiantly, reached across the table and took a whole handful.
"Hey, those are mine," Vireth said without looking at him.
Naevin flicked a grape into his mouth and waved a hand. "We will rest here. Clear the hall."
Servants and nobles scattered without question. The priest bowed so deeply he nearly fell over. Only Romulus lingered long enough to bow low and murmur, "Your chambers will be prepared immediately."
The Inquisitors did not respond.
William ushered the others out. Mikhael walked ahead of them, the first to step into the corridor beyond the hall. Behind him, boots clicked in controlled rhythm.
Then came Romulus's voice. Calm. Quiet.
"Mikhael."
He turned.
The slap struck him across the face, sharp, deliberate.
Romulus stood behind him, eyes cold.
"You speak without permission," he said. "How dare you do something like that. You humiliated me."
Before Mikhael could answer, William shoved past and grabbed him by both shoulders, nearly shaking him.
"Are you mad?" he hissed. "You think they are mentors? They are weapons. They will grind you down. Even if they feel merciful enough to not do anything to you, you cannot follow them, you cannot follow their pace."
Mikhael broke away and straightened.
"I was shaped to be your blade, my lord," he said, voice low but clear. "Where better to be sharpened than by them?"
Romulus stared at him in silence.
"I acted for your benefit," Mikhael continued. "So I can cut deeper. So you will need Inquisition no longer."
Romulus did not speak right away. Then, slowly, he bowed his head, not in submission, but to meet Mikhael's eyes directly. His tension had shifted. The anger was gone. What remained was something colder, quieter. A man calculating the weight of what stood before him.
"Do not do something like this again," he said.
Then he turned and walked away. Valentina followed behind Romulus, her heels sharp against the stone. She did not even glance at Mikhael, her steps quick, like a mother hurrying to soothe a wounded child.
Or maybe just a woman chasing after control.
William stayed behind.
"I will help you run, if it comes to that," he said, his voice low but urgent. "Those men, no, those beasts, they destroy people like it is second nature. You saw what they are. Do you know why my wife is not here? Do you wonder?"
Mikhael turned to him, uncertain.
"Because Vireth killed her," William said. "Not just her, countless people. Gone in an instant. When I found what was left, there was nothing but ash and rubble. I have never even buried her."
Mikhael blinked. The weight of it hit harder than expected. All these Dukes, all these nobles, stripped of their crowns in the quiet of a few days. Even William, who had played it all like a game, looked crushed.
"I know," Mikhael said. "Johan told me yesterday, I—"
"Then you see," William cut in. "You see why—"
Mikhael stepped closer. Close enough that no one else would hear.
"You want to topple all of this, right?"
William paused. His brow furrowed, uncertain. "…Yes," he said. "I do."
Mikhael's whisper sharpened.
"And how do you plan to do that, when you cannot even look an Inquisitor in the eye? You speak of rebellion, but all I see is a man afraid of fire pretending he is warming his hands by it."
William flinched.
"You want the truth?" Mikhael leaned closer. "I do not give a fuck about your wife. A dead noble? Good. That makes me smile. That makes me happy."
William's face darkened.
"I do not get to walk through gilded gardens pretending I am saving people from inside the palace walls," Mikhael said. "I do not get to wear masks and play games and call it resistance. I get this. I get one chance. And I am taking it."
William's eyes widened. His hands rose to his face for a moment, then dropped.
He exhaled. "Do as you wish. I was wrong about you."
He turned and waved his children forward. Johan passed Mikhael without a word, eyes sharp with fury. He had heard. He had understood every word. Emma hesitated. Her gaze met Mikhael's, soft with something between pity and grief. But she followed her brother all the same.
Mikhael did not move. No apology came. He had already given them the truth. And the truth, once spoken, does not beg forgiveness.
He stood alone. No one looked back. William had taken his children and vanished down the corridor, leaving Mikhael in silence.
No one came after him. No one said a word.
The manor around him was stone and echo. Every breath sounded too loud. The kind of quiet where guilt could grow teeth.
He did not move for a long time.
When he did, it was not to apologize. It was not to chase them. He just walked.
He did not speak to anyone that evening. Did not eat. When a servant came to ask if he needed anything, he waved them off without a word.
By the time the lights dimmed and the halls emptied, Mikhael was still awake. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. The same thoughts had been circling his head for hours, tight and bitter and loud.
And then, without deciding to, he stood.
The manor was asleep now. Its silence was heavier than before. The halls seemed longer. The doors too wide. He liked the dark and quiet. It made all of the problems he had seem far away.
His feet moved on their own. Down the hallway. Through the arch. Out into the courtyard.
The sky was sharp with stars. The stone underfoot still held the day's heat.
Then… fire.
It bloomed from the hearth in the center of the courtyard. No spark. No fuel. No warning. One moment the stone was bare, the next, a narrow pillar of flame stood motionless in the dark, as if it had always been there.
Mikhael froze. The fire gave off no warmth, no crackle, no scent. Just light. And presence. His heart thudded once, hard.
Then it spoke.
"You will not make the journey."
The voice was not loud. It was not even sound. It pressed against his skull like breath inside the bone, quiet and calm and final.
"You are too weak," it said. "The path ahead will break you." The flame seemed to narrow, as if remembering something that wasn't in this courtyard, or this lifetime.
"I will not watch that happen again."
Mikhael took a step back. "Who are you?" he asked. His voice was barely more than breath.
"I am a god, child, but you ask the wrong question," it replied. "What do you want?"
He stared at the flame. It did not move. "I did not ask for anything."
"Then why did you kneel? Why did you offer yourself in the hall?"
"I…" His mouth was dry. "I did that for myself."
"As did he."
The words felt heavier than they should have.
"Who?"
"The one they call Messenger."
Mikhael's skin prickled. The night was warm, but he felt cold behind the ribs. "You knew him?"
"We gave him what he needed. He wore it like a crown."
The fire pulsed, slow, steady, like breath drawn through old lungs.
"You carry his echo. His rage. But not his leash."
"I am not like him," Mikhael said.
"Not yet."
The flame narrowed, as if squinting.
"But you will not survive the coming days. They will see your limits. And you will die with them."
The words rang with certainty, not threat. Mikhael gritted his teeth.
"Unless," the voice said softly, "you take what is offered."
"No," he said, but it came out weak.
"You are not mine," it said. "Not yet. But you burn to be more than what you are. That is enough."
There was something on the ground beside him now. A shard of glass. Clear. Thin. Waiting. The flame leaned toward it, almost gently.
"Cast your blood into me. That is the price."
Mikhael did not move. Not at first. His heart was pounding again, faster now, harder. "This is not a god, he thought. This is not holy."
He did not care anymore.
He knelt. Not by choice. His knees gave out. He reached for the shard. His hand trembled. Then he drove it across his palm.
The pain was immediate, sharp, precise. Blood spilled fast and hot, streaking down his hand. He extended it over the flame.
The fire reacted.
It screamed. Not in rage. Not in pain. In pleasure. The sound that rose was wrong, a twisted thing between a moan and a cry, high and shrill and intimate.
The fire bent low, drinking the blood like a starving thing.
And then, gone. Snuffed.
The courtyard returned to silence. No trace of heat. No smoke. No flame. Only the stink of iron and something sweet, roses maybe.
Mikhael stood there, panting, his hand still bleeding freely. The wound gaped open, slick and dark.
He turned and ran.
He did not remember how he got back inside.
The manor's corridors blurred around him, arched stone, shadowed doorways, the distant flicker of seal-light. He passed no one. Or maybe he did and did not see them. His hand throbbed with every heartbeat, sticky with blood that had begun to dry across his fingers and wrist.
By the time he reached his chamber, he was shaking. He shut the door behind him without sound and crossed to the desk. His movements were sharp, clumsy.
He pulled Johan's grimoire close, nearly dropping it as he fumbled with the latch. The pages fluttered open. He flipped through them quickly, eyes scanning line after line until he found what he needed, restoration seal, handwritten in the priest's stiff, beautiful script. It glowed faintly even in the low light of the room, sensing his pulsing essence.
Mikhael laid his wounded hand flat on the desk, pressed his fingers to the seal with his uninjured hand, and concentrated.
The ink pulsed once.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
The cut across his palm remained, open, red, steady.
He gritted his teeth, focused harder, repeated, channelling what energy he could. The page glowed again, slightly brighter this time.
Still nothing.
The wound did not so much as twitch. The blood did not slow. It was as if the seal did not see it, as if the cut were no longer part of his body, or was sealed off from the magic itself. His chest tightened.
Mikhael stood there for a moment, breathing through clenched teeth, before tearing a strip from the bottom of his undershirt and wrapping it tight around his hand.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, hand pressed to his side, the grimoire still open in front of him. He stared at the seal glowing faintly on the page, the one that was supposed to fix what was broken.
It had always worked before with others.
Was he at fault?
He doubted it.
The seal now looked as useless as the ink it was drawn with.
Which Inquisitor did you prefer more?
