The church smelled of wax and damp stone. The air was still, heavy with breath and whispers, as if the walls themselves were holding their lungs. Candles lined the altar in uneven rows, their flames trembling beneath the drafts that slipped through the cracked stained glass. They flickered in soft waves, illuminating the strips of parchment laid side by side like scattered bones. No coffins, no bodies, only names. Names written by different hands, some steady, some desperate, some barely legible. Fragments of memory arranged in a neat, impossible attempt at order.

  Aros sat among the front rows, his ribs bound tight beneath his coat. His posture was careful, his breathing shallow. Every breath ached, a dull burn that reminded him of the night he had dragged Gemma out of the smoke, leaning on nothing but instinct. He scanned the room, the silhouettes of familiar faces turned hollow by grief. There were people he had fought beside for years, and others he had known only briefly. War made every bond feel temporary. Loss made every face look older.

  His eyes finally found her.

  Gemma sat near the aisle, wrapped in a dark cloak too large for her frame. The fabric swallowed her shoulders, but her white hair escaped the hood like pale strands of frost. The faint candlelight caught them and gave her an almost spectral presence, as if she was both here and not. She wasn't crying. Her expression held no sorrow, only a quiet tension. Her hands were clasped tightly together in her lap, fingers entwined with a force that made her knuckles pale. Her gaze drifted over the altar, but it wasn’t prayer he saw in her eyes. It was something closer to confusion, maybe even rejection.

  Aros could tell. She was restless. Her mind was elsewhere. Perhaps replaying the things she had seen. Or the things she had done.

  He wondered what the ceremony meant to her, this quiet display of faith and mourning that felt nothing like either. To him, it didn’t feel like a funeral. It felt like a recruitment. The people around him weren’t just mourning the fallen; they were being reminded of the war, bound tighter to a cause that was swallowing every one of them. Aros had attended too many ceremonies like this to mistake them for sacred rites.

  Talon stood at the altar, his presence filling the room even before he spoke. His voice echoed off the stone with measured clarity. He held his hands clasped behind his back, the posture of a commander, not a priest.

  "We gather not for the bodies," he said. "But for the purpose they gave their deaths. They defied the Light, and in doing so, became its truest reflection."

  The crowd murmured in agreement. Some nodded, others bowed their heads, and a few closed their eyes as if Talon's words carried real spiritual weight. Aros only felt the familiar pressure in his chest, the weight of how easily faith turned loss into fuel.

  He turned slightly and caught Gustav's calm, polished profile beside him. Gustav hadn't blinked once since the ceremony began. His coat was pristine, the stitching neat, the fabric unrumpled. He sat with perfect posture, his expression faintly solemn or perhaps simply well practiced.

  "Beautiful service," Gustav murmured in a low voice, his tone balanced between reverence and calculation. "Talon has a talent for theatre."

  Aros’s eyes stayed on Gemma. "It’s not poetry," he muttered. "It’s recruitment."

  Gustav gave a small, humorless smile. "In times like these, they’re the same thing."

  Talon’s voice carried again, now smoother and more deliberate. His tone shifted into something ritualistic. "Let the Light see them, not as martyrs, but as proof that the world can still resist corruption."

  The words hung in the air, reverent but hollow. Aros had heard Talon speak like this before. He always wondered whether Talon believed his own speeches, or whether he simply understood how desperately people needed them.

  Gemma’s unease pulsed across the room like a quiet signal. She wasn't made for altars, sermons, or orchestrated grief. She had seen too much already: the power, the fire, the shifting nature of the Light itself. A stage of mourning could not contain what she carried.

  When Talon lowered his head for a moment of silence, Aros finally exhaled. He leaned slightly toward Gustav.

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  "She doesn’t belong here," he whispered.

  "None of us do," Gustav replied without looking at him. "But here we are."

  Aros didn’t respond. He stared at the parchment strips again, his eyes landing on one name in particular.

  "Diana deserved more than words."

  "They all did," Gustav said. "But words are cheaper than coffins. And right now we can’t afford either."

  Aros’s jaw tightened. "You sound like a noble again."

  "Is that a problem?"

  "I’m not fond of nobles," Aros said. "Not lately."

  Gustav leaned forward, folding his hands. His voice dropped even lower. "You still think it was Alexander, don’t you?"

  "I know it was him," Aros said under his breath. "The patrols, the timing, the precision. They knew before we even moved."

  Gustav tilted his head slightly. "Possible. He’s been speaking with the Priesthood again. I heard from a friend in Calad that he was petitioning to reclaim his lands. I suppose he got what he wanted."

  Aros turned to him sharply. "You knew?"

  "I suspected," Gustav said, his tone maddeningly calm. "You forget that I used to sit in those same halls. I know how nobles think."

  Aros looked away, his fingers tightening around his knee. "He sold us."

  "Or saved himself," Gustav countered. "Those things often look the same."

  Talon’s voice rose again, sweeping back over the room. "Let the Light see them, and may the truth they carried burn brighter than the lies that took them."

  He nodded to one of the young knights, who stepped forward with trembling hands and began to read the names aloud. After each one, Talon rang a small brass bell, its chime soft but chilling.

  When Diana’s name was spoken, Aros’s head bowed. The sound of the bell trembled through him.

  "She’d hate this," Gustav muttered. "Too quiet."

  Aros’s voice was low, nearly breaking. "She hated silence."

  Gustav smiled faintly, then straightened his coat. "I’ll be leaving soon," he said. "After tonight, I return to Vishora."

  Aros frowned. "Vishora? I thought you served the court of Nisbal."

  "I did," Gustav replied. "But things change. Vishora is quieter, for now. The Duke there owes me a favor or two."

  Aros studied him, trying and failing to read the man’s calm, polished exterior. "And what would you want with us?"

  Gustav offered a faint smile, the kind that revealed nothing except the fact that he wanted it that way. "I’d like you and the Knights to visit someday. You’ll find Vishora… accommodating."

  The bell rang again. Then again. The ceremony’s rhythm slowed.

  Then the door creaked.

  Everyone turned.

  Aros froze.

  The sound of boots against stone echoed down the nave, steady and deliberate, as if the person walking through the aisle believed the ceremony was meant for him.

  And then Aros saw him.

  Alexander.

  Clad in dark travel armor, dust still clinging to the plates. The faint sigil of the Valval Priesthood gleamed on his shoulder, half hidden but unmistakable. His expression unreadable, yet his posture proud, unbowed, and unashamed.

  Gasps rippled through the congregation. Someone whispered a name under their breath.

  Talon’s head lifted slightly from the altar. His eyes narrowed but his mouth didn’t move.

  Aros’s heart hammered. His breath came sharp and thin. His hands trembled against the edge of the bench. Every muscle urged him to move, to strike, to confront.

  Then the realization hit with full force. The patrols. The ambush. The deaths. All of it falling into place like a collapsing structure.

  He stood abruptly, the bench scraping loudly against the stone. The sound cracked through the silence like a whip.

  "You."

  His voice was raw. He took a step forward, pointing at Alexander, rage and grief sharpening every word.

  "You."

  The word echoed across the church.

  Alexander stopped halfway down the aisle. Candlelight flickered across his face, revealing an expression almost gentle. Almost pitying.

  Aros pushed forward again. "You murdered them. You sold us to the Priesthood."

  Shock rippled through the room. A few people recoiled. Someone gasped. The candles shuddered as if reacting to the outburst.

  Alexander didn’t flinch. His voice was calm, even soft. "You’re still alive," he said. "That’s more than I expected, and it makes me really happy."

  Talon raised his hand sharply. "Enough. This is not the place."

  But Aros barely heard him. His focus tunneled to the man he had once trusted. The man who had betrayed them all.

  Alexander took one small step forward, just enough for the light to sharpen the edges of his face.

  "This is exactly the place," he said. His eyes were locked on Aros. "Are you ready?"

  And at that moment, the sanctuary no longer felt like a refuge.

  It felt like the beginning of another war.

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