The air still tasted of fire. Soren's lungs burned with every breath as the Inquisitors marched him back through the Cathedral's labyrinthine passages, their fingers digging into his arms with bruising force.
They no longer seemed concerned with ceremony or dignity, just removal, as if he were a dangerous artifact that needed containment.
Their faces had gone pale beneath their hoods, eyes darting to him and quickly away, as if afraid of what they might see.
The scripture-chains around his wrists felt heavier than before, the metal hot against his raw skin.
'What did it mean?' Soren wanted to ask, but Valenna remained unnervingly silent. The shard against his chest pulsed with its familiar cold, but her presence felt... different. Withdrawn.
Calculating. He sensed her unease like a cold current beneath still water.
As they rounded a corner, Soren counted four Cathedral guards where there had been only two before, armored figures standing rigidly at attention, hands never straying far from their weapons.
Their eyes followed him as he passed, not with the contempt he'd grown accustomed to, but with something closer to wary uncertainty.
A cluster of novices pressed themselves against the wall to make way, their white robes stark against the dark stone. One whispered an urgent prayer, fingers tracing protective symbols in the air. Another clutched a religious pendant so tightly his knuckles whitened.
"—resisted the Flame—"
"—impossible, unless—"
"—the texts speak of—"
Their fragments followed him down the corridor, hushed but clear in the cathedral's perfect acoustics. The Church was shaken, its foundations disturbed in ways Soren couldn't fully comprehend.
They passed a side hallway where raised voices echoed against stone. Soren turned his head, catching sight of senior clerics engaged in heated debate.
Scribes in midnight-blue robes gestured sharply at priests whose golden vestments gleamed in the torchlight.
"The Flame spared him!" insisted a white-bearded scribe, his bony finger jabbing the air for emphasis. "It recognized something in his blood, the texts are clear about the signs—"
"Blasphemy," hissed an older priest, his face flushed with anger. "The Flame was corrupted by whatever heresy he carries. It bent toward him like iron to a lodestone, perversion, not blessing!"
Another voice cut in, too low for Soren to catch the words, but the vehemence was unmistakable. The argument intensified as they passed, fragments fading behind him.
Soren scanned the gathering for Veyr's familiar figure, but the Velrane heir was nowhere to be seen. Had they separated them permanently? Was Veyr being questioned, or worse, for his public defense?
The Inquisitor to his left yanked his arm, forcing his attention forward. "Eyes down," he commanded, voice taut with strain. "Your judgment is not complete."
They turned down a narrower passage, this one lined with reliquaries containing fragments of ancient texts preserved behind glass. The scripture etched into the walls here was older, the language more archaic than what adorned the upper levels.
Footsteps approached from the connecting corridor, measured, deliberate steps that echoed with metallic precision. The Inquisitors stiffened, their grips tightening on Soren's arms.
Ser Calvian emerged into the torchlight, golden and perfect in his scripture-etched armor. Solbrand hung at his side, sheathed but radiating power that made the air around it shimmer with heat.
The knight's burning eyes fixed on Soren with an intensity that felt like physical pressure. Something had changed in that marble-carved face, the absolute certainty replaced by sharp, focused watchfulness.
He studied Soren as one might study a weapon of unknown capability: with caution, respect, and the calculation of how best to neutralize it.
"Inquisitor Malvren," Calvian acknowledged the lead figure with a slight nod. "The Archon requests immediate word of the... outcome."
"We proceed to containment as ordered," the marble-faced Inquisitor replied, his winter-cold eyes never leaving Soren. "The subject requires further study before final determination."
Calvian's gaze swept over Soren once more, lingering on the chains around his wrists, on the unmarked skin that should have been blistered and burned after exposure to the Eternal Flame.
"Study," he repeated, the word carrying edges of something unspoken. "Yes. There is much to understand."
He stepped aside to let them pass, his golden perfection a stark contrast to Soren's disheveled state. As they moved beyond him, Soren felt those burning eyes following, tracking him with predatory focus.
They had nearly reached the stairs leading down to the holding cells when the first bell began to toll, a deep, resonant note that vibrated through stone and bone alike.
Soren felt it in his chest, a physical pressure that momentarily displaced even the shard's cold presence.
The Inquisitors paused, heads tilting toward the sound. The bell struck again, then again, a solemn rhythm that seemed to count out heartbeats in the suddenly silent corridor.
Then the pattern changed. The next toll came faster, urgent rather than ceremonial, followed by another and another in quick succession. Not a call to prayer, but a warning.
"What is this?" The lead Inquisitor's voice carried genuine confusion. "No ceremony was scheduled after the trial."
The younger Inquisitor to Soren's right shifted nervously, his grip faltering for the first time. "Inside the Cathedral? That's impossible—"
A distant shout cut through the bell's clamor, followed by the unmistakable clash of steel against steel. The sound echoed up from lower corridors, sharp and violent against the cathedral's usual reverent quiet.
More shouts followed, closer now, accompanied by the heavy tread of armored feet moving at speed. The Inquisitors exchanged glances, uncertainty rippling through their ranks like wind across still water. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ Nov3lFɪre.ɴet
The lead Inquisitor's face hardened with decision. "Move," he ordered, shoving Soren toward the stairs with renewed urgency. "Get him to the holding cells before—"
A scream cut short. The torches in the corridor ahead flickered as if disturbed by sudden movement. Shadows danced against the stone walls, stretching and distorting into shapes that belonged to no Inquisitor or Cathedral guard.
Six figures emerged from the darkness, moving with predatory grace that made the Inquisitors seem ponderous by comparison.
Hooded and lightly armored in leather reinforced with metal plates, they advanced with the synchronized precision of wolves closing on wounded prey.