Seized

He turned his smile toward Orso, all teeth and no warmth.

"Magistrate," he purred in Vetian, the words dripping like oil from his tongue. Aidos translated in a dead voice: "He says... the secular courts have no jurisdiction over matters of faith."

The priest looked cheery once, but only then his eyes rested on Hanno's streaked face, and it all vanished in an instant, the unsettling thoughts spiralled in his mind. But he rivalled it with his composure.

Orso's fingers tightened around his broken pen. A drop of ink bled onto his papers, spreading like a bruise.

Hanno watched the stain grow. "Tell him," he said to Aidos without looking up, "that fire doesn't discriminate between sacred and profane."

The priest laughed when the words reached him—a sound like dry reeds breaking. His reply came swift and sharp.

Aidos swallowed. "He says... you use big words to hide small understanding. That the people's will is God's will."

Hanno flexed his burnt hands. The pain grounded him. "And who interprets God's will, I wonder?"

The priest didn't wait for translation this time. He stepped close, his embroidered hem brushing Hanno's boots. When he spoke, spittle dotted his gilded collar.

Aidos' voice wavered: "He says... as High Priest, he is the living extension of divine law. Just as..." A hesitation. "Just as your father made you his servant, and you made Aidos yours."

The chamber air grew thick. Somewhere in the building, a clock ticked.

Hanno studied the priest's face—the pores beneath the powder, the faint tremor in his jowls. Not a holy man. Just a man.

"Interesting theology," he said softly. "That a god would need... middlemen."

The priest's smile froze. His hand twitched toward the amulet at his throat.

Magistrate Orso stood abruptly, his chair screeching against marble. "Gentlemen—"

But the priest was already turning away, his robes hissing against the floor. His parting words hung in the air like smoke:

"Let us see whose god answers fire with fire."

The door slammed. The magistrate exhaled.

And Hanno—

Hanno watched a single drop of blood fall from his palm onto the magistrate's pristine floor.

Dark.

Final.

Unmistakable.

He stood from his seat, his fists slamming against the table as he did and then he pulled away the door that stood between him and the world. Aidos pulled at his sleeve but he didn't bother.

The alley smelled of wet stone and rotting fruit. And soon it echoed with his calls for the priest. "Georgios!" He shouted. But it was uncalled for.

Hanno flexed his ruined hands, watching fresh blood bead along the cracks. The priest stood framed by crumbling brickwork, his ceremonial robes muted in the dim light.

"Let us be civilized," the priest said in careful, accented trade tongue. No need for Aidos now. This was between them.

Hanno studied the man's face—the carefully groomed beard, the pores beneath the powder. "Civilized men don't burn what they can't buy."

The priest waved a jeweled hand. "A misunderstanding. One we might rectify." His smile showed teeth. "Three choices remain to you."

A shutter banged overhead. Somewhere, a dog snarled.

"First," the priest continued, "return what you stole." His eyes flicked to Aidos. "My son belongs to Golat."

Aidos made a small, wounded sound. Hanno didn't turn.

"Second," the priest said, "take your foreign god and leave Vetia by week's end." He adjusted his gold-threaded sash. "Or third—and this I offer as mercy—kneel before the priestess in the Temple of Agolat. Let the people see your submission."

The words hung between them. A cart rattled past the alley mouth, its driver shouting at sluggish oxen.

Hanno tilted his head. "You forgot option four."

The priest raised an eyebrow.

"I take this to the King's magistrates," Hanno said softly. "Let him decide whose faith burns hotter."

For the first time, something flickered behind the priest's eyes. He stepped closer, his perfume clashing with the alley's stench. "You think the Crown interferes in matters of divine will?"

"I think kings dislike rivals." Hanno smiled. "Even celestial ones."

The priest's nostrils flared. His rings clicked together as he clenched his fist. "You overestimate your—"

"I'll tell you what I'll do," Hanno interrupted. He reached into his coat and withdrew a small ledger. The edges were singed. "I'll donate five thousand quill to the temple. Publicly. With fanfare."

The priest blinked.

"And in return," Hanno continued, "you'll bless my rebuilt warehouses. Personally. Before the first shipment arrives."

Aidos made a choked noise. The priest's face went very still.

"You ask me to endorse your—"

"I ask you to choose," Hanno said. "Between your god's pride... and your temple's coffers."

The silence stretched. Somewhere, water dripped on stone.

When the priest finally spoke, his voice had lost its honeyed tone. "You dare—"

"I dare," Hanno said, "to treat you as what you are. A businessman." He tucked the ledger away. "Just like me."

The priest's slap rang through the alley. Hanno's head snapped to the side, his cheek burning.

Aidos gasped. "Father—"

But Hanno was already laughing. He touched his stinging face, his fingers coming away clean. No blood. No broken skin. Just pain. He stared dully at his face, studying the faint claw marks across his cheeks. Eerily similar.

"Oh," he said, still smiling. "Now we understand each other."

The priest's chest heaved. His carefully constructed mask had cracked, revealing something raw and ugly beneath.

"You will regret this," he hissed.

Hanno turned to leave. At the alley mouth, he paused.

"No," he said over his shoulder. "But you might."

Then he was gone, Aidos scrambling after him, leaving the priest alone with his fury and the slowly dawning realization. Hanno was childish, unflinching and had a distaste for him. If he were to discuss terms, it would be only with Pitkin Galloway, otherwise there would be none.

...

The Galloway dining hall smelled of roasted quail and unresolved arguments.

Hanno sat stiff-backed at the long mahogany table, his burnt palms resting on either side of his untouched plate. The blisters had begun to weep again—he could feel the sticky dampness seeping through his bandages. Across from him, Pitkin Galloway sawed through his meat with methodical precision, the silverware screeching against porcelain with each calculated stroke.

"You'll involve the Duke," Pitkin said, not looking up from his plate. It wasn't a suggestion.

Hanno watched a bead of condensation slide down his water glass. "The Duke has no jurisdiction over temple matters."

"The Duke," Pitkin replied, spearing a bloody slice of meat, "has jurisdiction over anything that threatens his tariffs." He chewed slowly, his cold eyes fixed on his son. "Your little fire cost him five shipments of Venician silk."

Aidos shifted uneasily at Hanno's side. The young man had been silent throughout the meal, picking at his food with the cautious movements of someone expecting violence.

Hanno flexed his bandaged fingers. "The priest won't care about—"

"The priest," Pitkin interrupted, "is a flea on the Duke's backside." He dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. "You want to break him? Show him how small he truly is."

The fireplace crackled. Somewhere in the manor, a clock chimed the hour.

Aidos made a small, strangled noise.

At first, Hanno thought it was a cough. Then he saw the way the young man's fingers had locked around his fork, the knuckles bleaching white. Wine sloshed from his goblet as his arm jerked violently, staining the tablecloth like fresh blood.

"Aidos?"

The fork clattered to the floor. Aidos' head snapped back with a sickening crack, his chair teetering on two legs before Hanno caught it. His body arched like a drawn bowstring, every muscle pulled taut. Foam bubbled between his lips, pink with blood.

Pitkin didn't move. He watched, chewing thoughtfully, as Hanno dragged Aidos to the floor, cushioning his head with a discarded napkin.

"Interesting," Pitkin murmured.

Hanno barely heard him. Aidos' body convulsed with terrifying precision—not the wild thrashing of a seizure, but something more deliberate. More purposeful. Like a marionette jerked by invisible strings.

When it finally passed, Aidos lay gasping, his pupils blown wide. His lips moved soundlessly.

Hanno leaned closer.

"...she...sees..."

A thin trail of blood ran from Aidos' nose, pooling in the hollow of his throat. The scent of myrrh clung to his skin—that same cloying sweetness that permeated the temple.

Pitkin pushed back his chair with a slow scrape. "Well," he said, tossing his napkin onto the ruined tablecloth. "I suppose that settles it."

Hanno didn't look up. "Settles what?"

"The Duke," Pitkin said, straightening his cuffs, "will be very interested in this."

His boots echoed down the hall, leaving Hanno alone with the trembling body in his arms.

"I'd suggest you leave him here and fetch a doctor," Pitkin said over his shoulder. "If you want him to live, that is."