Chapter 9:The Sister’s Secret

The morning light crept through Borderton's muddy streets, pale and cold, barely piercing the thick mist that clung to the town like a shroud. Alan Grey limped forward, his tattered tunic damp against his back, the knife wound in his thigh pulsing with every step. The file from Henry was tucked tightly under his arm, its edges worn but its weight a lifeline. He had walked free from Torvald's keep not half an hour ago, the baron's gruff words still ringing in his ears. The command was clear: dig into this Mistress C., prove your worth. Alan smirked faintly, a flicker of his old self breaking through. "Worth's already proven," he muttered. "Now it's about survival."

The chapel loomed ahead, a sagging heap of weathered wood and stone, its crooked spire tilting like a drunkard's hat. The windows were clouded with grime, and the faint toll of a bell lingered in the air, softer now than the dungeon's clang. Alan's pace slowed as he neared, his leg protesting, but he pushed on. Alice waited inside, his sister and his anchor in this strange world. She had risked everything to get him that file, and he needed her now more than ever. The Church wasn't done with him, and he wasn't done with them.

He eased the creaking door open, stepping into the dim interior. The air smelled of old wax and dust, rows of splintered pews stretching toward a cracked altar. A faint cough drew his eyes to the back, where a narrow doorway led to the rear chamber. Alan moved quietly, his boots scuffing the floor, and peered inside. Alice sat there, slumped against a wooden crate, a threadbare blanket draped over her shoulders. Her face was pale, almost ghostly in the weak light filtering through a high window, her brown hair tangled and damp with sweat. She looked up, eyes widening, and a weak smile broke across her lips.

"Alan?" Her voice was a rasp, brittle with exhaustion. "You're out?"

He nodded, stepping closer and crouching beside her, careful not to jostle his leg. "Yeah. Made it by a hair. You okay?" He scanned her face, noting the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands trembled slightly as she clutched the blanket.

"Barely," she admitted, coughing again, a dry, painful sound. "I thought they'd burn you. How'd you do it?"

Alan pulled the file from his tunic and set it between them. "This. Henry's own words turned on him. Showed Torvald the blue fire's no dragon trick. It's sulfur, a Church setup. Henry's locked up now, singing like a cornered rat." He tapped the file. "Mistress C.'s behind it. Some priestess with a taste for purges. Torvald wants her dug up."

Alice's eyes flicked to the file, then back to him, sharp despite her weariness. "I knew it wasn't you. But the Church, they're not just after elves, Alan. I heard things." She hesitated, glancing toward the door, then leaned closer. "Two nights ago, knights came here. Black armor, silver blades. They thought I was asleep. They talked about a blue flame purification, said it's coming soon. Something about the old monastery outside town."

Alan's jaw tightened, his mind already racing. "Monastery? That's where they're staging it?" He flipped open the file, scanning the logs again, but found no mention of a location beyond Greenvale. "What else?"

Alice shifted, wincing as she reached under the crate. She pulled out a torn page, its edges yellowed and curling, and handed it to him. "Found this in the chapel's old records after they left. It's some kind of recipe. Sulfur fire, it says. Forbidden stuff, tied to witches. I think Mistress C. might be more than a priestess."

Alan took the page, his fingers brushing the faded ink. The script was jagged, almost frantic, detailing a mix of sulfur, saltpeter, and something called shadow root. At the bottom, a scrawled note read: "Burns blue, consumes all. The coven's gift." He exhaled sharply. "Witches and the Church in bed together? That's a hell of a twist." He met Alice's gaze. "This purification, they're not stopping at Greenvale. Borderton's next."

Before she could reply, the chapel door slammed open, wood splintering against stone. Heavy boots thudded inside, and three figures emerged from the gloom. Church knights, clad in black plate, faces hidden behind visors, silver swords gleaming at their sides. The lead one pointed at Alan, voice cold and flat. "Grey. You should be ashes. Who let you crawl out?"

Alan stood slowly, hands raised, buying time. "Guess I'm harder to burn than you thought. What's this about?" His eyes flicked to Alice, a subtle nod toward the crate. She slid the file beneath it, her movements quick despite her frailty.

"No questions," the knight snapped, stepping forward. "Mistress C. wants you gone. Now." His sword rasped free, the others fanning out to block the exits.

Alan's smirk returned, thin and defiant. "Three on one? Fair odds." He grabbed a heavy candlestick from the altar, its iron cold in his grip, and swung it low as the first knight lunged. Metal clanged against metal, the blow jarring his arm, but it gave him space. Alice seized the moment, snatching a lit candle and hurling it at the curtains behind the knights. The dry fabric caught fast, flames licking upward, smoke billowing into the tight space.

"Run!" Alan shouted, shoving Alice toward the rear door. The knights cursed, one swinging blindly through the haze, but Alan ducked and bolted after her. They stumbled into the back alley, the crackle of fire and shouts fading behind them. Alice leaned against the wall, gasping, while Alan scanned the narrow lane, his leg throbbing but his mind clear.

"They'll be on us soon," he said, voice low. "That monastery's our shot. Whatever blue flame purification is, it's there. You up for it?"

Alice straightened, clutching the blanket, determination hardening her pale features. "I'll manage. Just keep me out of the fighting."

Alan nodded, tucking the torn page into his tunic beside the file. "Stay back when we get there. I'll handle the rest." He glanced at the smoke rising from the chapel, then down the misty street. The Church wasn't lurking anymore. They were hunting. And he'd be damned if they caught him first.