Chapter 25 – The Cracks in the Wall
Morning light crept through the cathedral windows, painting soft gold across stone floors and worn tapestries. But the beauty did little to warm the hearts of those inside.
High Inquisitor Aldren sat at the long table, his gloved fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished surface. His face, carved from years of strict devotion and suspicion, remained expressionless—but the tension in his jaw said otherwise.
"They're whispering again," he muttered.
Across from him, Bishop Caldus raised a brow. "Whispers are wind. Let them pass."
Aldren didn't look convinced. "Wind can carry fire."
The bishop's smile was thin, too smooth to be honest. "Then perhaps it's time we start watching the smoke more closely."
Behind the ornate walls of the Church, not even the holy were safe from doubt. Reports of missing priests, disrupted patrols, even one noble quietly shifting allegiance—it all pointed to something brewing beneath their control.
Someone was stirring the water.
Someone who didn't fear them.
---
Elsewhere, in a quieter part of the city, Lucien stared at the cracked ceiling of his attic room, one arm folded behind his head, the other holding a small, worn book. The pages were filled with names and tiny sketches—some crossed out, others circled. It wasn't a diary. It was a map. Of people. Of plans.
His stomach growled, but he ignored it. Hunger was familiar. What mattered was the piece of parchment tucked between the pages.
It had only three words.
"She suspects you."
Lucien already knew who "she" was. Marian—the junior inquisitor with too much curiosity for her own good. He'd caught her eyes on him more than once. Not with distrust, but with something else. Something more dangerous.
Pity.
He sat up slowly and reached for the candle. The flame danced in his eyes as he muttered, "Time to remind them all I'm not a boy to be pitied."
---
By afternoon, the marketplace was full. Not of joy, but noise. Shouts of merchants. Clatter of wheels. Footsteps scraping across stone. Lucien walked among them like any other poor soul—head lowered, tunic frayed, shoes nearly falling apart.
But his mind was razor-sharp.
He saw it all: the guards who weren't where they should be. The beggar who was no beggar, watching people a little too carefully. The vendor slipping a sealed letter into a noble's pocket.
Everything was useful.
Even the girl who bumped into him as he passed a fruit stall.
She looked up, startled. "Oh—I didn't see you—"
Lucien caught her hand before she could vanish. "You're not good at stealing," he said quietly, pressing the coin pouch back into her palm.
She froze. "You're… not turning me in?"
He smiled gently. "Why would I punish hunger?"
Her eyes searched his face. "Who are you?"
Lucien let go. "Just someone who remembers what it's like to be nothing."
She didn't follow him, but her gaze lingered. Another seed planted.
---
That night, Lucien returned to the broken tavern where the rebels met in secret. The room was darker than usual. The air thick with something unspoken.
"They're asking questions," one of them said. "We had two men taken last night. One of them screamed your name."
Lucien didn't blink. "Good."
The others looked at him, confused. Angry.
He stepped forward, voice calm but cold. "Let them think they have something. Let them believe we're sloppy. When they come next time, we'll give them what they expect."
"And what's that?"
Lucien's smile returned—sharp, unreadable. "A victory."
They didn't understand his game. Not yet. But they would. When the Church took the bait, when they began to act out of fear instead of control, Lucien would tighten the rope he was weaving around their necks.
---
Back in his room, Lucien finally sat down at the table and opened the hidden drawer. Inside was a piece of cloth soaked in dried blood.
The first priest he'd killed.
He kept it not as a trophy—but as a reminder.
You don't start a fire by screaming at the cold. You start it by striking the first spark.
And Lucien had already lit the match.
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