Chapter 3: The Vein Beneath the Stone

Snow drifted through the shattered ceiling, settling on the old altar where no god had listened in decades. The cathedral had once stood at the heart of Viridale's faith. Now it was Lucan Vire's private sanctum—cold, crumbling, and hollowed of all sanctity.

He liked it this way.

Lucan sat at the center, alone but never unguarded, surrounded by maps, candles, and the sharp scent of ink. What once were pews now held records: war finances, names of spies, lists of the dead and bought.

Selene Varrow stepped into the space, cloak dark with snowmelt.

"He refused."

Lucan didn't look up immediately. He finished scribbling a note in the margins of a ledger, the sound of the quill like a whisper through teeth.

"I expected as much," he said finally. "Did he posture?"

She pulled her gloves off one finger at a time. "In his way."

"Did he touch you?"

Selene smiled faintly. "Of course."

Lucan's jaw tightened by a fraction. He never moved fast. Emotion with him was measured, sifted, weaponized.

Good, he thought. Let Thorne believe he still knows her. Let him believe she left shaken. He'll underestimate the cut until the bleeding starts.

"And Vael?"

"Circling. Waiting. Watching which side casts the longest shadow."

Lucan nodded.

"Then we give him one to follow."

He stood, slow and deliberate, walking to the stone table where an old imperial banner had been sliced into a map. He placed a hand on Ironreach, fingers spreading over its jagged edge.

"Send word to the Hollow Temple," he said. "Tell Maera the soil is ready."

The Hollow Temple – Lower Ring, Viridale

The chamber was dark, lit only by oil lanterns and the glow of glyphs burning softly on the stone floor. Chanting echoed in waves, slow and constant, the rhythm of breath becoming belief.

Maera Vex moved like ritual. Her presence quieted even the most fevered acolyte. Her robe, black and red, brushed the ancient sigils beneath her feet.

Before her knelt a child—eight, maybe nine—his eyes glazed, his lips stitched shut with black thread. He looked up at her as if seeing the sun.

She smiled, serene.

The world breaks its children and calls it mercy. I call it preparation.

An acolyte approached, bowing low.

"The Chancellor summons you."

Maera turned without urgency, as if she'd already known.

"Tell him I've already begun."

Nightfall – The Sanctum

Maera entered Lucan's sanctum without sound, like dusk rolling over rooftops. She didn't need to announce herself. He didn't look up—he already knew it was her.

"You've prepared them?" he asked.

"They dream of fire," Maera said, voice soft as ash. "And wake craving it."

Lucan leaned back in his chair, watching her closely. There was admiration there. And fear. But neither ever showed.

"Let Thorne have his blades," he said. "We'll have their thoughts."

Maera smiled, tilting her head just so.

"And when they are yours, Chancellor, what will you leave them to believe in?"

Lucan met her eyes.

"Me."