Chapter 8, Part 1: Factions Fracture

❖ Eastern Watch Hall – Mage Council

The chamber hadn't cooled since the last scan.

Runes pulsed red. Projection maps flickered with energy interference. Someone had spilled blackwine across the northern glyphboard and no one had cleaned it up in three hours.

Relvan stood with his hands flat on the Council table.

His jaw was locked. His sleeves were rolled. His voice—normally a wry undercurrent—had become razor sharp.

"You sent a unit into the cistern slums without clearance."

Magister Ilthen didn't flinch. "We received internal confirmation from Red Sigil ops that the fragment was unstable. Extraction was within standard—"

"Don't quote protocol to me," Relvan snapped. "You initiated conflict within a sacred perimeter. In a Class-S resonant zone. And you lost."

That shut the room up.

For a moment.

Then Lady Thirel, youngest among them and easily the most venomous, raised a brow.

"Was it not you, High Enchanter, who originally suggested passive observation? Perhaps your silence gave them room to act?"

Relvan's nostrils flared. "They didn't act. They provoked. And now Wrath, Pride, Lust—and Gluttony—are under his protection."

He turned, gesturing to the newest projection—grainy footage stitched from rooftop scryers.

It showed Brix, shirtless and scorched, walking calmly away from a smoldering ruin. Behind him, Lio. And behind Lio, a boy wrapped in filth, floating crumbs orbiting his shoulders like moons.

"Four seats filled," Relvan said. "That's no longer a rumor. That's a pattern."

"And patterns imply intent."

Ilthen grimaced. "Then what do you propose?"

Relvan smiled, cold and deliberate.

"I propose we stop arguing like academics and start preparing like soldiers."

❖ The Western Temple of the Flame

Flamekeeper Veydan stood on the pulpit of the upper sanctum, hands lifted, voice honey-smooth.

"Our Lord of Silence has accepted the fourth. Hunger itself walked, and He welcomed it not with scorn—but stillness."

Below, rows of acolytes repeated the words:

"Stillness is sanctification. Silence is safety."

The banners behind Veydan shimmered with new symbols—Gluttony's rune now stitched in blood-thread beside the others. Wrath. Pride. Lust. Gluttony.

Only three remained.

"Envy slinks in the shadows," Veydan declared. "Greed twists behind golden gates. Sloth, perhaps, still dreams."

"But he—He—does not sleep now."

Behind the sanctum, High Scribe Alnera approached with a message scroll.

She handed it to him without a word.

He opened it.

Frowned.

Then smiled.

"A public sermon request," he said. "From the capital dome's south plaza. They want to hear my voice... near his."

Alnera looked up. "Should we decline?"

Veydan's eyes gleamed.

"No. We will speak. Let the world hear us."

"And what of the Mage Council?"

Veydan turned toward the flame.

"The Council deals in symbols and sanctions."

"We deal in faith."

❖ Red Sigil Headquarters – Lower Command Hall

The room was silent.

Commander Jeska sat with her back to the wall, one gloved hand resting on her thigh, the other loosely wrapped around the hilt of her dagger.

Across from her: Dren, her field captain, face pale.

"Four down," Jeska said softly.

He said nothing.

She looked up.

"They ate your men, Dren."

"Only one," he muttered. "And it was more of a… spiritual disintegration."

Jeska smiled.

Then stood, slowly.

"You sound like a Temple convert."

He stood straighter. "I'm still loyal."

"To who?"

He swallowed.

Jeska stepped past him, dragging her finger along the edge of the war table.

Red strings connected over two dozen districts. Five candidate profiles hovered above the table—blurred, unfocused. Four now flickered with "Claimed" glyphs.

One remained—Envy.

Jeska stared at it.

"Greed will come on its own. Sloth will sleep until called. But Envy…"

"Envy waits."

She turned.

"Prepare a proxy broadcast."

Dren blinked. "What—public?"

Jeska nodded. "Let them hear us. Let the Sins hear us. Let the archive know: if they take another, we will burn the world to starve it."

❖ Meanwhile – Inside the Archive

None of this reached the students.

Not the shouting. Not the scryers. Not the threat.

But something had shifted.

Nair sat against a warm pillar, still holding half a sealed biscuit packet he hadn't dared open. Mav tried not to eye it too obviously.

Lio trained in silence. His blade movements sharp but slower today—less to kill, more to control.

Brix sat with his back to a wall, eyes closed, fists glowing softly. Every few minutes, he tapped the ground with two fingers, as if waiting for it to pulse back.

And Kairon?

Kairon lay on the scroll throne again, arms crossed behind his head, eyes closed.

But not sleeping.

[System Alert: External Broadcasts Escalating]

[Threat Level Adjustment: Mage Council – Moderate → High. Red Sigil – High → Critical.]

[Public Awareness Threshold Nearing Civil Faith Distortion: 62%]

Kairon sighed.

Muttered something about tea.

Then said aloud—softly, but clearly:

"Let them scream. Let them threaten."

"I'm still not leaving."

"But the next one who touches a child…"

His eyes opened.

"…will be broken where they kneel."

The System did not respond.

It didn't need to.

Everyone else in the archive heard it.

Even Nair.

Even Brix.

Even Mav—who, for once, didn't smile.