Chapter 14: The Blade That Serves

The night after Charlevoix's fall settled in a silence that felt wrong—an absence of natural sound, an empty hush too profound to be simple nighttime quiet. Even the acrid smoke rising from the scorched ramparts gave no crackle. Wind moved through the remnants of the citadel in long, mournful whines, as though lamenting those who had perished in the conflagration. Gone were the raucous chirps of crickets or the whispery hum of nocturnal insects. What remained was utter stillness, marked by a dusting of ash on every surface and the cinders that still glowed under collapsed beams.

Fai perched on a shattered wall near the church's skeleton, her qiang across her knees. She wore her silver armor, dulled by soot and scorched in places, each dent and scratch a memory of that savage battle. She had not taken it off, nor had she found rest, for any attempt at slumber was met with images of orange flames and the sputter of collapsing timbers. Though her posture was calm, her mind wandered ceaselessly, sifting through every moment of the carnage.

Charlevoix was unrecognizable. The once-vibrant cobblestone streets lay buried beneath crumbled masonry. The famous market square resembled a graveyard, its stalls reduced to jagged frames, their awnings burned away. The spire of the church—an architectural marvel that visitors once admired from miles away—had been shattered. What remained jutted from the rubble at wicked angles, splintered timbers blackened as though by sorcery.

In the center of it all, Fai stood. She had surveyed these ruins for hours, boots scraping charred ground. Her stoicism seemed legendary to her fellow soldiers, yet she was haunted by an indelible sense of unease. A hush had fallen, but it was not the peaceful lull after a passing storm. It was a strangling emptiness, the hush that follows devastation, when even the wind seems too horrified to speak.

Her armor clinked softly with each shift of her weight, but otherwise she did not stir. She watched the gently swirling ash with eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. If it were possible to drain emotion from a person, she felt close to that state, trained from youth to sever fear and quell doubt in the name of her faith. But she recognized the stirring of something else—something that cut deeper than she expected. It was not regret, precisely, nor was it guilt. It was the echo of an ending, a chord struck so firmly that its resonance would never truly fade.

A broken staff lay beside her—a battered relic of the man she had hoped to subdue. The staff's surface was cracked, its glossy inlays dimmed by soot. Yet at the core, a faint glow persisted, pulsing with a fragile rhythm, as though it refused to die. Fai's gaze drifted to it more than once during her vigil. Each time, she felt a hesitation that unsettled her.

Sebastian, known to many in Charlevoix as the Vicar, had vanished. She last saw him engulfed by twisting embers, consumed by the same flames that claimed half the district. No body had been recovered. No final cry. No absolute proof he had died. And that uncertainty gnawed at her in ways she could not articulate.

Part of her desired to destroy every trace of him—staff included. That would fulfill the directive she had been given: to leave no heretic influence behind. Yet her hand refused to obey.

Something about that object was more than just wood and metal. It felt like the last heartbeat of a man who had believed in hope. She couldn't bring herself to silence it.

She remembered how Sebastian had spoken to her, how he had looked on her with concern instead of hatred, how he had called her child with genuine compassion. That memory stung like a hot blade. Why had it lingered? Why should it matter how her enemy regarded her? She was an Imperial soldier, an elite killer in service to the Church. She was not one to be swayed by pity. Yet every time she revisited their exchange, she felt again that twist of contradiction, as though she had glimpsed a life that might have been.

There, among the scattered stones and twisted metal, she told herself she had done her duty. The result—Charlevoix's downfall—proved her efficiency. She had followed the orders that kept her in the Church's favor, had snuffed out rebellion before it spread. But in the gloom of that silent ruin, duty felt like a hollow justification. Perhaps for the first time, she doubted whether following orders guaranteed righteousness. She hadn't realized how deeply that doubt had taken root until now.

All around her, royal banners drooped limply over wreckage. The golden threads that once gleamed as a proud statement of the Empire's glory seemed tragically out of place. They caught the moonlight in a mocking shimmer, as if reminding her that the realm's authority endured despite the destruction below. Fai thought of them as tokens of a triumph that came at the cost of innocence. The Pope had sanctioned this campaign. The Queen had demanded it. The cardinal inquisitors had cheered it on from their lofty spires. And she had become their sharpened blade.

When the soldiers of the First Vanguard approached, they did so with trepidation. Their commander, Gravis, kept a careful distance, offering only a respectful nod. In better times, the Vanguard took pride in discipline. Now, they recognized something in Bishop Chau's posture that suggested a threshold had been crossed. She seemed dangerous in a way that unnerved them more than her formidable combat skill ever had. A loaded silence hung between them, and no one dared break it.

At last, hours later, the bishop retired to a temporary barracks erected near the city walls, erected so hastily that half the tents were still pegged into churned mud. Within a small wooden structure meant for senior officers, she knelt before a portable shrine. The symbol of Nimue—the goddess revered by the Church—was etched upon a bronze dish filled with cold water. Fai's shoulders, caked with layers of dust and grime, twitched involuntarily as an attendant poured water over her head to wash her hair. Steam rose from her armor where it met the frigid air. Three attendants worked gingerly to remove the dented plates, cleansing them with rags dipped in medicinal salve.

The entire process resembled a ritual, a practiced choreography of washing away the blood and sin of the battlefield. She offered no instruction; the attendants knew their roles. Beneath her stoic exterior, she felt an inward tension coil and uncoil, a repeating question that had no simple answer. Her attendants finished rebraiding her hair—once a mark of her devotion—and stepped back.

The door to the makeshift barracks eased open. Without turning, Bishop Chau murmured, "Leave us," and the attendants bowed out. A figure cloaked in deep crimson robes entered. Fai recognized him by his gait and the metallic jingle of a rosary at his waist: Cardinal Vael.

He stood behind her for a moment, the lamplight casting his shadow across the shrine. "You're difficult to track down in these ruins," Vael said softly.

Still on her knees, the bishop kept her gaze on the bronze dish. "I assumed you'd be in Valenne, orchestrating the next steps for the Holy See."

"You would be correct, under normal circumstances. But the situation has escalated," Vael replied, moving around her until he faced her, a condescending edge to his posture. "Your performance, or lack thereof, brought matters to a head."

Her nostrils flared at the accusation, but she said nothing.

"Charlevoix was to be cleansed and the Vicar taken alive," Vael continued. "We needed him. Or, at least, we needed clarity. Now he's gone. Missing. Possibly dead, but the catacombs remain sealed. And the accounts from surviving townsfolk suggest they saw him vanish rather than perish."

Chau clenched her jaw. "I saw him caught in flames. There was little I could do."

"Indeed," the cardinal said with a weary sigh, though his tone held no genuine fatigue, only masked reproach. "Which begs the question, why is there not a single shred of mortal remains? You are thorough, are you not?"

She closed her eyes, tightening her fists. Part of her wanted to say something biting, to remind the cardinal of the horrors he'd unleashed without personally lifting a weapon. But reason won out, reminding her of the Church's unspoken power.

He circled her like a merchant appraising flawed goods. "Your orders were clear," he said at last. "The Queen herself requested the capture of Sebastian, given his influence among the people. She did not desire his demise so quickly. It seems you neglected that command."

Fai rose from her knees in a single fluid motion, turning to face him. "I did nothing of the sort," she said. "He preferred to die with his parish. I gave him the chance to surrender. He refused."

Vael's eyebrow twitched. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you let personal grievances color your decision. I know how your father died, Fai. I know what it cost you. And I suspect this Vicar, with his paternal airs, sparked something in you too raw to handle."

She felt her chest tighten, fury flaring. "You know nothing."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a hush. "I know enough. You bristle under the Church's authority, yet you serve because you believe it's your only path. The day you question that oath, your entire life's structure collapses. Trust me when I say, the Church watches you keenly."

For a moment, it was all Bishop Chau could do to keep from retaliating. She inhaled sharply, forced herself to speak in measured tones. "What do you want, Cardinal?"

His smile was thin. "To give you another assignment. You will track down the survivors who fled Charlevoix, especially the rumored boy who calls himself Albion Pendragon."

Confusion flickered across her face. "The boy is real?"

"He fell from the sky, some say," Vael answered, pulling a scroll from his robe. "Others claim he wields a sword that bears runic inscriptions we believed dormant. Only a Pendragon can activate those runes. If we do not act, the legend might stir a rebellion across the empire. We have enough unrest without a pretender wielding an ancient relic."

She reached for the scroll. "So, the Crown and the Pope both want him dead?"

"It's simpler than that," Vael said, face darkening. "They want the bloodline ended. No heir, no future rallying point for the rebellious. You must succeed this time." Then he added quietly, "They've sent someone else as well. You will not be alone."

Her brow knitted. "Who?"

Vael walked to the barracks door without answering. With a glance back, he said, "Prove your loyalty, Bishop Chau. Or the Church will find a new blade to serve its will."

An oppressive hush hovered over the Imperial Cathedral's war chamber. Located in the heart of Valenne, its polished marble floors were inscribed with ancient runes, and the domed ceiling soared overhead, set with mirrored mosaics that refracted more than mere light. They captured essence, reflecting illusions of truth for those gathered around the oval table. Candles flickered beneath towering statues of saints, giving an otherworldly shimmer to the assembly's vestments.

Cardinal inquisitors, high-ranking priests, and Church strategists encircled the table. At the chamber's head sat Pope Finnk, draped in layered gold-threaded silk that concealed his face. He was rumored to see beyond mortal vision, communing with the goddess Nimue directly. Many whispered that his silent authority was more terrible than a thousand swords, for no one truly knew what lay behind that veiled visage.

A cardinal cleared his throat, unrolling a parchment. "Witness testimony from Charlevoix confirms that Albion Pendragon survived the onslaught. We believe him to be the son of Elaine Pendragon, missing these many years."

Murmurs rippled around the table. Another cardinal added, "He thwarted the Crown's forces, aided by the Order of the Triskelion—renegade knights who cling to the old ways. It seems they aided the townspeople's escape."

The second cardinal's expression soured. "Reports indicate he wields the Blade of Prophecy. The runes awakened—no illusions or forgeries. The real Excalibur."

A hush fell. The church bells in distant corridors struck midnight, a hollow ring echoing through the war chamber. Many of the inquisitors turned their eyes to the Pope, seeking silent guidance.

The cardinal who had been speaking continued in a strained voice. "The boy must be eliminated before the Seven Kingdoms rally behind him. If the prophecy is believed, the empire's hold will weaken. The chance for revolution… it must be thwarted."

The entire congregation noted the Pope's raised hand—an ivory-gloved limb barely visible beneath golden sleeves. At once, all conversation ceased. The Pope's gesture drifted from the cardinal to a shadowed figure near the table's periphery. The Bishop stood there, silent as ever, half her face hidden under the brim of her helm.

Not a word was spoken. But the unspoken command was clear: Hunt him down.

Afterwards, Fai exited that chamber with a sense of dread clinging to her. During the trek through Valenne's labyrinthine corridors, she couldn't shake the image of the Pope's finger, pointing with absolute calm. She recalled how, upon the announcement of this new threat, everyone had worn an expression of collective alarm. She realized the Church was afraid—truly afraid—of one boy. That fear seemed more terrible than anything she had ever witnessed, for it hinted that the Church, in all its might, recognized a power beyond its reach.

It dawned on her how grand the stakes had grown. If a Pendragon wielding the ancient blade could unite the disillusioned masses, the Church's vision of a unified empire under Nimue's doctrine would be at risk. And the Church would never allow that. They would do whatever was necessary to preserve their dominion.

That night, Fai Chau's dreams offered no mercy. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw Sebastian, unburned and youthful, reaching for her across a field of swirling flames and glimmering frost. His eyes radiated hope. She stretched out her hand in return, but the dream ended with the howling of wind that tore him away. Jolted from sleep, she discovered her cheeks damp.

She rose before dawn, her limbs stiff, her armor laid out by her attendants. She dressed methodically, each plate fitted with mechanical precision. Yet when she glimpsed her reflection in a tarnished mirror, she struggled to recognize the figure staring back. The hair was hers. The face was hers. But something behind her eyes appeared… fractured.

The staff Sebastian had left behind still glowed faintly in the corner of the tent. She had kept it with her, telling herself it might serve as a clue to track him. But deep down, she knew it meant more. She had tested it, pressing her palm to its surface late at night, half-expecting it to flare or speak. She felt a pulse there, as though the staff possessed a heartbeat of its own. Part of her wondered if it signified that Sebastian lived. Another part feared that it symbolized her soul's refusal to let go of the single person who had seen her as more than a soldier.

At sunrise, she set out for the southern roads. She intended to follow rumors of the fleeing townsfolk: a ragged group that might lead her to this fabled Albion. Chau had only a handful of scouts with her, though they had been joined by a Church agent cloaked in black, whose face she never saw. A new companion, evidently assigned by the Pope or the Queen. He introduced himself as Castell. He wore no armor, only heavy robes embroidered with runes, and he spoke in a near-whisper. Something about him unsettled Fai. She had witnessed many inquisitors and assassins come and go under Church orders, but Castell radiated a cold authority that seemed almost inhuman.

As the group rode away from Valenne, the city gates shrinking behind them, Bishop Chau flicked the reins of her horse and tried to quiet the turmoil in her thoughts. But the new assignment weighed on her. She now embodied the Church's relentless reach, the scythe that cut down any who questioned its grand design. And for what? To quell a rebellion or to stifle a hope?

Days passed as they roamed charred fields, deserted farmland, and silent villages. The empire's scorched-earth tactics had preceded them in many places. Sometimes, they encountered survivors who huddled in barns or thick forests, lips drawn tight with fear. When questioned, these refugees said little. Their eyes glistened, and they trembled even at the mention of the Church. Fai felt an uncomfortable pang each time she realized they had more reason to fear the Empire than they had to fear roving bandits.

One evening, they found a ruined chapel on a hill overlooking a scorched valley. Old icons of Nimue had been defaced, likely by villagers who cursed the goddess for turning a blind eye to their suffering. The central doors were ripped from their hinges, and a foul stench lingered. Bishop Chau entered, noticing how the place reeked of stale blood. Castell followed closely, silent as a shadow, leaving footprints in the dust.

Broken pews were scattered around the main aisle. The once-grand statue of Nimue lay toppled, the goddess's serene visage cracked open. Candles had long since melted into shapeless lumps. The sole occupant of this forsaken chapel was an old woman huddled near the altar, shivering in the dark. Fai approached, but Castell drew a dagger from beneath his robe, the metal reflecting a sinister gleam in the moonlight.

"Stay back," he murmured, though the Bishop wasn't sure who the warning was for. He advanced toward the old woman, lifting his dagger in a gesture of intimidation. "Is there anyone else here?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head, frail voice cracking. "Gone… all gone."

Bishop Chau felt an odd compulsion to stop Castell, who seemed poised to torture or kill the woman for information. She stepped between them, raising her hand. "Let me speak to her."

He tensed. For a moment, it seemed he would ignore her. Then, with a contemptuous sneer, he relented, stepping aside.

She knelt by the woman. "You're alone?" she asked gently. "What happened here?"

The woman stared at her with milky eyes, tears glinting in the corners. "Men in black robes… they came for anyone rumored to have harbored priests from Charlevoix. My family… I couldn't protect them. The men said they served the Crown, that they were purging corruption. Then they… oh goddess…" She sobbed into her withered palms.

Fai swallowed. This was the Church's doing, or the Crown's, or both. Always the same mission: purge heresy, quell rebellion, brand their cruelty as a righteous act. The old woman's testimony served as another brick in the wall of horror Fai had begun to see everywhere.

She passed the woman a small canteen of water. "I am sorry," she whispered.

The old woman looked up, confused by an Imperial soldier's compassion. "They headed east," she whispered, voice trembling. "They brought some of the survivors. If the boy was among them, you might find him along that road. But if you do—don't let them kill him."

In that moment, something cracked inside her carefully built defenses. She bowed her head slightly, teeth clenched. The woman must have seen something in her eyes—an echo of doubt or maybe a shard of pity. A silent understanding passed between them.

Behind her, Castell uttered a soft chuckle. "We'll see," he murmured, stepping forward. "But we have our orders."

Bishop Chau shot him a withering glare, though she couldn't contest the truth of his words. Orders were orders. She rose, ignoring the heaviness in her limbs. Outside, her horse snorted in the cold wind, as if sensing the tension in the chapel. She felt watched, possibly by Nimue's cracked statue or by some unyielding cosmic gaze that measured her guilt. Turning her back on the old woman, Fai followed Castell out into the moonlight. The shadows of night cloaked them, but she could still make out the swirling silver in the sky, stars flickering like distant watchers.

They continued east across a bleak landscape of muddy roads and blackened fields. Smoke rose from distant farms, a sign of more systematic purges. Her troops traveled in silence, their expressions grim. They were used to war, but the unsettling rumor that an Imperial agent like Castell might turn on them at any moment chilled their hearts.

Some nights, she held the staff from Charlevoix, letting her mind wander to the memory of Sebastian in those final hours. She replayed the shifting shadows, the roar of flames, the blackened stone walls, searching for a clue to confirm whether he had truly perished. Every time, she came up empty-handed, left with an aching emptiness that refused to be named.

On the seventh day, they arrived at a ravine cluttered with uprooted trees. A small river trickled through the gorge, its waters tinted red by silt or possibly blood. The group halted when they saw fresh footprints on the damp ground, as well as drag marks suggesting captives had been forced along.

Fai motioned for her scouts to fan out. Castell drifted to a vantage point overlooking the ravine, his posture rigid. From there, he could watch everything below. If there was an ambush, it would be easy to defend the narrow pass, but equally easy to trap invaders. Fai suspected a showdown.

Sure enough, a faint cry echoed off the canyon walls—someone calling for help. Without hesitation, she signaled for caution. Two of her scouts, crept forward among the rocks. Moments later, they waved urgently. Fai Chau dismounted, approaching on foot with her qiang ready.

The sight that greeted her wrenched her heart. A small cluster of peasants—women, children, a few older men—were tied together with rope, huddled under a rocky outcrop. They appeared exhausted, battered by the elements, near collapse. Guards wearing the crest of the Crown stood around them, while a robed figure loomed just behind. One captive, a young girl, flinched at every movement the robed figure made. A battered signet ring on the guard captain's finger indicated that he answered directly to a Church inquisitor.

A standoff ensued the moment Bishop Fai and her people arrived. The guard captain recognized her rank and saluted stiffly. "We captured these traitors trying to hide a known heretic," he explained. "Our orders are to deliver them to the main encampment. The church inquisitor here insisted we… accelerate the process."

A cold recognition seeped through Fai. That inquisitor was no doubt part of the broader purge. She noticed he carried a whip, though it was coiled at his hip. She raised her voice, striving for composure. "Are you the only group here?"

The inquisitor pivoted, casting a suspicious glance. "We're awaiting reinforcements. There are rumors the Pendragon boy might be near."

Castell stepped forward, draping an arm across his chest in a theatrical bow. "I, too, serve the Holy See. Perhaps we can coordinate. My companion and I hunt the same prey."

The inquisitor's eyes flicked between Castell and Fai. "So, the rumors were true—Bishop Fai Chauherself has come." Then his gaze lingered on her qiang, and his lip curled in a slight sneer. "I heard Charlevoix… ended poorly."

She struggled not to bristle. "We accomplished what was required. Now, we'll take these prisoners off your hands. Unless you object?"

He seemed about to protest, but Castell's presence loomed like a silent threat. He shrugged. "Be my guest. They're half-dead already, though I'm sure you'll pry some small confession out of them."

With a curt nod, Bishop Chau signaled her scouts to untie the captives. As they did, a child whimpered. Seeing this, she placed a hand on the guard captain's arm. "What is the charge?"

He arched a brow. "Sedition. Harboring the Vicar or his allies."

"Where did they find you?" she asked one of the older men in the group.

He trembled, eyes downcast. "We were hiding in the cellar of a burned tavern. We never saw the Vicar. We just wanted to survive."

She studied the man's face, lined with sorrow. He didn't strike her as a rebel. But the Church wasn't picky about evidence when carrying out its purges. Guilt and innocence blurred together in times of war. She clenched her jaw, swallowing the realization that her mission would be equally merciless if it found a single link to Albion. No matter how young he might be.

They camped in the ravine that night, the captives separated into a guarded enclave. Fai stared into the campfire, where strips of dried meat sizzled on an iron spit. Castell lounged across from her, occasionally flipping through a leather-bound tome of prayers or spells—she couldn't tell which. She suspected part of him wanted her to see the elaborate glyphs etched into its pages, though she found them unsettling.

"What do you make of this Pendragon boy?" Castell asked, voice eerily calm. "A mere child? Or a fledgling knight in shining armor?"

Fai didn't look up from the fire. "The Church is terrified of him. That alone is telling."

He offered a thin smile. "He must be destroyed. I relish the task. It's been too long since a direct challenge to the empire emerged. Quite a novelty."

She said nothing, but a flicker of disgust passed through her. In the dancing firelight, she recalled Sebastian's staff lying in her tent. She forced the memory aside, trying to concentrate on the present danger.

One of the captive women wept softly nearby. Fai closed her eyes and exhaled, feeling tension in her chest. It would be easy to brand these people heretics and deliver them to the Crown's dungeons. But was that just? Was that Nimue's will or merely the Church's agenda? She couldn't stop asking these questions anymore, and each one chiseled away at her surety.

Fai dismounted near the ruins of another chapel—this one older than most, its stonework sagging beneath a broken steeple and heat-warped icons. The sign above the door had once read Sanctum Nimue. Now it was charred and half-hanging, blackened letters like teeth.

Inside, the walls were scorched, pews overturned. The altar had collapsed under the weight of its own shattered idols.

And across the back wall, scrawled in smeared charcoal, someone had written:

"The goddess does not burn us. You do."

Below it, more words—scratched hastily, like a confession too dangerous to speak aloud:

"She turned her face away. Or maybe she never looked at all."

Fai froze. The weight of it sat like ash on her shoulders. She stared at the writing, the rage and sorrow in every line, the way it split Nimue's divinity from the empire that claimed her.

One of the scouts stepped in behind her, took one look, and muttered, "Heresy."

Fai didn't respond. She just stared.

She wasn't sure if it was heresy.

Or the first honest prayer she'd seen in years.

That night, she lay awake in her bedroll, the wind echoing off the canyon walls, occasionally bursting into eerie whistles. Sleep came in fitful spells, each filled with chaotic flashes of the past: her father's stern lectures on honor, the day she first swore loyalty to the Queen, the moment she locked eyes with Sebastian in the burning city. Then she dreamed again of that field of fire and frost, the Vicar offering his hand. She reached for him, but the dream shattered each time before she could touch his fingers.

At dawn, the camp was roused by urgent shouts. Fai sprang to her feet, grabbing her qiang. Across the ravine, silhouettes darted behind a rocky outcrop. She spotted a banner—a faint outline of a three-headed symbol: the Triskelion. Her heart gave a jolt of recognition. The renegade knights were here.

A volley of arrows hissed through the air, striking the ground near the captive enclave. The Church guards scrambled, some returning fire with crossbows. Castell hissed an incantation, conjuring a swirling barrier of shimmering black energy that deflected a handful of arrows.

"The Order of the Triskelion!" a guard shouted. "They're trying to free the prisoners!"

Fai barked orders, rallying her scouts. The ravine turned into a chaotic battleground as the hidden knights emerged from behind boulders, steel glinting in the new dawn's light. They advanced with surprising coordination, covering each other's movements. She glimpsed a figure in battered armor sprinting toward the captives, cutting ropes with a swift slash of a short sword.

She charged forward, balancing her qiang as she navigated the uneven terrain. She cut through one of the knights, parrying a blow with her gauntleted forearm. Sparks flew. Her impetus carried her deeper into the fray. She heard Castell chanting behind her, launching bolts of crackling energy at the intruders, each strike leaving scorch marks on the rocks. The battered signet ring of the guard captain caught her eye as he joined the melee.

Within minutes, the scene escalated into a swirling conflict of dust, steel, and magic. The captives scattered in confusion. Some knights herded them toward a narrow path leading out of the ravine. Bishop Chau realized their strategy: they weren't here to kill the Imperial forces; they were here to rescue these people. She found herself momentarily torn between fighting the knights and assisting them in freeing the civilians—an impossible contradiction.

Amid the clash, a flash of movement drew her attention: a young man, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, pushing through the chaos with fierce resolve. He did not look like a knight. His clothes were too threadbare, his hair unkempt. But in his hands, he held a blade etched with runes that seemed to emit a pale, ghostly radiance. Though it was dawn, that sword carried its own glow, faint as a waning moon but unmistakable.

Instinct told her: Albion Pendragon.

A hush fell over her mind, the battlefield sounds dipping into an echo. She remembered the Church's directive, the Pope's silent gesture, Vael's threats. The entire empire had turned its focus to this young swordsman. And here he was, right before her, eyes alight with desperate courage. His presence alone seemed to embolden the prisoners, who recognized the significance of that runic blade.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She had never expected to find him so quickly. Had he come willingly to save these captives? The Church believed him a threat, a potential unifier of rebellion. But what she saw in that fleeting moment was a desperate youth risking his life for strangers—an echo of Sebastian's compassion.

No time to think. He charged toward her, sword raised. She spun her qiang in a defensive arc, steel colliding with an explosive clang. The vibration jolted through her arms. For an instant, their eyes locked—hers, wide with conflicted purpose, his, bright with unwavering resolve. In that instant, she saw no monster in him. Only someone who refused to abandon hope.

He attacked again, but he was no master swordsman. His stance was raw, untrained. She blocked easily. But each collision sparked an otherworldly echo, as if the sword's runes pulsed with dormant energy. She felt an unsettling tingle in her fingertips.

She feinted left, pivoting around him, letting the haft of her qiang strike the back of his legs. He stumbled but didn't fall. Recovering quickly, he lunged, blade singing through the air. She ducked, feeling the blade graze a strand of her hair.

Behind them, Castell advanced, chanting with ominous intensity. Fai glimpsed tendrils of black magic swirling around his outstretched hand, forming a serpent-like coil. She knew that spell—an entropic curse known to reduce living flesh to lifeless husks. Terror spiked in her chest. If he unleashed that on Albion, the boy would die in seconds.

With a move that surprised even herself, Fai batted Albion's sword away and whirled, jabbing her qiang toward Castell's wrist. The blow disrupted the incantation, the swirling darkness dissipating. Castell snarled, fury twisting his features. "What are you doing?" he hissed.

She made no reply. Instead, she spun back to face Albion, who had lowered his sword in confusion. Their eyes met again, both aware that her action had saved his life.

Shouts from the far side of the ravine: The Order of the Triskelion was retreating with the civilians. Albion glanced over his shoulder, seeing that they had rescued most of the prisoners. A knight beckoned him. Tension coiled in the air. Fai could have pressed her advantage, capturing him or striking him down. And yet she hesitated, her weapon lowered.

She said nothing, but her stance told him to go. He seemed startled, maybe even grateful, then tore away, sprinting to rejoin his allies. A few seconds later, he disappeared with the knights into the narrow pass, leading a ragtag line of freed prisoners out of the ravine.

When the dust settled, Castell erupted into rage. "Traitor!" he spat, stepping toward her as if to strike. "We had him—right there! You let the Church's greatest threat slip away!"

Fai forced her expression to remain impassive, though her heart thundered. "We were outnumbered. Our forces compromised. We needed to regroup."

His lip curled back in disgust. "Liar." He raised his dagger, brandishing it near her throat. "You defied direct orders."

A hush fell among the remaining soldiers. Their eyes flicked between Bishop Chau and Castell, unsure whose side to take. She stared at the swirling patterns on his dagger, suspiciously reminiscent of runic etchings. She recalled the cardinal's warning that another agent had been sent. Perhaps Castell outranked her in the Church's eyes, or perhaps not. But the possibility was enough to give him nerve.

"Stand down," she said, her voice deceptively calm. "I serve the Crown and the Church. I saw an opening for us to withdraw without further losses. Nothing more."

He studied her face. "You think your reputation can protect you?" he asked, voice trembling with anger. "The Pope will hear of this. Cardinal Vael will not be pleased. You can be replaced."

Her eyes flickered with the faintest defiance. "Noted."

Castell lowered his dagger, breathing heavily. Around them, the battered guards tried to gather what remained of their equipment, retrieving any wounded. The tension lingered like a bitter aftertaste. Bishop Chau directed the men to assess casualties, her instructions crisp and formal. She refused to meet Castell's gaze.

A few of the soldiers looked her way, not with derision—but with unease. One of them, a young scout with ash in his beard, leaned toward his comrade and whispered, "She let him go…"

Another guard avoided her gaze entirely, backing away as if afraid her defiance might be contagious.

Gravis met her eyes across the firelight. She didn't speak—not at first. But her gaze lingered long enough for Fai to sense the question behind it. And the warning.

Soon, the ravine fell eerily quiet, save for the moans of the injured. The knights were gone, the boy was gone, and Fai felt the magnitude of what she had just done. She was no fool; her hesitation was tantamount to treason in the Church's eyes. The ramifications would be swift and merciless.

In the aftermath, while medics tended to wounds and the Captain compiled casualty reports, Fai slipped away from the main encampment. She found a solitary spot by the river, the water still tinged with a faintly reddish hue. She stared at her reflection, seeing rivulets of dirt on her cheeks, her hair unkempt from the skirmish. Beyond that surface, she saw the turmoil swirling inside.

Why had she done it? Why had she spared the boy?

She recalled the fleeting terror in his eyes, the rawness of his swordsmanship, the unwavering devotion with which he sought to protect the helpless. She thought of the Church's dogged zeal in stamping out all threats and the silent acceptance in the eyes of those who had been purged. And for a moment, she remembered Sebastian's staff glowing faintly in her tent, as if urging her to remember the possibility of faith without tyranny.

Was it possible that her entire life within the Church was built on a lie? Or had the Church twisted Nimue's teachings to serve an insatiable hunger for power? She clenched her fists, fighting a swell of emotion.

Footsteps rustled behind her. She turned to see Gravis, the stoic Vanguard who had saluted her in Charlevoix, approach with caution. She bowed slightly. "Bishop Chau, we've accounted for the wounded. Some men are too injured to travel. Castell is demanding we pursue the boy immediately. But with our reduced numbers—"

She nodded. "We can't chase them. Not effectively."

Gravis seemed relieved. "Agreed. We'd only lose more men. But Castell… he's furious."

She gazed past her, to where the morning sun lit the rocky walls. "I'll handle him. Make sure the wounded receive proper care. We leave when they can be moved." Then she paused, adding softly, "No more harm to civilians."

She studied her for a moment, perhaps sensing the shift in her tone, but she merely saluted again. "Understood."

She left, and Fai lingered by the water. The reflection that stared back at her no longer looked like the soldier of unwavering loyalty. Instead, it looked haunted and uncertain, tethered by burdens she no longer believed in. If the Church had truly become an engine of terror, then by extension, so was she.

She touched the hilt of her qiang, remembering its significance. Once, she had seen it as an extension of divine justice. Now, it felt heavier, tinged with guilt. As she turned to return to camp, she felt the staff in her tent calling to her, a silent throb that resonated with the memory of Sebastian's final words: Faith has never betrayed me.

The next few days blurred into a tense waiting game. Castell fretted, sending messages by flint-hawk to the capital. Fai oversaw the wounded and prepared the group for travel, though she sensed the uneasy glances from those who suspected her loyalty had wavered. In the evenings, she took long walks away from camp, straining to see any sign that the knights might still linger nearby.

One dusk, she found herself in the burned-out shell of a small farmhouse near the ravine. Wandering inside, she discovered a table overturned, scraps of cloth scattered across the floor, the remains of a small wooden horse carved for a child. She stood there, silent, picturing the life once carried on in these walls. The orchard outside had been torched, the fruit trees turned into black skeletons. The empire, the Church—some combination of the two—had decreed such devastation. She wondered if Nimue truly wept, or if the goddess had grown indifferent.

A faint noise startled her—a scraping of boots on broken tiles. Instinctively, she crouched behind a half-collapsed wall, hand on her qiang. But the footsteps belonged to a woman in a tattered cloak. She looked no older than thirty, yet her face was haggard, eyes hollow. She was rummaging for anything of value. Seeing Fai, she let out a small gasp.

Bishop Chau slowly raised an open hand, signaling no threat. "I won't hurt you," she said quietly. "I'm alone."

The woman let out a shaky breath. "I just… need food. For my son."

Her son. Fai tried to imagine how many mothers had lost children in these purges, how many children had lost parents. She swallowed an inexplicable lump in her throat. Reaching to her belt, she withdrew a wrapped ration. "Here," she said, placing it gently on the table. "Take it."

Disbelief flickered across the woman's face. She snatched the ration, nodded in thanks, and hurried off before Fai could change her mind. As she left, Fai wondered if she saw a glimmer of recognition in the woman's eyes—recognition that the soldier was not the monster she had been painted as. Maybe it meant nothing. Or maybe it meant the start of a fracture in the empire's unyielding façade.

By the time Bishop Chau led her group out of the ravine, rumors spread that the Pope himself was reviewing the mission's failures, that Cardinal Vael was on his way to the front lines. Castell rode at her side, barely acknowledging her unless to voice suspicion or scorn.

On the morning, they departed, Fai slipped the staff from her tent into a leather wrapping. She secured it to her saddle, guarded from prying eyes. A subtle rebellious act, for she doubted the Church would approve her keeping a relic tied to a "heretic" Vicar. But she refused to leave it behind. Somehow, it felt like a slender lifeline to the part of her that still believed in compassion.

As they rode, the sky turned a dull grey. Clouds gathered, and a cold rain began to fall, soaking cloaks and dampening spirits. The road turned to slick mud. Soldiers grumbled. She stared ahead, her expression inscrutable, though inside she wrestled with too many questions for which she had no answers.

They paused midday in a ruined hamlet. Castell approached her, water dripping from the cowl of his hood. "You realize you've put yourself in an impossible position," he said calmly.

She kept her gaze forward. "Elaborate."

"You saved the boy. We both saw it. And you prevented me from casting the spell. That cannot be undone."

"What's your point?"

He tilted his head. "My point is that the Church might soon see you as a liability. You can't cling to your rank if you defy them again. There's talk of excommunication or worse for those who sabotage the empire's interests."

Her jaw tightened. "I did my job as best I could under the circumstances."

He laughed coldly. "Keep telling yourself that. I'll be sure to inform Cardinal Vael that your… hesitation… compromised the hunt." Then he leaned in, voice dropping low. "But perhaps you should consider your next steps carefully. I have no doubt you're strong, but the Holy See devours those who waver. I'd hate for you to share the Vicar's fate in Valenne."

Castell's fingers slid along the edge of his dagger, slowly tracing the runes as if counting them like beads on a rosary. But the sound he made under his breath wasn't a prayer. It was… something else. Words in reverse. A sound like scripture turned inside out.

Fai's skin crawled. She didn't flinch—but she noticed. And he wanted her to.

In that moment, she realized Castell was testing her—baiting her for a reaction. Perhaps hoping to confirm his suspicions that she was ripe for betrayal. She refused to rise to it. Instead, she turned on her heel and left him standing in the rain. Yet dread coiled in her stomach. She knew the Church would show no mercy if they deemed her insubordinate.

That evening, camped by a twisted oak tree, Fai received an unexpected visitor. Gravis again approached with an uncharacteristic earnestness in his eyes. "Bishop," she said quietly, "there are rumors swirling about you. The men are uneasy. They heard Castell accuse you of letting the Pendragon boy escape."

She regarded him steadily. "Do you believe those rumors?"

She glanced away. "I know what I saw. You fought him, but… you could have finished him. Instead, you pivoted to stop Castell. I don't pretend to understand why, but you acted against your usual instincts."

Fai sighed. She had worked under Vanguard Poppy Gravis for years. She had always been reliable, unwavering in her duty, never prone to gossip or panic. Now, she spoke with genuine concern, as if she worried about her. "That boy… was no demon," she said softly. "He was fighting for something he believed in. I wanted to capture him alive—if possible. Castell's spell would have ended that possibility."

Gravis studied her. "The Church sees no difference between capturing or killing. They want him gone." She lowered her voice. "What do you truly want, Fai?"

She looked away, unsure if she could answer honestly. Eventually, she said, "I want to fulfill my duty in a way I can live with. The rest… I don't know."

She nodded, as though accepting her half-truth. "Very well. I'll protect you."

She exhaled with gratitude. "Thank you."

Gravis saluted. "For what it's worth, I believe you did what you thought was right. I pray Nimue grants us clarity."

As she left, Fai stood beside the smoldering campfire, lost in a haze of introspection.

Behind her, inside the tent, the leather-wrapped staff gave a subtle thrum. Not loud. Not bright. But enough that she felt it—like a breath against the back of her neck, or the tap of a thought she wasn't ready to admit. It faded as quickly as it had come, leaving her wondering if it had happened at all.

She watched sparks drift upward, disappearing into the gloom. Sebastian's staff, wrapped in leather and hidden in her saddlebags, felt like a silent witness to her doubts. She could almost sense its gentle glow through the fabric. The line between faith and oppression had never felt so thin.

At dawn, the caravan finally resumed its march toward the capital, aiming to rejoin the main Imperial forces. Rain continued, a relentless drizzle that turned roads into quagmires. The gloom weighed on them all. Fai rode near the front, Castell often out of sight or trailing, perhaps preparing new accusations.

She felt the tension coil in her core, a tension that would soon break. The Church wanted a grand purge, an all-encompassing elimination of rebellion. The empire's horrors were no longer hidden—they scorched the land, devoured families, and twisted faith into a justification for cruelty. Chau's role as an elite soldier put her at the very center of these events. She thought of how Sebastian once spoke of faith as if it were a shield, not a weapon. Perhaps that was the distinction the Church had forgotten.

Each milestone on the road brought her closer to a reckoning. She saw it in the clouded eyes of villagers who, from behind shattered shutters, watched them pass. She saw it in the posture of her own soldiers, wary and subdued. And she felt it in her own heart, a gathering storm that threatened to break the loyalty that had defined her entire life.

She was Lady Fai Chau, the blade that served the Crown and the Pope without question. But now she carried a dying staff that still glowed with some vestige of hope. She had found the Pendragon and not killed him. She stood at the threshold of an impossible choice: remain the Church's favored weapon or follow the spark that urged her toward a different path. One day soon, she would have to decide.

For now, she rode on through the rain, each hoofbeat an echo of the hollow silence that followed Charlevoix's fall. She recalled that silent city, the embers drifting like snow in an endless night, and the unwavering compassion in Sebastian's dying gaze. She remembered the hush after everything burned, a hush that whispered, What have we become?

The empire's horrors were laid bare, and the Church's plan for purging heresy was not yet complete. Darkness loomed. The Pope's demands pressed ever onward. Cardinal Vael's ambition slithered through corridors of power. Castell's suspicions threatened to spark her downfall. And somewhere out there, Albion Pendragon fled with the spark of rebellion glowing in his sword, offering hope to those desperate enough to believe.

Fai felt her resolve fraying, like threads pulled taut beyond endurance. She remembered the dream: Sebastian, young again, reaching for her hand through fire and ice, urging her not to lose sight of what truly mattered. She could almost hear his voice now, tender yet insistent, calling her name. And in that moment, she understood the depth of her crisis. Something fundamental in her had changed, cracked open by the ashes of Charlevoix.

As the rain thundered and the wind whipped at her cloak, she shut her eyes and imagined that field of swirling embers. She pictured that unwavering hand, beckoning her to step forward. Uncertainty clutched her heart, but also a fragile sense of longing. Could she be more than a blade? Could she be someone who honored life instead of trampling it?

Duty demanded an answer, yet she found no easy words to fill the silence. All she had was the battered staff glowing faintly in her saddlebags, a testament to a faith that refused to die, and a boy with a runic sword forging a path beyond her control. She wondered if her story—the empire's story—would end in more flames. She wondered if any redemption was possible.

As the caravan pressed forward, hooves splattering mud across the weary line of soldiers, Fai realized with a sudden, stark clarity that she was teetering on a blade's edge between two destinies. One path led to unyielding devotion to the empire's purges, continuing her legacy as the Church's most feared champion. The other path, uncertain and terrifying, called her to doubt, to question everything she had been taught, to risk the wrath of those who saw doubt as betrayal.

The distant bells of some ruined church tolled faintly through the gathering storm. Fai lifted her gaze to the sky, watching lightning fork across the clouds. And, in that flicker of harsh illumination, she felt as though the entire world held its breath, waiting to see which way she would turn. She could not know yet how her choice might shape the fate of kingdoms. She only knew that the hush of Charlevoix still lingered, the hush of absolute devastation, whispering of horrors and regrets yet to come. In that hush, a single heartbeat of faith persisted—like the gentle glow of Sebastian's staff, refusing to fade.

And so, in the wet gloom of that road to Camelot, armed with conflicting truths, Bishop Fai Chau pressed on—her mind stormy, her soul poised on the brink. Each drop of rain reminded her how quickly the fires of war could be quenched if only the will to change existed. Yet the will of one soldier might not outweigh the might of an empire… unless the soldier discovered a strength beyond fear. In the silence that followed her final thought, she clutched the reins and set her jaw, uncertain but resolute in her need to see this through. Whether that led to liberation or further damnation, she could not say. For the first time in her life, she allowed herself to hope there might be another way. And for the first time in her life, she feared the Church would not forgive her for finding it.