CHAPTER 19: Tongues of Wax and Iron

By dawn, a second priest was dead.

This one was found hanging from the inner wall of the Cathedral Library — mouth stitched shut with gold thread, eyes removed with surgical cruelty. His body swayed slightly in the draft from the stained-glass windows, casting shifting colors across the stone. On his chest, carved in brutal, deliberate strokes, were the same two words:

The Queen.

Guildmaster Rennel's voice thundered across the council chamber like a storm rolling through old mountains. "They've infiltrated the city. I don't care how — find them."

The stained-glass windows behind him filtered the sun into weak, fractured light. It made the council chamber feel like a place trying very hard to be sacred — and failing.

Bell stood at the head of the long table, his jaw clenched, every inch of him taut with barely restrained fury. "I need access to all encrypted messages leaving the Guild in the last two weeks," he said. "If there's a leak, it's not coming from the outside."

Seria leaned forward, hands flat against the old oak surface. "They're mimicking authority. That last sigil? It was drawn in High Guild ink. That's locked stock — no one should have access but the upper seven."

Her voice didn't rise, but it cut through the room like a scalpel. She wasn't angry. She was precise.

Cid, who hadn't spoken yet, leaned back in his chair like it bored him to be there. His legs were crossed, his hands resting lazily behind his head. "Traitors never wear horns, you know," he said, with that usual dry grin. "They wear uniforms."

No one laughed.

By midday, the council had narrowed their focus to five individuals with unusual clearance. Three were mages — one of whom had a record of minor insubordination. The fourth was a steward responsible for route schedules between quarters. The fifth was a courier.

Tessan Vale.

"He's a ghost," Rennel muttered, scrubbing a hand down his lined face. "Trained in the White Courts. We tracked him to twenty-four official deliveries, but he never speaks. Never writes. Could be a blind servant. Could be a plant."

Bell didn't hesitate. "I'll find him."

Tessan's trail led them beyond the polished towers and into the underbelly of Aurelia — the Lower Rings, where the cobbles were uneven and the air stank of iron, rot, and desperation. Here, noble walls gave way to slouching buildings of iron and soot, alleys that twisted without reason, stairwells that led nowhere.

A place where names weren't spoken, and masks were more common than faces.

They split up to cover ground. Bell stayed above, vaulting across roof tiles and chimney flues, shadowing figures from overhead. Seria drifted through the marketplace, asking subtle questions to charm-sellers, perfumers, and old apothecaries who knew every eye that passed their stalls.

Cid slipped through the alleys — quiet, unnoticed, like smoke curling under a door.

And he found it.

Not Tessan. Something older.

A shrine.

Hidden beneath a forgotten bridge that no longer touched water. Lit with green candles that burned without flickering. Bones lay piled in deliberate patterns — bird skulls, hollowed-out ribcages, rows of knotted teeth.

And above the altar, scrawled in something too dark to be ink, a prayer:

Hail the Broken Crown. Hail the Serpent's Bride. The Ash Throne will rise.

Cid said nothing.

He stared at the bones for a long time.

Then turned — and was gone, like breath fading from glass.

It was Seria who found Tessan first.

Or rather, what was left of him.

In a dye house long abandoned, half-buried beneath bolts of rotting purple silk, his corpse had been folded like paper. The skin sagged, lips stretched into a mockery of a grin. The eyes, of course, were gone. But what had been stitched into his cheeks wasn't thread.

It was human hair.

Black. Coarse. Still oily.

Bell arrived only moments later, sword half-drawn, the heat of adrenaline still clinging to his skin.

"We're too late," he said.

Seria shook her head slowly, stepping back from the corpse. "No. This wasn't just a kill. This was punishment."

Bell frowned. "For betrayal?"

She nodded, her eyes dark. "He knew something. Maybe tried to run. Maybe tried to warn us."

Bell looked down at the mangled body, then turned away, fists clenched so tight his knuckles bled. "They're cleaning up after themselves. Which means they're still watching."

That night, the Guild locked down.

Every archway was warded. Every corridor watched. Mages posted glowing runes across the main halls. The tower's heavy doors were shut with seals older than the Guild itself. It felt less like protection and more like a prison — a trap they'd laid for themselves.

Paranoia spread like smoke. Everyone whispered, even when they were alone.

Bell paced the southern courtyard with sword still sheathed, but his fingers never strayed far from the hilt.

Seria sat on a stone bench nearby, arms crossed. Her eyes didn't leave him. "You're wearing yourself thin."

He didn't stop. "I can't afford not to. Not when every hour, someone else dies."

She stood and stepped toward him, placing a hand lightly on his arm. "You're not alone in this, Bell."

His eyes met hers. And for the first time all day, his shoulders dropped just a little. The fight in him eased — not gone, but tempered.

From high above, in the watchtower, someone watched them through the slats of an old window.

At the top of the tower, past the sealed hall and the wind-hollow stair, a figure stood alone.

Face hidden.

Presence cloaked.

Before them stretched a large map of Aurelia — hand-drawn, parchment yellowed with age, every district marked and labeled. But now, across its surface, were blood-red pins.

The temples.

The markets.

The Guildhall itself.

And now…

The palace.

The figure tapped the newest pin.

The Royal Theatre.

A place of music, masks, and ceremony. A place where eyes watched from above and secrets passed beneath velvet seats.

Behind him, a serpent slithered.

Vyrniss.

Her body coiled around his shoulders, her scales gleaming like oil and dusk. She pressed her head to his neck, her tongue flicking the air.

"You're moving fast," she whispered.

The figure didn't answer.

She nuzzled against his ear, voice low and amused. "Your cousin grows louder. He is not deaf to the whispers anymore."

Still, silence.

Then finally, the figure spoke — voice like distant thunder:

"Let him hear them."