While Kael shivered in frozen and burning fever in the sewers, the slum's parade ended. Priests stowed away their flames, sermons about Kythra's mercy echoing one last time across the cheerful crowd.

  The head priest didn't share the slum's enthusiasm. He glanced at the necklace hidden beneath his gown. No reactions, not for the rest of the day. A heretic. Unacceptable. Slamming his ringed staff on the pavement, he forged his way back to the Black Cask bar, commanding. "We're getting answers. Now."

  "Burn false truths." The other priests fell into step behind him, hands moving in unison to smooth the blazing suns on their gowns. Amusement was over. Now, they were on a divine inquisition.

  Once back to the bar, they spread around the entrance. Two thugs walked to them, cracking their fingers until they recognised their gowns. A single glance from the group made their muscular arms tremble against their sleeveless jackets and their feet move back.

  "We've stained our faithful eyes enough. No one enters or leaves until I'm done." The men barricaded the door and windows with their straight backs, while the head priest stormed inside. With a snort at the dancers draped in revealing red silk and men drawing in cheap ale and tobacco, he went to the counter, his red eyes locked not on Silma's face, but on her broad shirt as if he knew what she hid. "Garrick Vane. Now."

  Silma Reed arched a brow, the brown in her pupils veering red for a heartbeat, her fingers closing on something at the edge of her sleeve. Then, her lips curled, and she flipped the flap in the counter. "Of course, sir. Garrick's door is always open to preachers of the gods. Only, I'm afraid another than Kythra stole his faith."

  "And he'll burn for it, like all those blind or arrogant enough to ignore the truth blazing in front of them." The head priest didn't talk; he prophesied as he opened the office door.

  Garrick was there, seated behind his oak table in his striped suit, a feather dancing across paper. Gold crowns piled beside his open ledger glinted in the soft glow of the oil lamplight. He gazed up before gesturing politely at the leather chair opposite him. "Please, take a—"

  The head priest sat without waiting, making him pause, then continue with a sigh. "A seat. To what do I owe your visit, Flamebearer Aurel? Last I remember was you closing down my bar and chasing my girls out to pray before the harvest festival. What was it?" Garrick tapped his forefinger on his forehead. "This sinful dump tests the limits of our faith. The less time we spend in it, the less we'll offend Kythra."

  "My opinion did not change, Garrick. The place's worse than it was eight years ago, but enough with it. I came for grave matters; a heretic in the streets. The crown abolished the enforcers' raids because you took an oath-bound vow to develop and keep the slums in check. So, either you couldn't follow our instructions, or you're incompetent." Aurel leaned forward, flamboyant hair cascading on the desk.

  Garrick tilted his head, lips beginning to purse in a line of cold iron. They stretched into an amiable smile the next second, as if they had forgotten what they tried to do. "I followed the rules, as I do during each festival. My men were holed up where they should be. The mad dog kept his pups in his sewers, and Joss Renn knows not to light fires he can't put out. Someone... anchored a truth on his own?"

  "A false truth! An unsanctioned heretic. On your streets."

  "A false truth," Garrick repeated, but his fingers found his chin. "I can't let the heretic wander as he likes. Worry not, Aurel, I'll catch and teach him that nothing escapes the wise gaze of the gods. May they forgive my momentary 'incompetence'."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The lamplight cast grim shadows on both their faces for a couple of silent seconds. Then, Aurel smirked. "As you should. On a more festive note, I heard stories during the parade. Whispers crackle about... treasures. Nothing our temple should be informed of, I hope."

  "Ah! Now we're truly talking festivities." Garrick turned his red leather chair and flipped open the lid of a metallic box.

  Light instantly reflected off the yellow surface of its contents. He casually presented a palm-sized piece with rough, unpolished edges. "Gold ore of the finest quality, indeed a true treasure. Please, High Priest Aurel, this piece is yours. A modest show of gratitude for your warning."

  Aurel let his hand hover over the gold piece without picking it up. Instead, his eyes narrowed. "You play this game too well for a lowly slum-born."

  "Haha. A sharp mind is a slum-born's only inheritance, and by the grace of Theda, mine is slightly above average."

  "The martial goddess cares not about wordplay."

  "She does not in her divine realm. But what am I but a lowly mortal among many others?"

  "Very well." Aurel pocketed the gold and moved to the door. "One of my men will remain until the heretic finds the path to Kythra or burns. I'll leave the rest in your capable hands, Garrick Vane, worshipper of Theda."

  As soon as he left, Silma slipped inside. She sank into the seat Aurel just left, crossing her legs on the desk. "Why didn't you shoot the pompous envoy of the god?"

  Garrick delicately moved her ankles to the ground with two fingers. "We're not ready. But soon, soon the slums won't contain us."

  "Do you think he bought your expensive deception?" Silma glared at the gold box.

  "I would call it cheap for peace." Garrick passed a hand in his wheat-colored hair. "Undoubtedly too cheap for a high priest. He thinks he's onto something. One of his men will keep his eye on us for a while. Don't let anything show, keep your relics hidden, and tell Brannick to look for that 'heretic'. Just when we ran out of experiment subjects." Lighting a cigar, he smirked. "I wonder who it is."

  ****

  After leaving the bar, Aurel approached a good man, who proved his faith more than most at barely twenty-five. Blond hair like the rays of the sun jutted out of the leather strap tying them down his back. He placed his hands on his broad shoulders, his voice low. "Would you serve Kythra's greatness by staying behind, Samuel?"

  "Sir, it'll be a honor."

  "Good. Keep an eye on Garrick, but don't confront him openly. Glean information, understand what his sick mind plots. Saw the imported goods records when we descended—beast blood and body parts. Once you know what he's using them for, report to me." Aurel fished out his necklace.

  A wheel of grey hands adorned a chain made of silver and what seemed to be half-crystallised blood. "Relic 89: The Hands of the Unburied. The hands will point to any false truth worshipper. Show him the light of Kythra or—"

  "Kythra's flames shall purify his soul." Samuel palmed the chain and instantly wore it beneath his gown.

  "Yes. But don't forget. Four hours a day at most, then you store the chain away." Aurel handed him a box adorned with rubies that would fit in his pocket.

  "What happens if I don't pay attention to time?" Samuel narrowed his eyes on the chain.

  "The hands... they recognise anchored truths. They desire them. They want to merge with them, to add yours to the wheel. Keep your eyes on time if you don't want to become something... else."

  While Samuel hurriedly stored the relic in the box instead of wearing it, Aurel patted his shoulders twice. "You have all my trust, Bearer Samuel." He turned toward the other priests. "Time to leave this godforsaken place for the light of our temple. Move out!"

  Samuel slammed his staff down in goodbye, a steely glint in his eyes, and his chest puffed in pride. A week. No, he would expose Garrick's schemes and find the heretic in three days.

  He watched his fellow priests scale the bridges above until they faded behind a beam thicker than ten men. "For the glory of the goddess!"

  Without wasting a second, he began his search at the edges of the central district, where High Priest Aurel reacted to his presence. The relic... Not now. Finding witnesses, mapping the slums, and understanding the power structure. Then, he'd use his daily four hours to sift through the streets.

  Garrick would be trickier to deal with. Smart man. The wrong type of smart. Not his men. Low-born thugs ran their mouths too much to their boss's liking. If he joined them in their sinful practices, making them think he was one of them, he'd definitely find a couple of clues.

  He clapped his hands, yet his lips twisted in a reluctant grimace. Before everything, he needed to remove his sacred gown to wear the infidels' fabric and blend with them.