The chamber was silent, save for the quiet chanting of prayers.

  A priest bound to a blackwood chair sat in the center. His head and hands were wrapped in silver thorns.

  Darius squatted in front of him, elbows resting on his knees.

  The bound priest trembled. “What... what is this?” he demanded. “What’s going on here?”

  “Ah, right…” Darius said softly. “You’re a regular clergy member. You’re not familiar with the Inquisitors of the Thorned Path.”

  He exhaled through his nose in something like amusement, then stood, brushing invisible dust from his coat. “We call this the Confessional Room.”

  Two of the priests circling the bound man chuckled under their breath before resuming their quiet chanting. Their voices overlapped in a droning rhythm that filled the air like smoke, heavy and suffocating.

  Darius stepped closer. His hand hovered over the coils of silver, tracing the silver glow with his fingertips. “And these…” he said, voice almost tender, “we call The Acts of Contrition.”

  He chuckled softly to himself.

  The bound priest flinched, confusion and dread warring in his wide eyes. “What?! What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Why are you interrogating me?”

  Darius smiled, patient, sympathetic, and utterly insincere. “Interrogating? No, brother. We aren’t here to interrogate you. I’m simply going to ask you a few questions. That’s all.”

  He leaned closer, his voice dropping into a reassuring murmur. “As long as you tell the truth, nothing will happen.”

  The priest swallowed, his throat tight. “And if I lie?”

  Darius blinked, feigning confusion. “Why would you lie to your brothers and sisters?”

  The priest’s breath hitched.

  Darius’ smile grew faint, almost kind. He rested his hand lightly on the thorned crown, “While these devoted priests chant their rites, The Acts of Contrition will know when you lie. For every false word, the binds will tighten.”

  He gave the crown a gentle pressure, just enough to make the thorns graze against the priest's skin. “And the tighter they bind, the more you will detest your own lying tongue. A divine compulsion.”

  The bound man gasped in outrage, jerking against the chair. “You—how dare you?! You cannot strip free will! You would violate the sanctity of the soul!”

  Darius clicked his tongue softly and tapped the man’s cheek with two fingers. “Your free will remains intact, brother… as long as you are truthful.”

  He straightened, voice calm as scripture. “The more you lie, the more you prove you are unworthy of that precious gift.”

  The chanting deepened, the air vibrating with unseen power.

  Darius sighed; it sounded almost tired.

  “I hope you’ll be honest. Each time the bindings tighten, the compulsion grows. Lie enough times…” He met the man’s eyes, his tone soft, conversational. “And you’ll become a mindless husk. A creature that only answers questions. I would hate for things to go that far… brother.” The word should sound sweet and warm, but it cut deep into the bound priest, accompanied by an unease he had never known. His heart hammered against his ribs. His breath came quick and shallow.

  Darius drew Devotion from his belt. He rested the tip gently against the stone between them, both hands on the hilt.

  “First question,” he said.

  His voice was almost tender.

  “Why are you working with Cursed Bounty?”

  The priest blinked at Darius. “What do you mean? I would not be able to hide the taint if I were working with him.”

  The silver thorns answered for him.

  They tightened, grinding faintly against skin; they had not drawn blood, but he could feel the heat of the thorns pinch.

  Darius’s chuckle was quiet. “Normally, yes, we’d know. But we’re already aware that you and yours can hide the taint, even from seasoned Inquisitors and Saints. Clever work, really.”

  He lowered his eyes to the bound man’s wrists. “Unfortunately for you, it doesn’t fool Devotion.”

  He raised the sword until its edge hovered before the priest’s face. The blade flared crimson, and a heat rolled off it. It was enraged.

  When Darius drew the blade back down, the air cooled again.

  “So,” he said softly, “let’s skip the denial phase. I have a lot of questions.”

  He tilted his head. “I’ll ask once more—why are you working with Cursed Bounty?”

  The priest’s expression shifted. The fear drained out of it, leaving something darker. A dry laugh slipped from his throat.

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  “So that cursed blade’s how you found the others, too, is it? Damn it all.” His fist gripped tight. “Garran’s still a pain in the ass, even in death.”

  He gave a low hiss. “We joined Cursed Bounty because he was the greatest Saint the Sanctum ever produced. He saw the rot festering from within. So I agreed to help him on his mission.”

  Darius’s voice was even. “What was his mission?”

  The priest snorted. “How should I know? I’m a grunt. I’m told where to go, not why.”

  That was true.

  Darius smirked faintly. “Curious. You answer my questions so freely. The others before you stayed silent until the end.”

  The priest chuckled in derision. “Because they were fools. They thought you would not kill them. They were wrong. You’re of Garran’s mold. You’d burn a village if it meant finishing a task.” He spat the name like ash.

  “If I live a little longer, maybe I can still accomplish something. And with my station, there’s little I can say that will help you.” He tried to ride his bravado, to take control of the conversation. But he didn't understand that there was one captain on this voyage of clashing egos.

  He expected to see Darius's annoyed face, but all he saw was him deep in thought. Darius exhaled through his nose, a half-laugh. “You’ve already told me plenty.”

  The man frowned. “How?”

  Darius paced slowly around the chair, “First, because the others didn’t know my disposition well enough to know my resolve. That tells me you all work in isolation. Each cell is blind to the next.”

  He brushed his fingers along the back of the chair as he moved. “That means your network inside the Sanctum is compartmentalized. Perfect for avoiding leaks. Perfect for disposing of pawns.”

  The bound priest’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it. The chanting priests kept their rhythm steady.

  Darius stopped behind the chair. “It’s inefficient for gathering information, though… unless—”

  “Unless they have someone high enough to coordinate the pieces,” Isolde finished quietly from the back of the room. Her tone was matter-of-fact.

  The bound priest froze. His eyes darted toward her, then down again, realizing how much he’d revealed.

  Darius stepped back into view, the faintest ghost of approval touching his mouth. “Exactly. Someone who collects, organizes, and directs. Tell me, brother...Am I right?”

  The priest would not look him in the eye. The priest’s lack of answer would, to any reasonable man, be confirmation; here, confirmation and damnation were nearly the same.

  “You won’t speak?” Darius’s tone was even. “Very well.” He inclined his head once to the priests who flanked the chair. They exchanged a single look and began a different chant. The silver thorns hummed. The priest’s breath came faster.

  Darius asked again. “Who is it?”

  The man’s jaw clenched. He tightened his fists against the bindings until the thorns bit deeper; still, no blood. He remained mute. Panic stretched across his face, white at the lips, sweat beading along his temple, as a single bead of blood began to roll down his head.

  Darius watched the man's panic with a dulled expression. “This particular rite is useful in situations like this,” he said. “For every second you refuse to speak, the binds tighten. The compulsion grows. You can hold out for a time. But whether it takes minutes or hours, either you or your free will... will break.”

  The priest’s eyes bulged. The thorns grew tighter with each passing second, and he could feel the compulsion to speak overcome him. He didn't want to be a traitor, but he didn't want to become a husk. Maybe... maybe if he answered just a bit, he could be spared from this.

  He barked, a raw sound that split the chanting: “I don’t know... I swear, I don’t know who they are!”

  Darius watched with a frown, as if the answer itself were an inconvenience. The man was telling the truth. The thorns stop their movement.

  “You don’t know,” he said slowly. “How do you not know?”

  The priest’s mouth trembled around his words. “I never saw them. There was a go-between. He passed things at confession. Written notes slipped into the censer, into loaves, under hymnals. We never...” His voice collapsed into a wet sob.

  Darius’s eyes moved to Isolde as if consulting a ledger. “You burn messages?” he asked dryly.

  The priest nodded, feverish. “Of course. I may be disposable, but I'm not a fool.”

  Darius’s hand brushed the pommel of Devotion. He addressed Isolde without turning. “You have a better understanding of the Sanctum’s hierarchy than I do. Who do you think it is?”

  Isolde stepped forward, voice level. “They couldn't be Cardinals,” she said. “Cardinals are in too high a position. Too many eyes, too many enemies to go unexposed for so long. ” She rubbed her chin in contemplation.

  “But Bishops. Archbishops. They have both the power necessary without the added weight that Cardinals carry. They'll have access to almost the same information as Cardinals, with enough below them to siphon busy work too, but low enough to go under the radar. They are in the right position to have the influence and the plausible deniability.”

  “And why not someone lower?” Darius asked.

  “How the go-between relayed information implies authority,” Isolde replied. “Only someone with access to regular confession times and clerical traffic could route messages so cleanly. They needed keys to chambers, access to schedules. And the authority to manipulate them.”

  The bound priest’s lips trembled as the logic settled on him like a shroud. He had claimed ignorance; ignorance was possible, but unlikely. Darius let the silence hang. He may not know the face or name, but could he really not know the position?

  “Which is it? Bishop or Archbishop,” he asked finally.

  The priest shook. He will not let go of his defiance. The priest felt the thorns tighten in his silence, and he went to bite his tongue. He refused to let himself be compelled. If he were forced to speak, then he would let the truth die with him. Darius moved faster than any priest ever could. His gauntleted fingers found the man’s jaw and forced his mouth open.

  The priest let out a panicked gurgle as he fought against the power of Darius's grip. The thorns tightened again. Blood that once trickled began to flow like a faucet. It slid down the man’s wrists, darkening his robes. He spat and tried to wrench his head away, but the bindings held, and the chanting had shifted tone, now an all-but-mechanical metronome counting down.

  Darius’s voice was dark, cold. “Dying is not an option for you... not yet.”

  Tears lined the priest’s eyes. He tore air into him in small, wet bursts. “I...” he began, and then his teeth clicked uselessly against Darius's fingers.

  The priest thrashed, muffled cries shaking through Darius’s palm. His eyes were wild—pleading, furious, terrified all at once. The thorns cut deeper, wrapping until the silver nearly disappeared beneath the slick red.

  Darius’s tone never changed. “You brought this on yourself, brother. I warned you.”

  The breath left him in a long, broken exhale as the light behind his eyes dimmed. His body didn’t die—it simply stilled. The tension vanished. His pupils dilated, blank and waiting.

  Darius slowly withdrew his hand from the priest’s mouth. The man’s lips moved, trembling, but the words that followed were empty—toneless. The first signs of the rite’s final stage.

  “Good,” Darius said softly, resting Devotion’s tip on the stone floor. “Now you’ll tell me everything.”