Morning in the Elven District held a gentle hush that was warm and soothing in the morning cool. Harsh light, for weary eyes, of the morning sun was filtered through the leaves that glowed like emeralds; the air smelled of sap. There was a holiness that tugged at the core of all the Inquisitors there.

  Darius watched his men move through the forest with relief and comfort. They had slept well—better than any night on the march—or even in their own homes. Good, he would need them at their sharpest today.

  Even here among the living trees and whisper-thin streets, they wore the black and iron of the Thorned Path because they had not yet permitted themselves to be anything else.

  Calder was the first to peel free from the group and come to rest at Darius's side, who was sharpening Devotion, still glowing red. She did not bother with a greeting. "We waiting for Selene before we head out?" she asked bluntly, an eyebrow raised.

  Darius shook his head. "No. We're going to her. We have been called to the Clock Hand Tower."

  There was a beat where the question hung between them and the trees. Faces shifted, confusion coloring lines that had lain set only minutes ago.

  "Why are you all surprised?" Darius asked softly. The corner of his mouth lifted. "Of course, they'll want to know why we came without warning."

  Tomas made the sign of the Thorns and pressed his thumb to his lip. "And what will you tell them?" he asked.

  "The truth," Darius said.

  Eryndor's laugh was a short, brittle thing. "Is that wise?"

  "It's the first blow," Darius answered. "We'll use it to see how they respond." He looked at his company as he wiped Devotion down. "Watch everything. A twitch, a glance, the way a foot turns—take note. We don't need to expose them immediately. Just need to get a glimpse into their state of mind."

  Kaelen's mouth curled. "You taking us with you this time? Usually, we wait outside until the shouting's done."

  "Some of you," Darius told him. "I'll need more eyes inside. Too many will be on me, so I won't be able to stare as intently as I would like."

  They agreed. The plan, at least as Darius believed it should be, was simple: walk into the lion's den carrying a torch and see who smiles.

  Isolde dropped from the canopy like a whisper in cloth and light, folding into their circle with the careless grace of someone who owned the air. Isolde drifted down from the canopy, a slow, graceful fall like a leaf spiraling in an autumn wind. She landed lightly in their midst. "Come on," she said cheerfully. "I'll take you to the Tower."

  Kaelen scoffed. "We don't need a guide. It's right there. You can see it from here."

  Isolde burst into laughter.

  Aelun, serene as ever, spoke before she could. "Without explicit invitation, you'll walk toward it forever. Illusion loops. You'll be lost until the guards decide you've suffered enough to let you out."

  Myrren's eyes grew wide. "Incredible… but how does the spell remain stable? How does it—"

  Aelun shrugged. "No one knows how it functions. Only Morgan understands its architecture. Selene, as her blood and successor, can pass freely. The rest of us are captives to the Tower's whims."

  Isolde lifted a hand. "And as someone with a lifetime invitation, I can pass freely too—with boundaries, of course. And since Morgan herself told me to escort you, I get to take you through the maze. Come on."

  The Inquisitors exchanged glances but followed.

  They walked. And yet… they didn't feel as though they walked at all. No twisting of space. No sensation of passing barriers. No shimmering magic.

  Just their feet pounding the pavement. Yet they were not at ease; the fact that such a perfect and untraceable illusion could even exist chilled them to their core.

  Normal steps through the District, and suddenly they were standing before the gate of the Clock Hand Tower.

  It loomed like a crystal fortress fused with an astronomical puzzle, every arch and pane carved with magical mechanisms only the Hallows could create.

  Two Orc guards flanked the entrance, their massive arms crossed.

  Isolde strode up first. "Boys. I've brought the guests."

  The Orcs grunted; the one with the scar across his jaw said in a voice like a dropped boulder, "You slow, squishy female," and then pointed down the path. "They wait in the council chamber."

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  Isolde inclined her head and led them inside. Another pair of sentries blocked the front door; when Isolde stepped forward, they regarded her with the flat, efficient grunt of recognition.

  "The tower has rules," the nearer Orc said. "Only ten may enter."

  Darius counted on his fingers and smiled. "That's fine. Only nine of us need to go in." He recited names quietly: Darius, Aelun, Isolde, Eryndor, Calder, Tomas, Kaelen, Jareth, Myrren. The others would wait outside.

  The moment the doors opened, the world shifted.

  The interior was impossibly vast—hundreds of times larger than the exterior's dimensions, which was already grand in size. Staircases floated in shifting arcs. Galleries spiraled like glass ribs. The ceiling stretched so high into the air that its existence became irrelevant. It was more like an endless expanse, and what lit the darkness was not candles or chandeliers. There were floating orbs of light, shimmering like constellations in a midnight sky.

  Myrren's pencil scribbled on paper fast and soft. "This is… this is space-folding on an unimaginable scale," she breathed. "Incredible." She tucked notes into the folds of her skirts like a priest tucking rosary beads. In this foyer, which looked more like a living constellation, there were a multitude of doors and hallways spread throughout. The sheer number of them was already overwhelming.

  "How is anyone supposed to navigate this?" Darius muttered. He felt small in the presence of such impossible architecture.

  "You don't," Isolde said breezily. "You speak where you want to go, push open a door, and you'll be there."

  "Just like that?" Darius asked skeptically.

  "Well… you need to clearly picture your destination. And each door only links to specific regions. It's not random."

  Eryndor made a strangled noise. "So you can only travel to places you've already visited, while also remembering which door goes where?"

  "Exactly," Isolde said brightly.

  Darius rubbed his temples. "No wonder there's no inner guard. Any intruder would be lost for years."

  They followed Isolde up a spiraling staircase, then through a long hall of doors. She took a left down a hall, then another left at a fork. She then took four rights and then stopped at the fifth door on the left. Isolde's steps were confident. So much so that no one bothered to question whether she was lost. Then she opened the door, the space shifted, and they stepped into the council chamber.

  A vast round table took up the center of the room, its surface inlaid with runes like river maps. Around it, the power of the Hallows had come to sit and be seen. The Warlock Emperor of Altheryon—Rhydan—spread across a chair that looked out of place with the others; clearly, he brought his own. The Emperor of Valenfor sat with a bored expression, his face resting on his knuckles. Morgan sat with the cool command of someone used to moving empires to her whims. Selene slouched beside her grandmother, wearing the same bored mask as the Valenforian Emperor—until Darius entered. Her spine straightened, her eyes sharpened, and the faintest hint of interest curved her mouth. Cassian, seated near her, saw the shift. His jaw tightened. The Pontifex and Saint Augustine, of course, were there, but there was someone unexpected with them. Lucen slouched in a chair with arms crossed.

  "What the hell is he doing here?" Darius said under his breath to Isolde.

  "Apparently, he arrived sometime last night. He has something urgent to report. I just heard about it this morning before coming to get you guys," she responded.

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Does it matter?" Isolde asked genuinely. Darius went silent. She was right, his presence had no bearing on their mission. He sighed as he looked towards Selene and then the rest of those gathered at the table.

  Cardinals and representatives from the Hallow districts were all seated. Only one really grabbed his attention, because he was so clearly, so unapologetically demonic that it hurt not to run him through where he sat—Ravokar Veykaroth.

  Other lesser representatives stood. The Five Archbishops among that crowd stood behind the Pontifex in a respectful cluster.

  When Darius and the others stepped forward, every head turned. Darius bowed deeply. "Darius Veyle. Inquisitor Commander. These are my selected company."

  Morgan's smile was as warm as a hearth that burned more than light. "The talented young Inquisitor from the capital," she said. "I remember you."

  The current Grand Master of the Inquisitors—Varin Solgrave, who sat near Lucen, nodded. "Garran's loss is still felt deeply. How great he left us a capable replacement," he said. His gaze cut sharply toward Selene with undisguised poison.

  Selene inclined her head onto the table and, with a little practiced flutter of fingers, acknowledged the Grand Master's glare as if it were a pesky fly. Darius had to fight the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  The Emperor of Valenfor leaned forward. "Tell us, young Inquisitor, what brings you to the Hallows? You were assigned to purge the Sanctum."

  Darius turned his head slightly—toward Selene. "Did the Princess not tell you?" he said, and the room took on a brittle edge.

  Cassian's head jerked up. "You met with Selene already?"

  Darius's lips curved faintly. "I meant Princess Seraphine. But yes—I spoke with Princess Selene last night. She was accompanying her Imperial Highness. They were the only ones we could get in contact with when we arrived. You all seem rather busy."

  Cassian nearly growled. "We've been locked in negotiations—painfully slow ones. We've hardly left the chamber."

  Selene crossed her arms. "Princess Seraphine and I thought it best you deliver the news yourself. So that the news is fresh for all concerned parties."

  "Hmm, then perhaps what I say will ignite a fire to speed up your negotiations," he said, and did not let it be rhetorical.

  Rhydan clapped a palm flat on the table. He barked with clear impatience. "Stop teasing," he boomed. "Out with it, boy."

  Darius breathed and then said plainly: "During my interrogations, I uncovered reason to believe that the network of spies within the Sanctum reaches out into the entire Empire. And that the one responsible for coordinating those spies is an Archbishop. That Archbishop is currently here at the Accords."

  Silence fell like a stone dropped in a well. The five Archbishops who stood near the Pontifex shifted as if chained, their faces a slate of reaction: surprise, annoyance, the practiced mask of a man who hides everything behind doctrine. Even those who were not part of the Sanctum leveled looks that cut—because accusation in a room like this was not merely an insult. It was war.