The cathedral's archives were constructed of dust and silence, and the silence was broken only by the shuffle of papers as Silvanus traced the faded ink across a brittle parchment in it's pile.Then the creak of the door in the next moment as the two men in white shuffled in with arms holding ledgers and scrolls. Their chatter echoed down the narrow aisles as they passed. Silvanus ignored them, keeping his focus on his own work.

  "Have you not heard from them? The shipping yards are chaos," he chattered, setting down records on the table, "They're moving it all faster than I've ever known."

  "Hectic days, eh?" The other commented, "Well, all for the coming festival."

  They noticed Silvanus at the distant table, pausing long enough to nod politely. "Inquisitor Silas! Hard at work, as always! How goes your day? Are the preparations keeping you busy as well?"

  "Likewise, scholar," he responded nonchalantly, nodding as he returned to his work once more. Scholar. Only in name.

  And so, the two scribblers under the archives, drifted deeper into the stacks, their voices softening into a hum of casual gossip in a distance. But also, Silvanus immersed back into his work. When he turned a page, his eyes widened. The records were updated daily, but something was amiss. The record of Bishop Malvar's passing the official entry that should have marked the bishop's death, rites, and release to the river, wasn't there. There was no ink, no note, not even a gap where a scribe's hand might have faltered. The rest of the records that he searched through resulted in the exact same discovery.

  As if the man had never lived, and never died.

  How could a man who passed by a natural illness be skipped? Silvanus shut the ledger with a soft thud. The chatter of the priests reached him only as muffled noise now, hollow and distant compared to his thoughts. His thoughts were louder. This was more than just the suppression of heresy. He set the ledger back on the shelf with careful hands, and wondered if the Cathedral could erase even a bishop, what else had they rewritten?

  The two men returned with fresh stacks, snapping him out of his thoughts,

  "Still digging through dust, I see. Careful, if you don't come up for air, the festival might pass you by altogether," one man commented with a chuckle.

  Silvanus straightened, offering a polite incline of the head. "There is always work to be done."

  "Work indeed," the other muttered as he set his stack down with a groan. "These days, the caravans are endless. There were families crammed in like livestock, all under the excuse of 'pilgrimage.' Were you ordered to question their leader?"

  "Best for them, I suppose. The roads aren't safe even for refugees." They began to gossip once more among themselves over the situation of refugees.

  Silvanus's hands rested lightly on the closed ledger, his expression remained unreadable as he watched them. "You both seem... unusually concerned with caravan traffic."

  "Concerned?" The first scholar laughed, though it rang hollow. "No, no—just impressed by the scale of it all. Bishop Samael is getting restless with all the work for the festival handed to him, and now the heretics, and the caravans..."

  "By no offense, he is taking it out on us," his companion mumbled defeated, shoulders slumped. "We get tasks that are not intended to be done by us..."

  Bishop Samael… The newly appointed bishop had already made his place in the hierarchy.

  The first scribe forced another thin smile, already gathering the next bundle of scrolls. "Ah, well, well. Do you know, some of these shipments are so rushed, they hardly bother with proper tallies anymore? Utter chaos!"

  Silvanus then let the words of his fall casually into the conversation. "It’s remarkable how quickly decisions are aligned throughout the city. Who coordinates so perfectly, just him?"

  The man replied eagerly, "Coordination… all comes from guidance of the Sun, sir. The Bishop ensures, as always."

  Silvanus offered no reply this time. He only watched them bustle about their work, their words lingering long after their footsteps faded as they left the archives.

  · ? ·

  In the training yard, silence was no concept at all. Every prayer and promise uttered here before the spar hung like a blade over Mattheos's neck. For Mattheos, truth was always sweat and steel, with his each strike louder than the last. But even here, in the familiar clash of steel, he could not escape the inevitability of midsummer looming over Solthar, over him. It came in the name of the oath, and with the oath came expectations. He had tried to seek comfort in others, but it was never possible.

  The yard rang with one final clash before the call to break by Sir Ameryan because Sir Kael was absent. Upon the call, helmets were pulled off, blades grounded against the dirt, and men sank onto benches or leaned against the fences of the vast ground to drink from shared flasks. Laughter rippled through them easily, the kind that came to them but not to Mattheos. And the boy with scarlet hair sat apart, rolling his shoulders, wiping the sweat cooling against his neck. His sword, pressed into the sand, gleamed unrestrained beneath the late sun.

  "You have been distracted yet again, heh, just wait until Sir Kael returns," one of the senior knights broke his incoming train of thoughts, dropping onto the bench beside him with a content exhale. His voice was half-teasing, but did not contain the same warmth as Sir Kael. "What's the matter? Festival nerves already?" He continued with the pestering with a grin.

  Another chuckled from across the yard, "Let him be." he scolded the knight. The banter drew grins from the others, but Mattheos's lips only twitched faintly. He kept his gaze on the blade before him.

  "Careful, Mattheos," the man went on, nudging him lightly with an elbow. "If you frown so much, the rookies will think the oath is a funeral, not an honor."

  Mattheos forced a small exhale that might have passed for a laugh, but he knew better. "Feels heavy, that’s all. Hard not to think about it," he murmured more to himself than to the man beside him. "Perhaps, it’s both."

  The knight tilted his head at the words clearly heard by him. "Hah! Feelin' philosophical today, are we?" He joked with an infectious smile.

  "Don’t worry, the oath isn’t that grim…"

  "Once you say the words, it’s done. No more waiting around..." the other knight stated, unknowingly had made way to the two on the bench, "That's what Sir Ameryan said to me."

  "That’s supposed to be reassuring?" Mattheos huffed.

  "He’s trying to help for once," the knight beside him mocked. "Just as Sir Ameryan did."

  "The same Sir Ameryan who tripped over during his drills and glared until everyone forgot!" The other cackled.

  "...Yeah, like anyone could forget that..." He chuckled along, before turning to the ever gloomy Mattheos. "But I am trying to reassure you! Really!"

  "Exactly. Now, stop staring at that blade like it owes you an answer to those philosophical debates in your head." The knight clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Come, spar with me."

  It was true, his nerves had been getting to him. That evening, Mattheos had constantly worried how he would be dealing with the oath taking, but he would be taking right after the festival day. That he had decided, against Silvanus' demands, yet deep inside his heart, he was still conflicted.

  Mattheos finally looked up in response, exhaling through his nose. The sunlight glinted off his sword once more as the clouds parted, and for a moment he allowed himself to just watch it, and the laughter of the knights around him, and breathe.

  The break was over in a blink. He found himself exchanging blows with the fellow knight. Sand kicked up beneath their boots as they circled, eyes locked, reading intent and timing with every flick and arc of the blades. Sweat ran down his brow, but Mattheos’ focus remained, until it began to waver.

  "You will fail... just as you did before..."

  The voice made him flinch, replaying memories of that day like a broken record. He staggered back, breathing hard, responding the other knight’s saluting before stepping aside. Mattheos wiped his forehead, muttering a curse or two under his breath. He walked back to the nearby bench he had been by before, not caring of his surroundings. He needed a breather before returning to his practice for the day.

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  That was how the routine always had been, spar after spar, training after training, a cycle as predictable as the sun sliding from and towards the horizon, ever indifferent.

  "Sir Mattheos! That must be you!" The voice was bright, unblemished, pulling him out of his trance—the cycle was broken. He turned, brow furrowed, and saw a young boy hurrying across the yard, helmet tucked awkwardly beneath his thin arm.

  "It's so exciting to see you!"

  "Oh. Uh, thank you, that is me," Mattheos responded, forcing composure. "And you are...?" He tried to appear friendly.

  The boy beamed. "I've just signed up for the knights and got accepted!" He exclaimed.

  Mattheos blinked at him, disoriented by the raw eagerness. He wonders how excited the new man is compared to the chaos happening in his own head at the thought of becoming a knight. So, he tried to summon something appropriate, but only managed with a, "I wish you best of luck..." The words sounded hollow to his own ears and he cringed.

  "Well, seeing you train right now, would it be alright for us to join you as well?" The boy inquired as though the idea itself thrilled him—to train with his idol.

  "I... do not mind," Mattheos said stiffly with a nod.

  "I've been dreaming about being trained by the victor of the Trials!" The newcomer added with a grin. And, the words struck Mattheos harder than any blade. His chest tightened. The victor of the Trials? That was not him. That was the boy with fire in his eyes—Sol.

  Mattheos's brows furrowed. He blinked once, twice, as if steadying himself against some unseen blow when disorientation coiled in his vision. Had he heard him right? Regardless, Mattheos decided to correct the boy.

  "You are mistaken. I did not...win…"

  "No way, Sir Mattheos!" The younger knight cut him off, face alight with conviction that no one could take from him. "We were there. Right at the moment you struck down the final abyssal-wraith." His eyes sparkled as he spoke, confusing Mattheos even further. "You were fearless, and so brave. The arena roared your name!"

  "...You saw me?" He asked carefully, as if the next words could harm should he be careless.

  "We all did!" The recruit responded, so eagerly. "It was you who rushed in, blade first. My brother swears he's never seen anything like it!"

  Mattheos's stomach twisted. What sort of illusion had the Church cast upon the arena to rewrite his failure into triumph?

  "Perhaps," Mattheos said slowly, "your eyes deceived you."

  But the boy only laughed as if Mattheos were being modest. "You can't fool me! You're the reason I joined. To fight like you, to... to stand like you!" His earnestness was painful to watch, so Mattheos turned away, gazing at the fellow knights busy with their training.

  "Then... train well." At that, the boy's grin widened, and he rushed off to fetch a practice blade.

  And when he was left alone for a breath, Mattheos let his guard slip. His chest heaved with quiet panic. What are they doing? He thought. Why would the Church crown me victor in lies?

  Mattheos drew his blade again, the novice hurrying back with others trailing behind. "Form up," Mattheos ordered, voice steady despite the knot in his throat. If they saw a victor, then he would act the part, though he knew the truth was far darker.

  Inside, fear gnawed at him with the words of his uncle.

  "You will not shame this family. You will take the oath."

  Dust kicked up beneath their boots as the knights rushed into the fray. Orders barked by the captain cut across the clangor, driving them through drill after drill: shield-bash, thrust, parry, reset. Each learner paired with a veteran for practice. They threw themselves into every strike with the enthusiasm of men still untested, blows wide and clumsy but earnest. The excitement bled into chatter even as they sparred.

  "Keep your shoulders low!" A veteran snapped as his partner fumbled. He cuffed the younger man with the flat of his blade. "You'll be eating dirt before the oath if you lift your chin like that."

  The novice, eager to impress, laughed nervously and redoubled his efforts.

  "Did you hear the bells this morning?" One from the second pair puffed between swings. "They say the festival will outshine any before!"

  "A miracle if it doesn't outdrink any before," his partner grunted, locking swords with him.

  "Sir Mattheos!" a voice called, all bright and boyish. The newcomer from before jogged up, sword gleaming fresh from the forge. His grin was unshaken by exhaustion from his prior practice. "Would you spar me next?"

  "Very well." He nodded, and they formed up.

  In the first attack, the boy came at him fast with a clumsy eagerness in his swing. Mattheos met it with a clean block, steel ringing as their blades collided with a spark that was very faint. The boy staggered, but clashed steel again with eagerness to prove himself, something that Mattheos didn’t fail to notice.

  "You fight... like the stories say!" The nameless boy blurted in awe.

  Mattheos' hand faltered, and for a fraction of a heartbeat, his guard dipped, the boy's blade nearly finding his shoulder before instinct could correct him. He shoved back harder than intended, sending the learner sprawling into the dirt.

  The yard went quiet for a moment at the sudden scene, some exchanging glances in worry. The novice scrambled up, face flushed but still smiling. As though even his fall were an honor.

  "That was incredible!" He gasped, as Mattheos pulled him up. He did not reply, staring at the boy as though he were a ghost, until the captain barked away the next order and the yard filled once more with the noise of parries.

  He drifted through the remainder of the drills, every strike echoing the lie that had been stitched into his name by the Sun.

  Then, when dusk settled, the yard emptied itself from the presence of the knights, leaving one lone soul behind. The clangor faded to a still silence, broken only by the rasp of crickets in the grass. Mattheos lingered there for an unknown amount of time, seated by the edge of the practice ring, with his blade resting across his knees.

  He watched the floating clouds unmoving. Then, in a whisper that barely stirred the night air, he spoke.

  "Sol... you have to come back. You have to finish what you started."

  The wind carried the words away, leaving him in silence once more.

  · ? ·

  It was nearing dusk, the day was nearing it's sleep. Dust hung in the sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows of the Cathedral's lower archives, as Silvanus moved between them, adjusting a stack of papers into their place when the door creaked open behind him. At first, he paid no mind as doors in this wing were always open, and clerks came and went as they wished. But then the shadow fell across the aisle.

  It was a ragged, hunched figure with cloak pulled tight against the chill of morning air. The figure moved silently, carefully, with a small journal clutched to his chest. The hood fell back slightly as he passed under the light, revealing dark hair matted with sweat and dirt, streaked with blood.

  Silvanus froze mid-step.

  "Sol?" He whispered under his breath, not entirely sure why he dared speak when the name tasted like a warning on his tongue. Sol's head lifted at the call, eyes narrowing as the figure of the inquisitor came into focus. "You are still here? Daring to walk right into the den of wolves?" The man folded his arms as he inquired.

  "Silvanus!" Sol groaned in frustration. "You bastard! Do you take me for a damn fool? There is no way of leaving Solthar! The barrier does not allow for it! A man with a half brain would know. You were setting me up to be killed! You sent me out there knowing the Disciples would tear me apart!"

  "Very well, your accusations duly noted." The man's expression hadn't changed at all, increasing the boy's rage. "I hadn't set you up, you coming back here says everything," Silvanus casually answered, before his gaze drifted away from Sol, observing emptiness. "And I don't see the witch, had she failed her task?"

  "She..." Sol hesitated, "She fell into her own mirrors... Was she working alongside you? To lead me to my death?"

  "No, neither of us intended a trap. Had you passed the barrier, we would have learned something invaluable of its nature, but it seems we received a different conclusion. No matter, you returning here to demand answers is good enough," he replied. "As for the witch, it seemed her magic consumed her, that would signify death."

  "Death!?" The word tore itself from Sol’s throat.

  "Most witches seldom die natural deaths. As spells are cast at the cost of their own bodies, their powers consume them should they exceed their capabilities, that must be the case with Marguerite since she had overexerted herself."

  Sol immediately shook his head. "N-No... That's... That's not possible. She can't die just like that!"

  "As for Marguerite, we have no solid proof of her death, we don’t know of her capabilities," Silvanus continued, "and we have more pressing matters at hand."

  Sol didn't respond, he let himself process the idea of death once more. Again. Again and again, he had to face it. The city had taught him this lesson too many times.

  "When you are finished," he said quietly, "we will return to what matters."

  Sol shifted the weight of the notebook in his arms, eyes flicking toward the stained low-angled sunlight at the far edge of the table once, before he threw the notebook over to it, easily sliding towards Silvanus, stopping at the second edge. "I need someone who knows the truth, someone who will dare speak of it, because you will never tell me anything, you scheme and escape questions directed at you. Will you finally change your ways of doing things, Inquisitor?" He dared.

  Sol took one step closer, boots making the wooden floor creak beneath the weight on his shoulders. "And I don't want half-truths. I don't want riddles. I don't want your evasions. I want what the Cathedral buried, and what they intend to do. And you—" He jabbed a shaky finger toward the inquisitor, fear seeping into his bones as he challenged the man in power. He dared once more. "—you know exactly what goes on in here!"

  Silvanus slowly exhaled. He shifted his stance, arms dropping. "You reek of blood and ritual smoke. The Disciples will sniff it before your boots leave this floor," the man complained.

  "I did run from them, because they had found me, those damn disciples," Sol said, and the exhaustion behind the words undercut the defiance. "But it didn't matter. Wherever I go—they follow. So I came here, straight to the heart of it all. Because somewhere in these damned walls is the reason I'm hunted."

  Silvanus finally touched the ledger. Only the worn corner. A cautious poke of fingers, as if expecting it to bite. "And what did you find?" He observed the aged pages, murmuring to himself. "The Cathedral is not as blind as you think, that they will not see you within it's heart." Silvanus continued, "They hunt, yes—only because they are skilled watchers. You are a beacon, and they will follow, Sol, with very step you take. That is why you should have left the chance you got. The one chance that was given to you..."

  He reminded Sol of the mistake he made in the name of destiny.

  Sol's gaze hardened, "Then help me. Show me what they hide, what they erased. I can't do this alone." He declared. "Because I cannot keep running when there is no corner untainted by them to escape to."

  A moment passed. Silence settled between them, broken only by the distant murmur down the halls. Then Silvanus inclined his head, "I will help you. But once we start, there is no turning back. You understand that, yes?"