Fire in the sky.
Screaming in the streets.
A woman ran past him clutching a child, her dress already catching at the hem. Somewhere to his left, a roof collapsed with a sound like the world clearing its throat before delivering bad news.
Lambert ran.
The smoke turned every breath into a negotiation. Every corner into a blind guess. Ahead, through the haze, the Notre Reine’s spires still clawed upward, though the sky above them had filled with wings and fury and the golden radiance of a dragon who had come to collect what was owed.
He found the girl pinned beneath a fallen beam outside a baker’s shop. The awning still smouldered above her. She could not have been more than eight. Her mouth opened and closed, screaming for her mother, but the sound came out thin and waterlogged, as though she were already drowning in the heat.
His hands found the beam. The wood bit back, heat sinking into his palms with the enthusiasm of something that had been waiting for this moment. He pulled. His muscles shrieked. The beam groaned, shifted an inch, settled back with the finality of a door closing.
The girl’s eyes found his. Wide. Terrified. And worse: hopeful. She believed he could save her.
He pulled harder. The beam did not move. The beam would never move. The beam was patient in the way that tragedy is patient, and the girl’s hope curdled into something he would carry for the rest of his life, and his hands were burning, and he could not lift it.
The beam was gone.
In its place: documents. Warrants. Ecclesiastical seals pressed into wax that gleamed like old blood. They piled atop the figure beneath them, multiplying with the inexorable logic of nightmares.
Julius Beaumont stared up at him. Nineteen years old. Bewildered. His wrists were bound with red tape that might have been bureaucratic or might have been something else entirely.
At the bottom of each warrant, his own name in red.
Somewhere distant, a dragon roared.
Ersday, 27th of Blotember, 1788
He woke gasping in the dark.
The Pendulum’s light had not yet crested the horizon.
He did not return to sleep.
The room was silent in the way rooms are silent before dawn.
Lambert swung his legs from the bed and found the floor cold beneath his feet.
Good.
The cold was clarifying.
He crossed to the small altar in the corner of his chamber. Every room he had occupied since ordination had possessed one: a portable shrine to Invictus, the sun-disk flanked by candles, a worn copy of the Radiant Offices open to the day’s prayers.
He knelt. The stone was unforgiving against his knees, which was also good. Matins was not meant to be comfortable.
“Lord of Light, who kindles the dawn—”
The words came automatically, worn smooth by ten thousand repetitions. His lips moved through the familiar phrases while his mind circled what the day would demand of him.
Confrontation. Accusation. Family.
Family.
The word snagged, and for a moment he was elsewhere:
The de Vaillant chapel. His first day as household chaplain. Robes that fitted poorly, a pulpit he gripped like it might escape, and his family watching from the pews with the patient restlessness of those who had been promised brevity.
They’re all waiting for me to prove I don’t belong here.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came.
I’m not afraid of gods or monsters. I’m afraid of letting them down.
Then the words arrived. And when he finished, the silence was not the silence of disappointment.
The memory released him.
Lambert found himself still kneeling, the candles guttering low. His knees ached. Dawn had begun to grey the window.
He had faced his family once before, when they were merely an audience. Today he would face them as accuser.
He rose from his knees and began the ritual of preparation.
Not dressing. Arming.
The Inquisition had taught him this: that vestments were armour, that prayer was the whetstone on which conviction was sharpened, that a man going into battle, whether against heretics or family. I must gird himself accordingly. He had thought it metaphor. Once.
The cassock first. Black wool, severe in cut. He fastened the buttons with fingers that did not tremble. Would not tremble.
The holding cells beneath the Inquisitorial offices. Julius screaming as they escorted him through the doors.
“Father! Mother! Someone tell them—”
I’m sorry. The evidence was clear.
But he’d had a choice, hadn’t he? To ask more questions. To wonder why the approval came so fast.
He hadn’t. He’d signed.
The cincture. White rope, knotted three times for the three vows. He pulled it tight.
Guillaume and Saffron’s parlour. The day before the arrest.
“I wanted you to hear it from me. Before the warrant is served.”
Saffron’s face. The way hope died in it by degrees. Guillaume had said nothing.
The stole. He draped it over his shoulders, the weight heavier than it had any right to be.
The chapel afterward. Kneeling alone, candles burning low.
Forgive me, Invictus, for my family. Forgive my family for what they have done.
He had not considered, then, that he might be the one who needed forgiving.
The surplice. White linen over black wool. Light over darkness, as the seminary had taught him, though today the symbolism felt less certain.
He turned to his desk, where the evidence lay spread in damning array.
The paper from Alexisoix’s pocket.
The matching scrap from the vault.
His notes from the Archives.
Must I do this again? Destroy another brother?
His hand hovered over the documents. As if he could will the evidence away.
Instead his hand moved aside and clasped an old, but familiar, parchment.
His oldest copy of the Erta Invictus. The binding had cracked years ago; the pages had yellowed into a shade of cream that suggested either great age or inadequate storage. His own handwriting filled the margins, younger and more certain than the hand that held the book now.
He turned to the sermon notes. That first sermon, preserved in ink that had faded but not disappeared.
“The story of Valère and the founding of our Church tells of how it arose not from divine whim alone, but through the struggles and unwavering courage for progress and enlightenment...”
He read the words he had written as a younger man. Valère, chosen by Invictus to wield Reason against the old ways. The Tropist Temple, clinging to rituals that preserved power for the few. R?zvan, obscurantism personified, entrenched in the old structures, dragging humanity back toward darkness.
“The conspiracy Valère uncovered was R?zvan’s doing: a grand plot to keep Gallia in shadow. At its heart was the Dragon Queen herself, who sought to replace Lucian XIV with a changeling, locking the real king away in an iron mask...”
Light against shadow. Truth against comfortable lies. The Dragon Queen’s treachery exposed, the true king restored, the Enlightenment triumphant.
He had believed every word.
“Light is not given freely. It must be carried. It must be fought for.”
Lambert closed the book.
He still believed it. That was the problem. Truth had to be carried, even when carrying it meant destruction. Even when the comfortable lie would be kinder.
He reached for the symbol of Invictus. The sun-disk was warm from sitting near the candles, or perhaps it was always warm. He lifted it, ready to place it around his neck.
The de Vaillant estate, draped in black. The day of his father’s funeral.
Laila’s hand on his shoulder, her voice steady despite everything.
“This family has always needed guidance, and I believe you are the one to provide it. From this day, you are our chaplain.”
I don’t know if I’m worthy.
“You are. Your strength may not look like your father’s, but it is no less vital. You are the light that will guide us through the shadows.”
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
He placed the symbol around his neck.
The sun-disk settled against his chest, familiar weight in an unfamiliar morning.
I swore to guide this family. To protect it. To be its light.
He gathered the evidence from his desk. The paper. The scrap. The notes. Folded them into his coat.
Today I keep that oath. Whatever it costs.
He descended the stairs.
The parlour was being warmed by a crackling hearth and lined with shelves of worn leather tomes. Over the years it had hosted a variety of family crises and the occasional squabble. Had it any opinions on the matter it might have joined the family itself.
Here, at least, they could speak freely without the risk of a misplaced ear or an overly curious member of staff.
Laila held court from her usual chair, though the word court implied more enthusiasm than the room possessed. Yesterday’s revelation still hung over them all: Phaedra’s confession that someone had been feeding information to their enemies. A traitor among them. Laila had spent the night turning that knowledge over like a stone she couldn’t put down.
Wylan and Isabella had returned from the Catacombs carrying smoke in their clothes and weight on their faces. Isabella watched the fire, seeing something there that Lambert could not ken. Wylan’s hand kept drifting to the cord around his neck.
Alexisoix had claimed the window seat, lute across his knees, fingers moving through resolved chord progressions. He had been there when Phaedra spoke. He knew what they all knew now.
Lambert entered last, positioning himself near the doorway. Clear sightlines. Direct path to anyone who might attempt to leave.
His gaze found Alexisoix. The easy posture. The carefully composed expression. The same expression Guillaume Beaumont wore in the portrait hanging in the Church’s administrative wing.
Tonight, that resemblance felt like evidence.
“We should begin,” Laila said. “Wylan, what did you find in the—”
“Before that.” Lambert stepped away from the doorway. “There’s something that needs addressing.”
Wylan blinked. Laila’s mouth pressed thin, but she gestured for him to continue.
Lambert moved toward his cousin with unhurried patience. After all, he had done this before. As he approached, Alexisoix’s hand struck the lute he’d set on the side table. The instrument tilted, and in a reflexive grab to catch it, his fingers dragged across the strings.
The discordant note cut through the parlour like a badly executed cymbal crash.
Everyone glanced their way. Alexisoix steadied the instrument, his expression apologetic but his posture tense.
Lambert’s tone remained low and conversational, though his eyes did not waver. “I’ve been conducting an investigation of my own these past few days. Into the dragon egg theft. The one that brought fire to Pharelle ten years ago.”
He let that settle. The fire crackled. No one moved.
“The Church has always denied possessing the egg, of course. Official position: we never had it, couldn’t have lost it, certainly didn’t have it stolen from us twice.” Lambert produced the first paper from his coat. “But I’ve walked the vaults beneath Notre Reine. The ones that officially don’t exist. And I found this.”
He laid the scrap on the side table. Faded ink. A torn edge. Half a name.
“‘Captain Al—’” he read. “Meaningless on its own. A fragment. But fragments have a way of finding their other halves.”
He turned to Alexisoix directly.
“Two nights ago, in the secret chamber, a page fell from Father’s journal. It landed at your feet.” Lambert’s voice remained pleasant, almost conversational. “You stepped on it. Waited until Mother and Isabella were occupied. Then you slipped it into your coat.”
Alexisoix’s face betrayed nothing. But his fingers had stilled on the lute strings.
“I retrieved it later, from behind the brandy decanter where you’d tucked it for safekeeping.” Lambert produced the second paper with satisfaction. He laid it beside the first, aligning the torn edges with deliberate care. “Dock routes for the Bassin-de-Marne. Shipping schedules dated 1778. And there, in the corner—” He tapped the faded ink. “A company logo I suspect you recognised rather more quickly than you would have liked.”
He paused, letting the silence do its work. Proof that theatricality ran in the family.
“Freight Expectations. Your father’s company.”
Lambert allowed himself a dramatic pause, something he had picked up from Laila.
“Together, the fragments give us a name.” Lambert tapped the joined papers. “‘Captain Alarico.’ The man who captained the Salvation’s Promise out of Pharelle harbour in the winter of 1778, carrying cargo that would bring a dragon’s wrath down on the city three months later.” He straightened. “The ship never returned to Gallian waters. Neither did Alarico. I always wondered why.”
He let the question hang for a moment before continuing.
“Alarico was Eclipse Society, alongside Prelate Ramirez. That much we all saw with our own eyes in Father’s prayer.” Lambert began to pace, the habit of a man constructing an argument as he spoke. “Ramirez, who at the time was second in line to take the Pontifarchy. Who would have had the authority to know about an egg the Church officially denied possessing. Who could have helped a prospective thief find their way into a vault that officially didn’t exist.”
He paused, letting that settle.
“Now, if Ramirez was behind the second theft, it lends rather uncomfortable credibility to the notion that Prelate Vaziri orchestrated the first. They were adversaries, after all. And I can well imagine Ramirez wanting to remove the egg from her possession regardless of whatever use the Church might have found for it.” Lambert’s smile was thin. “Ecclesiastical politics. The kind where the stakes are theological and the methods are anything but.”
He turned to face the room.
“What Ramirez would have lacked was the means to move such cargo discreetly. For that, he would need a shipping company with the reach and—let us say—flexibility to transport items that officially don’t exist. A merchant willing to ask no questions. A captain who understood the value of silence.”
His gaze settled on Alexisoix.
“And that all brings us back to Freight Expectations. Your father’s company. The same company that appears on this scrap of parchment that you elected to hide from us.” He tapped the joined papers. “And the same company that this parchment shows had a contractual relationship with Captain Alarico.”
“This proves nothing,” Alexisoix said. His voice was steady, but something had shifted behind his eyes. “My father runs a shipping company. Captains work for him. That doesn’t mean—”
“No,” Lambert agreed. “It doesn’t. So I visited the Inquisitorial Archives.”
He reached into his coat again. More papers. The file had been thin, thinner than it should have been for a case that had destroyed a young man’s life.
“Julius Beaumont. Your brother. Convicted in 1779 for conspiracy in the theft of a dragon’s egg.” Lambert spread the documents across the side table with methodical precision. “I signed the arrest warrant myself. I was seventeen years old and barely out of training, and I believed every word of the case against him.”
Lambert hardened his voice with purpose.
“The witness statements were copied from a template. Three witnesses, identical phrasing, same details in the same order. I’ve taken hundreds of depositions in my career. Real witnesses contradict each other. Real witnesses are messy.” He tapped the papers. “These read like someone filled in blanks.”
Alexisoix’s normally relaxed posture was nowhere to be seen.
“The ideological evidence was more creative. Pamphlets. Transcribed speeches. ‘Seditious rhetoric.’ ‘Expressions of sympathy for the Sun Queen’s grievance.’” Lambert’s smile held no warmth. “I recognised the rhetoric, eventually. It took me ten years, but I recognised it. Those were my words. My deposition before the ecclesiastical review board, arguing that the Church’s seizure of Aeloria’s egg constituted theft. My principles, stripped of attribution and used to hang my own cousin.”
The fire popped. No one spoke.
“The sentencing was approved in two days. I’ve seen simple theft cases drag through review for months. Two days is not efficiency.” Lambert met Alexisoix’s eyes. “Two days is someone clearing the path. Someone who wanted Julius gone before anyone asked questions.”
“You’re accusing my father—”
“I’m telling you what I found.” Lambert’s voice cut across him. “Your father’s company moved the egg. Your brother took the blame. The evidence was fabricated. The trial was rushed. And you’ve been hiding the one piece of paper that connects all of it.”
He stepped closer.
“What I want to know, Alexisoix, is what else you’re hiding. And for whom.”
“Because my family is being accused of treachery,” Alexisoix said, his voice rising. “Because my brother has already been destroyed by these suspicions, and now you’re turning that same inquisitorial gaze on me.”
“I’m simply asking questions.”
“You’re making accusations.”
“I’m observing patterns.”
Laila stood. “That’s enough.”
Neither man looked at her.
“You think I had something to do with it?” Alexisoix’s voice dropped to something cold. “That I would risk everything, our family’s name, my own reputation, my relationship with all of you, for some foolhardy venture involving dragon eggs and murder?”
“It’s not just about the egg,” Lambert pressed. “It’s about the secrecy. The lies. You’ve kept your cards so close that it’s impossible not to wonder what you’re hiding.”
“I’ve had enough of this. My brother has already been destroyed. I won’t—”
He stopped himself, breathing hard. The careful mask had shattered entirely. What remained was raw and wounded and furious.
“I refuse to be part of this,” he said. “This witch hunt. If you’re so intent on dragging the Beaumont name through the mud, on treating me like a criminal in my own family, then count me out.”
His laugh was bitter, ugly. “The de Vaillants. Everything handed to you. Titles, estates, the right to judge everyone else from your lofty perches. My father built something. Built it from nothing while your family collected rents and called it nobility. And now you want to tear that down too.”
“Alexisoix—” Laila began.
“No.” He picked up his lute with exaggerated care. It was the only thing he could still control. “I’m done. When you’re ready to treat me with the respect I’m owed, you know where to find me. Until then, the Beaumonts will handle our own affairs.”
He strode towards the door, and no one moved to stop him.
The door slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the windows.
? Bards have long understood that a truly memorable exit leaves a room more aware of your absence than your presence.
It was Wylan who finally spoke. “Should we go after him?”
Lambert remained rooted to the spot. “No. Not yet.”
Isabella, who had watched the entire confrontation with the stillness of a hunter, finally spoke. “He’s your cousin, Lambert. And he’s terrified.” Her eyes met his. “Guilty men bluster. Terrified men break.”
“He’s hiding something. That outburst confirmed it.”
“Or it confirmed that you’ve pushed him too far,” Laila said, her tone sharp. “We’ve just fractured this family, Lambert. I hope you’re certain it was worth it.”
The rebuke landed. Lambert looked away first.
Silence stretched. The fire crackled. The absence of Alexisoix’s lute left a gap that felt larger than one instrument should account for.
“So,” Wylan said, in the tone of someone who had learned not to expect good answers. “What now?”
Laila had no answer. The room offered none either.
Wylan’s hand found the cord around his neck. He had been waiting for the right moment to present his findings, but there was a strong argument that the right moment had departed several accusations ago and was now a speck on the horizon.
“Actually,” he said, reaching beneath his shirt. “Look, I know we’re all processing what just happened, but I do have something that might outdo Lambert.”
The cord came free, and with it the ring.
For a moment, no one moved. The signet ring caught the firelight, the de Vaillant crest worn smooth at the edges. Wylan held it up, feeling rather like a magician whose rabbit had raised more questions than applause.
“Is that—” Isabella started.
“Father’s ring,” Wylan confirmed. “Soraya had it. She’s been in the Catacombs this whole time.”
His mother crossed the room before he had finished speaking. Her hand was trembling when she reached for it. Wylan had never seen that before and found it rather more unsettling than the shadow creatures or the dragon cult or any of the other revelations of the past week. Laila de Vaillant did not tremble.
“May I?”
Wylan let her examine it without a word. He had nearly died retrieving it, which he suspected would earn him approximately one afternoon of maternal concern before the next crisis demanded attention.
He watched her turn it over in her palm, tracing the familiar scratches with a fingertip. Her expression was difficult to read, which meant she was feeling too much to risk showing any of it.
“She kept it safe,” Wylan offered. “For us, I think. For when we were ready.”
Isabella had moved to stand beside their mother. “She was down there the whole time? Why didn’t she come to us?”
Wylan glanced at Lambert, who had been uncharacteristically silent since Alexisoix’s departure. His brother stood near the doorway still, arms folded, wearing the expression of a man reviewing whether his recent choices had been entirely wise.
But Lambert said nothing, so Wylan continued. “She was afraid. She said someone close to Father was responsible for his poisoning. Someone he trusted. That’s why she disappeared. She didn’t know who to trust.”
The words landed like stones in still water.
“Someone close to him,” she repeated. The same words they had just used to drive Alexisoix from the house. “Someone he trusted.”
“She couldn’t tell us more than that,” Isabella said. “Just that she knew, in the moment of his death, that it was someone in his inner circle.”
Lambert finally spoke. “The poisoner is still among us.”
Subtle as always, brother.
“We don’t know that.” But even as their mother said it, Wylan could hear how hollow it sounded. They had just watched one family member storm out rather than answer questions. The circle was shrinking, and everyone still in it shared a surname.
Laila looked at each of them in turn. Wylan felt the weight of that gaze, the assessment, the calculation, the desperate hope that she could trust the children standing before her. He had risked the Catacombs to bring this ring back. Isabella had followed him into the dark. Lambert had done what Lambert always did, which was make things worse in pursuit of making them better.
What a family we make.
The ring sat in Wylan’s palm, warm and heavy with six years of waiting. A key, Soraya had called it. A key to whatever his father had died protecting. He found himself hoping that whatever lay on the other side of that portal was worth the price they had already paid to reach it, and suspecting it would demand considerably more before they were done.
“The portal,” Laila said. It was not a question.
“Tonight,” Wylan agreed, because there was nothing else to say, and because waiting had never been this family’s particular strength.
His mother’s gaze drifted toward the door through which Alexisoix had departed. Whatever she was thinking, she kept it to herself. Laila de Vaillant had always understood that some griefs were best carried privately, at least until one had determined who among the remaining company could be trusted with them.
“Then we’d better get started,” she said. “Those of us who remain.”