The Church's Grand Cathedral lived up to its name.

  The steps were wide and shallow, forcing a measured pace whether one wanted it or not. Pale stone stretched upward in yered terraces, worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims and polished again by constant care. Water ran in narrow channels along the sides, murmuring softly as it descended, fed from some unseen source higher up the mountain. The sound followed us as we climbed, steady and soothing, like breath.

  Above us, the fa?ade rose in carved relief. Saints. Heroes. Martyrs. Familiar faces rendered rger than life, their expressions fixed somewhere between serenity and resolve. Danzig the Brave stood among them, hammer braced against his shoulder, gaze turned outward as if still guarding something just beyond the stone.

  I had seen his likeness before. Everywhere, really. In chapels. On banners. Cast into cheap medallions sold to pilgrims with soft hands and hopeful eyes.

  Seeing him here, carved into the mountain itself, made me feel suddenly, uncomfortably small.

  Lumiere walked a step ahead of me, her posture perfect, her pace unhurried. She wore her mantle, white and gold, the fabric catching the light as if it had been made for this pce. People noticed her immediately.

  Churchgoers lining the steps paused as we passed. Some bowed their heads. Others pressed hands to their chests or lips. A few knelt outright, murmuring prayers that followed us like drifting ash. Lumiere acknowledged each of them with the same practiced smile, her gaze soft, her nod precise. She never stopped walking.

  I tried to follow inconspicuously, which was a losing effort from the start.

  I did not belong here. Not in cut stone and incense and reverent quiet. I felt it in the way eyes slid past me, registering only after they had taken her in. A shadow trailing something brighter.

  At the doors, massive and bronze-bound, a pair of padins stood watch. Their armor was polished to a dull gleam, etched with scripture along the pauldrons. They crossed their halberds as we approached.

  "Saintess," one said, bowing deeply. "The High Synod welcomes you. They are waiting inside."

  "Blessings upon you," she said gently, as she always did.

  His gaze flicked to me. "I'm afraid your companion will have to remain outside."

  Lumiere stopped.

  It was subtle, but the effect was immediate. The flow of people behind us slowed, then stilled, as if the air itself had thickened.

  "She is with me," Lumiere said. Still gentle. No less final.

  The padin hesitated. "The High Synod did not request her."

  "I did," Lumiere replied. "Her presence is required for the proceeding."

  "By your will then, Your Holiness."

  The halberds lowered. The doors opened.

  Inside, the cathedral swallowed sound.

  The ceiling vanished into shadow, ribbed with arches that drew the eye upward until it gave up. Light filtered down through narrow clerestory windows, catching on gold leaf and polished marble. The air smelled of incense and oil and old stone kept meticulously clean.

  We passed through the nave, past rows of pews filled with worshippers frozen in various stages of devotion. I felt eyes on my back—some curious, some wary.

  Beyond the altar, through a smaller set of doors, y the synodal chamber.

  It was circur, with a domed ceiling painted in scenes of ascension and judgment. The High Synod sat along the far curve, elevated on a shallow dais.

  Seven. I counted them automatically as I entered.

  They were dressed in yered vestments heavy with embroidery and gems, colors deepened by candle smoke. Their bodies were softened by age and comfort, their movements economical and restrained.

  Servants moved quietly behind them, refilling cups, adjusting cushions, offering folded cloths. None of the Synod acknowledged this attention. It was simply part of the room.

  Lumiere met each of their gazes and bowed. "Fathers."

  I stayed where I was, a half-step behind her, hands folded, expression neutral. I had learned that much, at least.

  Then she addressed them, starting as she always did: with common ground.

  The City of the Vaulted Dead.

  The old capital of the First Men y buried far below us, sealed when the Demon Lord's corruption had ruptured its foundations and begun to spread upward through the mountain. The history books called it containment. The Church called it sanctification.

  For the First Men, it was sacrifice.

  They had lured the first Demon Lord there. Held him until the seal set. Imprisoned themselves alongside him, dooming themselves to be his eternal wardens.

  The ancient hero among them—Danzig the Brave.

  The man who had stood at the heart of it and refused to move. The one the Church praised for obedience as much as valor. His likeness adorned more chapels than I could count, always rendered in the same posture: sword lowered, gaze lifted, waiting for judgment rather than victory.

  As she recounted the story, I wondered, not for the first time, whether he had doubted. Whether in his st moments he'd truly believed his sacrifice would buy peace.

  Lumiere's words turned then to stewardship. To the duty entrusted to the Church by those who came before. She framed the City of the Vaulted Dead not as history, but as responsibility.

  Maintenance, she said, was a form of reverence.

  They listened. Or appeared to.

  When she finished, there was a pause. Then one of the older Synod members leaned forward slightly, rings glinting in the candlelight.

  "You intend to descend into the old City?"

  "The seal has held for centuries," another added. "Longer than any living memory. Why risk disturbing it now?"

  "Because neglect is not the same as stability," Lumiere replied calmly.

  A third voice joined in. "There is no outward sign of strain. No tremor."

  "Not yet," Lumiere said.

  "Saintess," said a fourth, voice measured, almost kind. "You ask us to sanction a breach of the most sacred boundary we have. However small or brief, the risk is not abstract."

  "We would be opening the seal on faith alone."

  "Not faith," she said. "Certainty."

  They exchanged doubtful gnces.

  Lumiere turned. "Allow me to introduce Sister Cire de Lune. She survived the events in the Forbidden Forest alongside the Sage and the Hero."

  I felt the room focus.

  "The witch?" someone murmured.

  "A witness," Lumiere corrected with a sideways gnce. "An arbiter of the witches' truths, however discomforting. It would be unwise to squander the knowledge."

  "Bsphemy."

  "An affront to our Goddess."

  A hand was raised.

  "Speak then," said the senior voice. "What is it you wish to share?"

  I stepped forward.

  "My lord," I said, keeping my tone level. "During the ordeal, I became acquainted with a great many beings, both horrible and wonderful. Among them was the ancient hero Nyxara, who architected the barrier that now holds the first Demon Lord."

  A half-truth. The Crone had never once brought it up. But her name carried weight where mine didn't.

  "She said that its failure comes not from sudden force, but from erosion," I continued. "From neglect."

  Another pause.

  A younger man leaned forward.

  Handsome, in a crafted way. Blond hair, neatly kept. Eyes a sharp, unsettling red that did not quite smile when his mouth did. He was seated lower than the High Synod, but his presence was no less elevated.

  I recognized him immediately.

  "These are serious cims," Bishop Halbrecht said, studying me. "Their veracity should be confirmed."

  At his gesture, the two padins nearest him stepped forward. Older than the ones at the door. Their armor was piner, their expressions unreadable. When they lifted their gaze, their eyes glowed white.

  "Do you submit to the inspection?" one asked.

  I lowered my gaze. "Of course. By the Goddess's will."

  The padins stood before me, close enough that I could feel the heat of them. The pressure came next, subtle and invasive, like fingers probing the edges of a thought.

  "Repeat your statement," the other commanded.

  I chose my words carefully. "I spoke with the witch Nyxara," I said. "The seal beneath Ironspine is in danger of failing if it is not properly maintained."

  The pressure tightened. Then eased.

  "She speaks truth."

  A murmur rippled through the chamber.

  Halbrecht leaned back, fingers tightening once on the arm of his chair. "Then we have a problem."

  "The Sun Court Jubilee approaches," said one of the Synod, wringing his hands. "The festival draws pilgrims from all across the kingdom. This development is ill-timed."

  "Can it not wait?" another asked. "With so many present, the consequence of a breach would be dire."

  "We can't. Too much has been committed to compensating damages on the road. To turn them back now would be ruinous."

  A loud sigh rose from the dais. "Now is not the time for that."

  I cleared my throat. "If I may, my lords."

  Halbrecht tilted his head, curious.

  "The City of the Vaulted Dead is not only a prison for the Demon Lord," I said. "It is—was—the home and ultimate resting pce of the First Men. Their relics remain there. Weapons. Symbols. Artifacts of unquestioned sanctity."

  The Synod stilled.

  "Recovered and dispyed," I continued, "they would inspire faith. Remind the people of the Church's guardianship. Of its willingness to act."

  Halbrecht's eyes sharpened.

  "And against the current Demon Lord," I added, "such relics could prove... useful."

  Bishop Halbrecht did not look at me. He leaned back in his chair instead, fingers steepled, eyes lifting toward the frescoed dome as if he were considering a familiar problem from a new angle.

  "Treasures," he said thoughtfully. "Recovered from Marrud-Vael itself."

  One of the Synod shifted. "The Jubilee is not meant to be a dispy of force."

  "Nor would it be," Halbrecht replied smoothly. "It would be a reminder. Of vigince. Of continuity. Of the Church's role as steward, not spectator."

  I saw it then, the moment he took ownership of the idea. The way his posture changed. The way the room began to orient toward him.

  "The people already revere the First Men," he continued. "Danzig's image is carved into our walls, printed in our texts, worn around pilgrims' necks. To recim what they left behind would not arm the faithful. It would reassure them."

  "If the seal truly is at risk," another voice said carefully, "would that not argue for greater caution, not haste?"

  "No," Halbrecht said, before Lumiere could answer.

  The word nded ft and final.

  "Caution is not the same as stillness," Lumiere said. "If the seal requires maintenance, then dey compounds the risk. We should not postpone the repair of a failing foundation because a festival approaches."

  A murmur moved through the Synod. Unease this time. Subtle, but real.

  "The longer we wait," Halbrecht added, "the more difficult it becomes to act discreetly. If the effects of the erosion become visible, we lose the narrative. Rumor will fill the silence."

  He smiled, just slightly. "An immediate expedition, conducted quietly, gives us control. Anything discovered can be framed as providence. Anything recovered, as blessing."

  "And if nothing is found?" the senior voice asked.

  "All the same, we will have honored our duty," Lumiere said simply. "And the Jubilee proceeds untroubled."

  The room went silent once more.

  After a long moment, the senior voice spoke again. "Very well."

  That was it. The release point. Not triumph. Not agreement. Relief.

  The decision did not feel brave. It felt convenient.

  "Permission is granted," he said. "Under conditions."

  I lifted my head.

  "One of you will accompany the expedition at all times," he said, looking between Lumiere and Halbrecht. "There must be no spectacle. No witnesses."

  "Agreed," Lumiere said.

  Halbrecht frowned. "Me?"

  "Of course you," the senior voice said mildly. "You were the one who raised the matter of relic recovery. It is only fitting that you oversee its execution."

  Several heads nodded.

  Halbrecht's mouth tightened. For a moment, I thought he might argue. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and inclined his head, just enough to be polite.

  "If that is the Synod's will," he said, each word measured. "I will see it done."

  "Discreetly," another added.

  "After dark," said a third.

  "And without incident," the senior voice finished.

  Halbrecht's smile returned, thinner this time. "Naturally."

  The servants were already moving again, cups refilled, cushions adjusted. The matter was settled. Assigned.

  As Lumiere turned to leave, I fell into step beside her.

  "Saintess." Halbrecht's voice cut across the chamber.

  We both stopped.

  The Synod had already begun to rex, attention drifting back to cups and cushions and quiet murmurs, the matter finished as far as they were concerned.

  But Halbrecht had not moved from his seat.

  "If I might have a word," he said, rising at st. "In private."

  Lumiere regarded him for a moment. Then she spoke. "Of course, Bishop."

  Halbrecht's gaze flicked to me, assessing this time, no longer curious. "You as well, Sister."

  Two padins stepped in beside me, narrowing the space I occupied.

  I gnced at Lumiere. If she was bothered, she gave no sign at all.

  I nodded once and followed them out.

  The doors to the synodal chamber closed behind us with a dull, final thud.

  Whatever responsibility they had assigned him, he was not content to carry it alone.