The sky over Leonidas was a flat, unbroken grey, thick with the promise of rain that never came. The streets of the Bishop’s Quarter, usually alive with the movement of the city, had been emptied for the occasion. Security forces lined the roads, their dark coats and gold-trimmed insignias reflecting the dull light of the overcast sky. No cars beyond the procession. No pedestrians beyond the barricades.
One by one, black diplomatic cars arrived at the cathedral steps. They moved in careful precision, sleek and deliberate, rolling to a stop before their doors eased open. The city’s elite stepped onto the white-stone pavement, wrapped in the solemn trappings of mourning—high generals of the Legion, draped in ceremonial uniforms of deep blue and gold; politicians in dark silks and embroidered coats, their expressions composed, their eyes scanning the crowd as they exited their vehicles; banking magnates, corporate titans, diplomats, and power brokers, each arriving with the unspoken understanding that this was not merely a funeral, but an event.
At the entrance, the Royal Attendants handed out funeral programs—small black booklets edged with gold filigree.
Roland Thorne’s portrait graced the cover, a polished image of him in uniform, his jaw set firm, Legion insignia gleaming at his chest. The inside contained a passage from the Scriptures, one carefully chosen to speak of duty, honour, and sacrifice. Beneath it, a brief biography painted him in the light of a war hero—decorated officer of the Gallian Vanguard Legion, survivor of the Al-Zahir Skirmishes, last stationed in Al-Miraj, where he met his untimely end. A loyal soldier, taken too soon.
Nothing was mentioned of his ambition.
Nothing was mentioned of the trial.
Nothing was mentioned of the man he had betrayed.
Because funerals were never about truth. They were about the illusion of legacy.
Inside the cathedral, the scent of incense and candlewax lingered, curling through the vaulted ceiling, where stained glass windows filtered muted light onto the polished marble floors. The pews were already filled, the weight of whispered conversations hushed beneath the reverent quiet of the space.
In the front row, Roland Thorne’s mother sat veiled in black lace, her hands trembling in her lap. Beside her, his sister, composed but pale, her grief held behind the careful restraint of aristocratic discipline.
The Legionnaires sat together, forming a perfect line of polished brass and iron discipline. A display of unity. Or the illusion of it.
Among the dignitaries and high-ranking officers, the whispers were already spreading—murmurs of a Shadeborn assassin, the gruesome state of the body, and, most pressing of all, what would be done about it.
The Shadeborn Relocation Act.
The name had been spoken before. Floated through the halls of policy. Dismissed. Debated. Shelved.
Now, it had an opportunity.
A murder like this, committed by one of them? The timing was perfect.
At the very back of the cathedral, among the lesser-ranking officers and guests, Araeius sat in silence.
His hands were folded together, his posture straight, his expression unreadable. He had been to many funerals. War demanded them.
But this one was different.
Because he knew who had done this.
And he knew that Thorne’s death would not be the last.
The doors of the cathedral opened once more, a final arrival.
Knight-Commander Schreiber entered the hall, a giant of a man, broad-shouldered, clad in Gallian military regalia. His boots struck the marble with slow, deliberate weight, the gold cross of his rank gleaming under the chandeliers. The moment he entered, the quiet deepened, the murmurs dying instantly.
The funeral had begun.
At the center of the cathedral, the casket rested on the altar.
Draped in the royal flag of Gallian.
Six white candles burning at its sides.
Closed.
Because what lay inside was not fit to be seen.
The candles flickered, their golden glow casting soft halos of light across the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling. Reverend Mother Eleanor stepped forward, her violet robes trailing behind her, moving with the kind of grace that came with age and wisdom.
She stood before the gathered mourners, before the grieving family, before the closed casket draped in the flag of the Vanguard Legion.
She let the silence linger.
Not the kind of silence that begged to be filled.
The kind that allowed sorrow its rightful place.
Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but steady—the kind of voice that had held the hands of the dying, that had whispered prayers over the lost, that had carried more grief than most could bear.
"Brothers and sisters of Elythea, we gather today not in the shadow of loss, but in the light of remembrance."
She turned her gaze toward the Thorne family. His mother sat still, veiled in black, her hands clasped tightly together. His sister looked away, her face streaked with quiet, restrained tears.
"Grief is love that has nowhere to go. It sits heavy in our chests, weighs down our steps. But the Scriptures teach us this:"
‘The light does not abandon those who walk in its service, nor does it forget the names of the faithful. Their deeds are written in the stars, their burdens lifted into the hands of the Goddess, and their spirits guided homeward to the Everdawn.’
She bowed her head slightly, allowing a moment of prayer. A few in the pews mirrored the gesture. Others simply listened.
When she spoke again, her voice was softer, more personal.
"I did not know Knight Roland Thorne as his family did, nor as his brothers-in-arms did. But I have prayed for him. And I have learned of the man he was."
She turned her head slightly, looking past the formality of the crowd, past the dignitaries and soldiers, and into the heart of those who grieved.
"He was a man of duty. Of loyalty. Of fierce, unshakable devotion to those he called his own. There are those who are born to lead, and those who are born to follow—but Roland Thorne was something rarer. He was a man who stood where he was needed, no matter the cost. And that is no small thing."
Her eyes moved to the soldiers in the pews—his former comrades.
"War is cruel. It takes the best of men and asks them to carry the weight of it, to bear it so that others do not have to. And yet, Roland Thorne bore it. Without hesitation. Without faltering. That was who he was."
She inhaled slowly, letting the weight of her words settle.
Then, she turned toward the casket.
"But Roland Thorne was not just a knight. Not just a soldier. He was a son. A brother. A friend."
She turned back to the crowd.
"A man is never just the uniform he wears. He is the laughter shared in quiet moments, the kindness extended when no one is looking, the stories told about him long after he is gone. And from what I have been told, Roland Thorne was all of these things."
A pause.
She folded her hands together.
"The pain of loss is the price of love. And though that pain may linger, know this—Roland’s story does not end here. It lives on in those he touched. In those who remember him. In those who carry his name forward."
She let out a slow breath.
"The Scriptures say:"
‘No soul truly fades, so long as their name is spoken.’
She turned back to the family, offering a small nod of respect.
Then, to the gathered mourners—to the soldiers, the politicians, the citizens, the ones who knew Roland Thorne and the ones who only knew of him.
"And so, today, we speak his name."
She gestured for the gathered to rise.
They did.
All at once, in a unified murmur, the name left their lips:
"Roland Thorne."
It was a sound that filled the cathedral.
A sound that would carry into the heavens.
A sound that, if the Scriptures were to be believed, would ensure his soul never truly faded.
The Reverend Mother stepped back.
She did not incite war.
She did not call for vengeance.
She simply let grief take its course, untainted.
And for that, Araeius did not hate her.
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For that, he envied her.
Because faith—true faith—was something he had lost long ago.
The final words of the Reverend Mother’s sermon settled over the cathedral like the last embers of a dying fire. Warm, gentle, but leaving behind something smoldering beneath the surface.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then—a quiet rustle as she stepped away from the pulpit, her robes whispering against the marble floor.
She moved with grace, descending the steps, passing by the casket with a reverent nod. A hand briefly touched the polished wood—a silent blessing, a quiet farewell.
From the front pew, a woman stirred.
Amanda Thorne.
She had been still throughout the service, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the casket as if she were trying to burn the image into her mind.
Now—she stood.
It was not the graceful rise of a noblewoman. Not the poised movement of someone used to standing in front of crowds.
It was stiff. Mechanical. Like someone moving through the motions, not quite present in her own body.
The Reverend Mother offered her a gentle look, a soft touch on the arm as they passed each other. A silent comfort.
Amanda barely acknowledged it.
Her heels clicked against the marble as she ascended the steps.
She stopped at the pulpit.
For a moment, she just stood there.
The cathedral was massive around her, the weight of all those gathered pressing in from all sides.
She swallowed.
Then—she exhaled, gripped the lectern, and spoke.
"I… I don’t really know what to say."
Her voice cracked.
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. A bitter, almost laugh-like sound.
"I’m not a public speaker. I’m not a politician. I’m not… someone who stands at a podium and tells people how they’re supposed to feel."
She forced a small, broken smile.
"Roland was always better at that than me."
A pause.
She inhaled, steadied herself, then continued.
"He was my big brother."
Her grip on the lectern tightened.
"He was my big brother when we were little kids running through the streets of Leonidas, playing pretend soldiers with wooden swords. He was my big brother when he used to shove me out of the kitchen because, and I quote, ‘you’re gonna set the goddamn house on fire, Mandy.’"
A quiet chuckle rippled through the crowd.
Amanda exhaled softly, shaking her head.
"And he was my big brother when he put on that uniform. When he swore an oath to serve. When he stood for everything he believed in. He was… so proud of what he did. Of what he fought for."
Her throat tightened.
She looked away for a second, blinking rapidly, trying to gather herself.
The words were starting to slip through her fingers.
She forced herself to keep going.
"Roland wasn’t perfect. He was stubborn, loud, and he had the worst taste in music I’ve ever heard. But he was good. And he deserved better than…"
Her breath shuddered.
She couldn’t say it.
Couldn’t say what had been done to him.
The closed casket sat beside her. Heavy. Silent. The only thing left of her brother.
Her fingers curled into fists.
And then—her voice changed.
The sadness didn’t leave.
But something sharper slid beneath it.
"The man who did this—" she inhaled sharply "—the disgusting—"
She stopped.
She caught herself.
For half a second, the word was on her tongue.
The word her brother used.
The word so many in the city used.
Darkie.
But she swallowed it down.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew the cameras were on her.
Instead—she forced herself to say the more palatable word.
"—Shadeborn."
It still tasted bitter in her mouth.
"He massacred my big brother. Left him in a pool of his own blood like he was nothing."
Her eyes swept the gathered crowd—politicians, military officials, nobles.
And then, lower. The murmuring dignitaries in the back, whispering among themselves.
She knew what they were saying.
She’d heard the talk.
And in that moment, she didn’t feel grief.
She felt rage.
"How many more of us have to die before something changes?"
A ripple through the room.
Amanda wasn’t supposed to say that.
She was supposed to stand up here, say some nice words, step back down.
But she couldn’t.
Not when her brother’s blood was still fresh.
Not when she knew, deep down, that there was a chance this monster would walk free.
Her voice came again, hoarse, but loud enough for the entire cathedral to hear.
"If we can’t even keep our own people safe in our own city, then what the hell are we doing?"
Silence.
She didn’t wait for an answer.
She just turned to the casket.
Her hand rested against it, her fingers trembling.
She closed her eyes.
And in a voice so much quieter than before—softer, so broken—she whispered:
"I miss you, Ro."
Then—she stepped away.
The organ’s final note hung in the cathedral, fading into the cavernous silence. The Reverend Mother had descended from the pulpit, Amanda had returned to her seat, and the ceremony entered a brief intermission before the casket was carried out.
The air had changed.
Not outwardly. Not in any way the ordinary mourner might notice.
But Araeius felt it.
He always felt it—the shift from grief to politics.
Standing near one of the great marble columns, he remained still, a silent sentinel in black. His templar uniform was immaculate, his posture rigid, his presence a reminder. The Inquisition was here. Watching. Listening.
He had been placed at the cathedral for one reason—to protect the sanctity of the service, to safeguard the Reverend Mother, should any radical sympathizers try something foolish.
But what was there to protect her from?
Araeius let his gaze drift, scanning the gathered officials, the foreign dignitaries, the military brass in their pristine uniforms. They spoke in whispers, but their voices carried.
Just beyond the third row, near the left transept, two parliament members stood close, engaged in quiet discussion.
He didn’t know their names, but he knew their kind.
One of them, an older man with the weary face of a career politician, sighed as he adjusted his cuffs.
"It’s sad, really," he murmured. "There’ll be no real justice for Thorne."
The second man, younger, sharper, offered a casual shrug.
"We could always grab some darkie off the street. Someone that fits the build description. The public wants a culprit—give them one."
Araeius’ fingers twitched.
"That’s not justice," the older man muttered, though there was no real conviction in his voice.
"It’s a cure for the symptom, not the disease," the younger man agreed. "We need to start thinking bigger."
A pause.
Then—the words that turned Araeius’ stomach.
"We need to put the Shadeborn Relocation Act back on the table."
Araeius inhaled slowly.
"If it had been in place, we wouldn’t be here."
The older man shifted uncomfortably. "You know there’s still too much pushback." He lowered his voice slightly, as if the weight of his next words required it. "It’s not… humane."
A dry chuckle.
"Since when has anything humane ever applied to darkies?"
Something in Araeius went cold.
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But he felt it.
Like a blade had been pressed against his spine.
Like a single misstep would drive it in.
The Shadeborn Relocation Act.
They had been trying to pass it for years.
A “humanitarian effort,” they called it. A means of gathering the Shadeborn into one controlled settlement, where their “unique affliction” could be properly managed.
A place apart. A place contained.
A cage.
Araeius’ hands curled into fists behind his back.
He already knew who had killed Thorne. Everyone in this room knew.
And yet—none of them wanted to find Delacroix.
They didn’t want justice.
They wanted an excuse.
The last rites had been spoken.
The final words had been said.
Outside the cathedral, Roland Thorne’s casket was lifted by solemn hands, carried with the weight of reverence and ceremony. The pallbearers, dressed in the deep blue of the Gallianese Legion, moved with practiced precision. Their movements were mechanical, impersonal—men performing a duty, not mourning a friend.
The closed casket was placed gently into the hearse. A final salute was given. A mother wept into her handkerchief. A sister stared blankly ahead. The doors shut.
It was over.
The crowd dispersed. Diplomats and military officials offered final words, shook hands, exchanged empty condolences. Some whispered among themselves about policy, about war, about the future. Others simply left, their minds already onto the next affair of the state.
The cathedral emptied.
But Araeius did not move.
The cavernous chamber was quiet now, save for the faint echo of distant footsteps fading into nothing.
Araeius sat in the front pew, his hands clasped between his knees, shoulders hunched slightly forward. His uniform—the black ensemble of an Inquisitorial Templar, embroidered with the golden crest of the Church—felt heavier than it had earlier.
Before him, towering over the altar, the golden statue of Elythea gleamed in the candlelight.
The goddess stood tall, her form draped in flowing robes, arms outstretched in an eternal gesture of grace. Her face, carved into a mask of divine serenity, bore no judgment. Only understanding.
Araeius stared at her, his eyes trailing over the delicate craftsmanship, the way the light flickered against the gold, as if she were breathing.
He waited.
For something.
A sign. A whisper. A feeling in his gut.
But there was nothing.
Just silence.
And then—a voice behind him.
"It’s Araeius, isn’t it?"
The voice was warm. Steady. Familiar.
Araeius turned his head.
Reverend Mother Eleanor stood just behind him, hands gently clasped before her, the soft folds of her white and gold vestments shimmering in the dim light.
Her presence was comforting. Not because of rank or power—but because there was something motherly about her. Something rare. Something real.
Araeius stood immediately, straightening his shoulders out of instinct. When he spoke, his tone was precise, measured.
"Ser Araeius Braythar, Knight of the Inquisition."
Eleanor chuckled lightly, shaking her head.
"The Inquisition is hardly a real military, Ser Braythar."
Araeius’ jaw tightened slightly. "Yet the duty is just as important—protecting Her peace."
Eleanor tilted her head. Something about the way he said it.
"And is that what burdens you?" she asked gently. "Duty?"
Araeius exhaled slowly.
"In a way."
Eleanor stepped past him, glancing up at the statue of Elythea. Her eyes traced over the divine craftsmanship—but unlike Araeius, she did not look for a sign.
"Did you know the deceased?"
Araeius hesitated. "Yes."
A beat.
"We served together in the Legion."
Eleanor nodded, offering a quiet condolence. "I’m sorry for your loss."
Araeius let out something close to a scoff, shaking his head. "Hardly necessary. I barely knew him."
Eleanor did not press.
Instead, she let the silence breathe between them.
Araeius’ gaze flickered back to the goddess.
"I figured…" he muttered, mostly to himself, "that sitting here, I’d hear something. Some kind of answer. Some kind of sign."
Eleanor watched him, patient.
"A sign for what?"
Araeius clenched his jaw.
Then—finally—he spoke the thought aloud.
"The actions of one leading to the suffering of many."
Eleanor’s eyes softened.
Araeius’ fingers curled slightly, as if grasping for something invisible. "If the actions of one man lead to consequences that affect thousands… does that man deserve to be condemned?"
Eleanor studied him for a long moment.
Then, softly—"Do you want the answer, Ser Braythar? Or do you already know it?"
Araeius said nothing.
Eleanor smiled faintly, stepping beside him.
"We all wish to believe justice is simple." She turned her gaze to Elythea, voice low. "That the wicked will fall, the righteous will rise, and the world will balance itself accordingly."
Araeius glanced at her.
"But it doesn’t."
Eleanor shook her head. "No. It doesn’t."
A pause.
Then—the question Araeius had been afraid to ask.
"Can someone like that be saved?"
Eleanor turned to him fully now.
Her voice did not waver.
"In Her words, anyone can be saved."
"But—"
"And as simple as it is to say," she continued, "it is up to the individual if they want to or not."
Araeius swallowed.
He had expected something more.
A grand revelation. A hidden truth. Some kind of divine confirmation that Delacroix could still be reached.
But the answer was… simple.
And he hated that it was simple.
Eleanor watched his expression shift.
"It is better to try and save that person," she murmured, "than to have it feed on your conscience like a parasite."
Araeius felt something tighten in his chest.
He exhaled. Slow. Unsteady.
Eleanor smiled—not in amusement, not in superiority, but in kindness.
"I believe that’s the sign you were looking for."
Araeius shook his head slightly, letting out something close to a laugh. "You make it sound so easy."
Eleanor’s smile didn’t fade.
"Nothing worth fighting for ever is."
A pause.
"Especially when it pertains to eternity."
Silence.
Araeius stared at her, words unsaid pressing against the back of his throat.
Eleanor gave him one last look.
Then, without another word—she turned and walked away.
Leaving Araeius alone.
With his thoughts.
With his guilt.
With his answer.
And for the first time since the funeral began…
He knew what he had to do.