We sat around the kitchen table with half-finished cups of tea and a map spread between us, pretending it was just another morning strategy session.

  "They're definitely going to start calling people in," I said, tapping the Tower's seal in the corner of the parchment. "We need to make it as inconvenient for them as possible. If we're all together, it's efficient—they process us in bulk. If we're scattered, they have to track us down individually. That buys time."

  "Time for what?" Evelyn asked, raising a brow. "For Seraphine to magically reappear and expin herself?"

  "Time for us to figure out how to contact her," I said.

  Ultimately it'd be up to the Hero. Seraphine's quest was set up so that corruption from the use of demonic magic would shortly begin threatening her life. Her feverish nightmares would leak into Rocher's psyche—after all, demonic magic specialized in maniputions of perception and the mind. Her pained outcries would give him the clues to track her down.

  "They'll probably go for Rocher first," Evelyn said. "He's the Hero. They always start with questioning leadership."

  Rocher shrugged, adjusting his cloak. "I'm good for it. I'll stick to the north district, make myself obvious. If they want to talk, they can find me."

  I nodded. I was counting on exactly that. If we were brought in all at once, the White Warden would no doubt appear and turn his truth-sense on us all.

  Interrogating Rocher was one thing. The Warden might get him to confess his overlooking her demonic research, and he would get severely reprimanded. But he was the Hero; reprimand was as far as they'd go. He had no material information that could put Seraphine in danger.

  I, on the other hand, had something to hide. Since I'd pyed the game before, I'd already memorized all the pces Seraphine would be. But as long as they got most of the story from Rocher, I could bullshit well enough to fill in the bnks.

  The Warden probably wouldn't waste his time on small fry like me—he had better pces to be, better things to do. I could deal with a few annoyed zealots.

  "Where should I be?" Lumiere asked.

  "The Cathedral as usual," I said. "You're technically under the Church's banner, alongside the padins. They probably won't try to bring you in for questioning. Keep a low profile, but stay visible enough that it doesn't look like hiding."

  For her diplomacy with the Aurelian Duchy and her role in handling the fallout of the recent Guild war, the central Church had rewarded her a luxurious suite in the Cathedral's living quarters. Outside looking in, it was a generous gesture, but I knew they just wanted to curry favor with the public. We were reluctant to have her move out, but we couldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. It would've been poor form.

  "What about you?" Rocher asked, watching me.

  "I'll stay hidden; pretend I'm sick," I said simply. "I'm a nobody. Once they're done questioning you, they'll probably give up on us as a lead."

  We couldn't just stay in the castle while the padins were on the hunt. That would make us too easy to find.

  I turned to Lumiere. "I'll have to trouble you to help me book a convalescence room."

  She nodded. "I'll find a vacancy."

  "Perfect," Evelyn said dryly, folding the map. "Split up, stay near crowds, don't do anything stupid. What could possibly go wrong?"

  Lumiere offered a quiet smile. "It's better than waiting to be dragged out of bed."

  "Exactly," I said, gathering the tea cups. "We've dealt with worse before. Padins are just thugs wearing shiny armor."

  Rocher snorted. "Why do you sound so familiar with them?"

  "You wouldn't believe the stories Seraphine's told me," I said lightly.

  A faint chuckle moved through the room, but something tight and unspoken lingered. Even as we made pns, Seraphine's absence pressed like a bruise beneath every line.

  We parted ways soon after—Rocher cpping me once on the shoulder, Lumiere squeezing my hand, Evelyn lingering at the gate as if daring the Tower to make a move.

  All the while, I reassured myself this was fine. The pn was tight.

  Everyone would be safe.

  The morning passed in soft shadows.

  This room was quite different from the one I had shared with Lumiere. That room had open spaces, lush bnkets, and sunlit corners. This one was austere, made of oak and varnish. A room meant to make someone rest—and forget they once belonged somewhere else.

  I stayed in bed longer than usual, letting the fire in the brazier burn down to coals. The air turned cool and dry, smelling faintly of chamomile and ash. The tray I'd left out—cold broth, half a loaf of bread—remained mostly untouched. An excellent performance, if I did say so myself.

  Sometimes the best hiding pce is beneath a bnket.

  I exhaled slowly, counting the beats between my breaths. Eight seconds, then another eight. The stillness felt like protection—like the world was holding its breath for me.

  Seraphine had probably felt like this in the days before she ran.

  I shuffled to the washstand, clutching my shawl for warmth. The basin had a thin film over the water, a sign I hadn't used it since st night. Perfect. Sick, but not bedridden. Weak, but not suspiciously so.

  My fingers traced the window sill absently. The city outside was already alive—vendors calling out their morning stock on the Royal Road, the distant ring of a bcksmith starting work. Children shouting as they chased pigeons between stalls.

  Life. Even without her, life went on.

  I allowed myself a small, tired smile and turned to refresh the fire.

  That was when I heard them.

  It was subtle at first—an interruption in the noise, a pause in the rhythm of footsteps outside. Then a scrape, metal against wood. A signal.

  My blood chilled, though I didn't yet understand why.

  I'd never heard a knock that violent before.

  The door didn't swing open so much as detonate inward.

  Wood splintered, the frame cracking like bone. I stumbled backward as three armored padins burst into the room. Not junior officers. Full pte. Rune-etched steel down to the greaves.

  "Cire de Lune?" one barked, though it wasn't a question. He already knew my name. The scroll in his hand was unopened—the reading aloud was a formality. A courtesy.

  I raised my hands instinctively, shawl falling from my shoulders. "What is this about? I'm unarmed—I'm sick—"

  They didn't listen.

  Cold iron encircled my wrist in the blink of an eye. The grip was too tight, wrenching me forward. Another hand gripped the back of my neck, forcing my head down—like restraining a dangerous beast.

  "By order of the Tower, you are detained on suspicion of demonic activity," the lead padin said, voice ft. "Do not resist."

  I didn't resist. I couldn't—my breath was trapped beneath the weight of his gauntlet. My cheek pressed to the floorboards, my hair tangling in my face. I tasted dust and old smoke.

  It took me a moment to realize my robe was torn halfway down my arm. It had happened so fast.

  They weren't subduing a nun. They were containing a threat.

  I tried to speak. "I don't—"

  A kick to the ribs stole the rest of the air from my lungs. The world blurred, my ears ringing. They said no words of admonishment, no warnings. Their movements were brisk and coordinated.

  Someone unrolled the warrant and read in the background—deliberately, ceremonially.

  "...detainment under suspicion of consorting with demonic influence..."

  "...knowledge of apostate individuals without reporting to the Tower..."

  "...conspiracy to sow corruption within the Hero's party..."

  Every charge fell like a hammer, each more impossible than the st.

  My mind scrambled to make sense of it: they had already suspected me. They thought I was involved.

  Not just with Seraphine. With something worse. With someone worse.

  The shackles bit into my skin, and I tasted copper. My consciousness fled me.

  I floated in and out of darkness.

  At first there was nothing—just the steady pulse of pain somewhere distant, like a drum beneath the floorboards. Then sound returned in fragments. The drip of water. The scrape of chain. A muffled scream—mine, maybe, or someone else's.

  I opened my eyes.

  The world tilted. A ceiling of damp stone stared back at me, mottled with moss and age. Torches guttered in iron brackets along the wall, their light throwing tall, trembling shadows across the chamber.

  I tried to move—not realizing where my arms were.

  The rope was taut, pulling my shoulders back at an impossible angle.

  The pain surged in full. Like fire beneath my skin, like gss in the joint. That was when I realized I was suspended—strappado. Knees barely touching the ground. Salt crystals beneath them digging into my cerated flesh.

  My breath stuttered. I almost passed out again.

  The air was cold and wet, the kind of cold that seeped into bone. A single thin cloth clung to me, soaked through, offering no warmth. My hair was pstered to my neck. My skin burned where the salt mixed with blood.

  I tried to speak. Only a ragged sound scraped out.

  They hadn't questioned me yet.

  Which meant this was only just the beginning.

  I hung in silence, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

  Time blurred. Footsteps echoed somewhere down the corridor. Slow, measured, resonant.

  They stopped just beyond the threshold.

  A door groaned open.

  The White Warden entered—not in ceremonial robes or armor, but in a long coat of stark white wool, immacute despite the damp. His beard was trimmed with razor precision. His eyes, a shade too pale to read, drifted over the room like a ledger being tallied.

  He didn't speak at first.

  Instead, he stood and looked at me—no, through me—with the calm of someone who already knew the outcome.

  "You're awake." His voice was soft. A courtesy. A weapon.

  I swallowed hard. "I have no knowledge of—"

  He raised one gloved hand and the words died in my throat. Not because I feared his interruption—but because I understood, immediately, that he didn't care what I knew. My voice was not a factor in his calculus. My guilt or innocence irrelevant.

  "Cire de Lune," he said, with a faint tilt of his head, as if testing the name for weight. "Apprentice apothecary. Former nun. Companion to the Hero."

  It was a recital, and I was already a footnote.

  "The charges brought against you are severe."

  I felt the rope above me creak as my weight shifted—a small involuntary tremor rippling through my body.

  "I presume you've already realized this is not a simple interview," he continued. "We are beyond gathering testimony."

  The torchlight flickered.

  He stepped closer then—not to touch me or even look me in the eye—but to inspect the rope holding my arms. It was a professional gesture—not unlike a butcher examining the cleanness of a hook.

  "Do not waste your strength resisting what comes next."

  That was all.

  He turned without ceremony. A single sweep of his coat.

  He didn't give orders aloud. The guards moved because he moved. The door closed again, the st sliver of light shrinking to nothing.

  The cell was silent.

  But that silence was no longer protection.

  It was the promise of pain deferred.

  I had thought the worst part would be the questioning.

  Now I realized—there wouldn't be any questions at all.

  Not until after the breaking.