The wind that blew through the narrow alleys of Marrowlight carried more than the scent of rotting bread and oil smoke. It carried whispers. Rumors. Names that weren't meant to be said out loud. And Lucien was listening.
He stood still at the corner of a crumbling chapel wall, his face shadowed beneath the hood of a weather-worn cloak. His eyes, unblinking and sharp, followed the movements of a hunched man wheeling a cart of dead pigeons. A cover, Lucien had learned, for something far more valuable — stolen letters from the Temple's outposts.
Corven, the rat-faced informant from the day before, had come through quicker than expected. A piece of parchment now rested in Lucien's gloved hand, its edges torn, ink hurried and jagged.
> "Father Mierel to be transferred. Accused of impure dealings in East Hollow. Disposal ordered by inner council. Keep discreet."
Lucien's lips curled into a smile — not warm, not cruel. Just amused. Impure dealings? That meant bribes. Secrets. Perhaps an affair. And that meant leverage.
He folded the parchment and slid it into his sleeve. His boots made no sound as he stepped back into the shadows, disappearing into the mist-thick street like smoke into the wind.
---
Later that evening, beneath the dim candlelight of a borrowed cellar, Lucien sat at a rickety table, parchment spread before him. Lines and notes and small red inked dots — a crude map of the Church's known movements in the city.
Beside him, Rivak lounged with one leg over the other, her crimson eyes glinting in the low light.
"You've got the same face my kin wear before they eat something live," she said with a smirk.
Lucien didn't look up. "That's because something very rotten is about to be served."
She chuckled. "You're dangerous for a human."
"Good. That means they'll keep underestimating me."
There was silence between them for a while. The flickering light cast monstrous shapes on the walls. Lucien reached for another slip of parchment and began to pen a forged notice — a request for Father Mierel's reassignment to a fabricated safehouse. One step closer to control. One pawn moved.
---
As midnight neared, Lucien wandered the city alone. His footsteps led him back to the outer district, where the houses slouched like tired men and children slept with knives beneath their pillows. It wasn't safety he sought — it was perspective.
A group of drunk soldiers stumbled past him, laughing about a raid gone wrong. One of them mentioned a "dark-haired bastard" slipping through their fingers in East Hollow. Lucien listened. He always listened.
From a broken window, he heard a woman humming a lullaby. From a rooftop, a raven cawed once and flew. From the shadows near the Temple's eastern wall, he heard whispers in a tongue long dead.
> "They're watching," Rivak had warned him once, her voice colder than the grave.
> "So let them," he had replied. "I'll smile for them."
---
The following morning, Lucien walked into the Temple Square dressed in ash-gray robes and a false sigil pinned to his chest. A priest-in-training. Harmless. Forgettable.
His forged request for Mierel's transfer had made its way through the ranks — and now the corruption within the Church would do the rest.
As he passed beneath the towering stone arch, dozens of priests scurried by, robes swaying like ghosts. Incense hung thick in the air. Every step Lucien took felt like a blade sliding deeper into the beast.
And at the far end of the hall, standing with her arms crossed and lips pursed, was Seraphine.
Again.
Her gaze met his, not quite hostile, not quite trusting. Something else. Curious.
"You've been busy," she said softly, falling into step beside him.
"I'm a faithful servant," Lucien replied without pause. "Aren't we all?"
Seraphine snorted. "You're something, alright."
And as they walked beneath the vaulted ceilings, with sunlight bleeding through stained glass, Lucien's smile returned.
Not warm. Not cruel.
Just… knowing.
---
End of chapter 4