The bell above the cathedral's gate rang in the distance — not the call to prayer, but a slow, somber chime that only rang when someone important entered the city. Lucien paused mid-step, the sound slicing through his thoughts like a blade. He turned his head toward the window of the small study chamber, eyes narrowing as the final chime echoed into silence.
He had not expected anyone of status today.
He reached for the rolled parchment on the desk — a decoded message he'd received only an hour earlier. It had come from one of his informants embedded deep within the church's outer intelligence wing. According to it, a group of external Inquisitors were dispatched from the capital itself. Silent, swift, and famously brutal in their methods. Their task: root out corruption.
But this time, the corruption they were searching for… was him.
Lucien folded the parchment and slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat. His reflection in the mirror caught his attention briefly — sharp eyes, a composed smile, and just beneath it, the weight of a dozen secrets pressing into his chest.
He left the chamber without a word.
Down the corridor, the mood had shifted. Even the usual echo of boots against stone floors seemed muted today. He passed several acolytes who avoided his gaze — not out of disrespect, but fear. They had begun to notice the change too. The atmosphere of paranoia Lucien had nurtured for weeks was finally blooming into full distrust. Everyone was watching each other now. Perfect.
At the end of the hall, he saw her — Sister Eliane, one of the few who still dared meet his eyes. She was sharp, resourceful, and more importantly, unaware that she'd played a crucial role in spreading the rumors he'd whispered into her ear weeks ago.
"They've arrived," she said before he even opened his mouth. "Three of them. They're speaking to the Archbishop now."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "So quickly?"
"They didn't even remove their travel cloaks," she replied. "They came to hunt, not talk."
Lucien's smile returned. "Let them sniff around."
She frowned. "Lucien... are you sure about this? These aren't regular priests. If they uncover even a sliver of—"
"They won't," he cut in softly, "because I'll hand them exactly what they want to see."
Her eyes searched his, but she nodded anyway.
Lucien walked past her and made his way toward the inner sanctum. The old stained-glass windows scattered fractured beams of light across the floor. They reminded him of the way people here saw truth — fragmented, beautiful, and utterly manipulated.
As he reached the inner chapel, the heavy doors were already open. The Archbishop stood at the altar, back straight, voice measured. Across from him stood three cloaked figures, faces shadowed, listening intently. Their silence felt louder than any sermon.
Lucien didn't enter. He lingered in the corridor, just within earshot. They were asking about recent activity in the eastern districts — disappearances, whispers of heresy, unrest among the lower clergy. All fabricated symptoms Lucien had planted weeks in advance.
"Someone is sowing dissent from within," said one Inquisitor. His voice was like sandpaper — dry and deliberate. "And they're doing it well."
Lucien turned away before a smile broke his mask.
Yes, very well indeed.
As he walked away, his mind ticked through the final stages. It was time to offer them a scapegoat — someone expendable. Someone loud enough to distract. And while the church flailed and pointed fingers, Lucien would tighten the strings behind the scenes.
The hunt had begun.
But the hunters didn't know they'd been invited.
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