Niegal:
The meeting took place not in the tower, but in a crumbling wine cellar beneath a ruined outpost outside the city. The man who waited there had no name Niegal trusted—but the tattoo on his collarbone marked him as one of the Eclipsed, a former church agent turned defector.
He looked half-starved. One hand trembled from mana withdrawal. But his eyes—those were clear.
"You know her?" the informant asked, sliding a parchment dossier across the table. The candlelight flickered as if afraid to illuminate the truth.
Niegal didn't respond immediately. He opened the file with slow, practiced fingers.
And stopped.
Rosaria. Elena. Born to Lee Rosaria. Registered at birth as a prodigy under Saintess Yidali's Order. Then later… withdrawn. Redacted. Disappeared.
"She was promised," the informant said, "before she bled. Lee gave her to the Church. But the girl never obeyed."
Niegal's jaw tensed. He sat back, eyes dark.
"Lee Rosaria is a viper. I know what she's capable of. But this child—Elena. Is she truly her daughter?"
The informant gave a sickly smile.
"She is her undoing."
That night, Niegal wandered alone to the edge of one of the many cliffs hugging the ocean by Puerto Cuidad, the moonlight lighting his way. Winds whipped around him; a storm is coming.
He pulled a chain from beneath his tunic—a rusted Matteo crest, half-melted, scorched during the ambush that was meant to kill him.
His sister, Aurora, thought him dead.
His nephew, Seamus, was too young to understand at the time. Raised without him. Spoiled. Brilliant, yes—but volatile. A gambler in velvet. A wolf raised in silk. Not a leader. Not a husband.
"You don't seduce your way into saving Puerto Cuidad," he muttered aloud.
Still, something tugged at him. Why would Seamus involve himself with a Rosaria? He had no shortage of lovers. No shortage of power. Unless…
The girl was different.
Or the girl was dangerous.
A cry rang out in the dark—low, rasping, broken.
Niegal was already moving before others could gather. He followed the sound to a woman laid out on a wool blanket beneath the open sky. Her body was arched in agony, eyes bloodshot, hands curled into claws. Her spine glowed faintly blue—overexposure to mana. Interrogation magic. Inquisition work.
The Behike appeared behind him like a shadow, a hand on his shoulder.
"We pulled her from a prisoner caravan two nights ago," she said. "She was caught praying to the old gods."
Niegal dropped to his knees.
"Hold her head," he ordered. "I'll take the pain."
He placed his hands over her temples. Mana surged, ancient and wild—he didn't channel like the priests did. He did not cut himself off from the world. He dove into it. Felt every wound, every lash, every surge of cold where her soul had once tried to leave her body.
The poor girl convulsed.
Niegal grunted, sweat beading on his brow. Her pain flowed through him like lightning through stone. He breathed through it, just like his training. His breath became steady. Much better.
Then silence.
The girl collapsed into sleep. Her face was peaceful. Her breath, steady.
Niegal stood—exhausted. But alive.
The Behike touched his arm.
"You're fading," she warned. "Even your magic has limits."
"I'm not done yet," he rasped. "Puerto Cuidad still rots. And the Church is still hungry."
Returning to the hideout, Niegal wrote three letters in quick succession:
To Kenneth, unsigned, asking for updates on any business the estate has with the Church.
To a fellow healer, asking for the best place to disappear in Puerto Cuidad. The city has changed much since his exile.
To a contact embedded in the Church, with a single question: Is Lee Rosaria rising again?
He sealed them with wax and mana. Passed them to his fastest courier hawk.
Then he looked toward the city—Puerto Cuidad, glittering in the distance, beautiful and false as ever.
If Elena was truly Lee's daughter, the Church would never let her go.
And if Seamus had brought her into Windswept…
"Then the boy has no idea what storm he's brought into his home."