The cathedral vault was built to make people feel small.
Stone arches rose high overhead, each rib lined with thin veins of gold that caught the muted light filtering through the stained glass. The air was heavy with incense—sweet, clinging—and the slow, steady hum of the choir filled the chamber like a heartbeat.
At its center hung a chandelier the size of a carriage, silver frame heavy with crystal drops and crowded candles. Its chains, as thick as a man's wrist, disappeared into the shadows above.
Beneath it, Lord Ardent's coffin lay on a platform draped in gold cloth, flanked by braziers breathing thin trails of smoke. The lords of Schlager stood before it, all in the white of mourning.
Lord Kleitz kept a hunting knife at his belt, silver hilt catching the light. Lord Aurum's fingers, usually weighed down with gemstones, carried only two rings today. Lord Garath looked half-awake, likely from checking his horses before dawn. Lady Corna glittered faintly under the candles, the shimmer coming from some rare perfume that caught the air.
Beside her stood a woman around Alzein's age—a younger mirror of her mother, with the same long, sharp features and unshaken poise. Her hair was the polished violet of House Corna, worn long down her back, her eyes the same shade, bright and hard.
Red had learned quickly that here, hair wasn't just hair—it was heraldry. Brayl's was the deep blue of a mountain lake. The Corna line's was royal violet. Others carried molten gold, forest green, silver like moonlight. Even Alzein, whose body Red now wore, had hair that was unblemished white, almost too clean against the warmth of the chandelier's light.
In his old world, such colors meant dye, disguise, or attention bait. Here, they were bloodlines worn like banners.
The young woman's gaze locked with his—cold, unblinking—but somewhere in that violet there was a flicker. Not warmth. Not approval. Something sharper. Red remembered Corna saying the late prince had broken the heart of her daughter.
He didn't have to be a spy to piece together what that stare meant.
His eyes went back to Ardent's coffin. No open lid. No proof. Just smoke, gold cloth, and ritual.
"I still have my doubts," he murmured to Glade. "Never saw the body."
Glade's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer. Brayl, silent as stone, kept her eyes moving over the crowd.
At the front, priests in white vestments moved with precision, their voices carrying what they called the rites of Passing, where Her Light guides the soul back to her side. The verses rose and fell like the tide, the braziers answering with soft flickers. Lords bowed their heads. Vassals stood close.
Then Lord Baram stepped forward, his voice steady as he spoke of Ardent's service.
Red watched, but his mind slipped to a different wake, in a foreign country far from here—cheap incense curling in stale air, the kind that clung to clothes for days. The flowers were already wilting, their petals curling inward like they wanted to escape the room.
Mourners filled the hall shoulder-to-shoulder, voices low, every word steeped in grief he didn't share.
He'd worn a suit that wasn't his, grief that wasn't his, and a name that wasn't his. His eyes never left the man across the room—laugh lines etched deep into a face that had smiled through every crime he'd ever committed.
The target had been hiding in plain sight for years, untouchable because no one dared to believe the truth.
One clean shot, muffled under the drone of prayer. The body jerked once, a bead of red blooming through fine silk, and the noise of mourning swallowed everything else.
No one saw him leave. By the time they realized, Red was already gone—another nameless shadow in the rain-slick streets outside.
The memory snapped back into the present, sharpening his focus. The cathedral was different, but the setup felt the same—too many powerful men and women gathered in one place, too many exits to watch at once, and too many ways for someone to turn a solemn rite into a killing ground.
"Prince Alzein," Baram called, beckoning him forward.
Red stepped into the chandelier's halo. He steeled his nerves and imagined that it was just another infiltration mission.
Applause rippled—polite at first, then warmer, tinged with relief, as if his presence alone proved hope hadn't died with Ardent.
From here, he could see everything: Kleitz's hunter's stare, Aurum's measured appraisal, Garath trying to straighten despite exhaustion, Corna's perfect mask, her daughter's eyes glittering despite herself… and the guards at the doors, their heads starting to droop.
Red's brow furrowed. Earlier that day, Brayl had reported nothing unusual in the guard rotations.
"They'll be at the knighting celebration for the Schlegran squires before the burial," she'd said.
"I see. Good work, Brayl," he'd replied, earning her a blink of surprise.
Glade had murmured, "Sorry for blurting out about Lumiaris's disappearance in the council earlier, Your Highness."
"It worked in our favor. Follow me," Red had told them.
Together they'd checked the sealed door, the faint runes still glowing. "Whoever took her knows astral magic. That narrows down who we are dealing with. They're dangerous—and they'll expect us to be careful."
Now, in the vault, his voice carried steady and clear—nothing like the Alzein they remembered.
"We gather to commemorate Lord Ardent," Red started slowly. "A man who gave blood to this soil, who gave all to maintain our kingdom whole despite my Father's premature death."
He let his gaze sweep the room. Glade and Brayl were looking on intently.
"To lose one is to lose a leader, but to lose a comrade. And comrades are always taken from us by the very sort of people—those who are too afraid to confront enemies face to face."
A murmur passed through the crowd.
"Her Light will guide him home," Red said, his voice gaining an edge, "but before that, I will make sure his killers understand exactly whose land they've walked into."
His eyes locked on the balcony guards, now visibly slumping.
"I know who you are. I know your plan. And I know what you've done to our guards."
Gasps. Heads turned toward the doors, where the guards were asleep.
"The enemy dares to strike during Lord Ardent's sacred rite," Red said, his voice sharp as drawn steel. "They want you to think we are blind. But we are not blind. And I…" His gaze cut to Corna, then to Kleitz, "…am not the man they thought I was."
Silence. Then, slowly, he added:
"My countermeasures are already in place. I dare you to strike first before I do."
Vassals shifted closer to their lords. The old lord Baram stiffened.
Red stepped toward him and whispered. "I'll keep you alive. But from now on, I'll need your cooperation."
Baram, visibly confused, nodded slowly.
"Give me the chalice."
The old lord handed him the silver cup from the blessing. Red lifted it high.
"For the Light Goddess."
The lords, some hesitant, raised theirs in answer.
His eyes flicked once more to the chandelier. The plan was simple—noise, distraction, flush the shadows.
He threw it.
The chalice didn't just fly—it launched. The speed and force behind it made it look like it had been fired from a hand cannon, the silver flashing in the candlelight before vanishing into the shadows above.
A metallic crack rang out, followed by a grunt and the sharp rain of shattered crystal.
A black shape fell, cloak flaring—
The candles went out.
For one heartbeat, there was only darkness and the sound of bodies shifting. Then, light magic flared from the lords, pale and cold.
Red glanced at his own hand, the realization hitting. That throw… no way it should've had that kind of force.
He pushed the thought aside. There were more important matters to check first.
The assassin lay sprawled at the center of the circle the crowd had formed. The hood had fallen back, revealing a gaunt, weathered face with skin stretched thin over sharp bones. A scar split one brow, the eye beneath it clouded white.
His clothes were dark leather stitched for flexibility, the kind worn by professionals who favored speed over armor. A crossbow lay beside him, its bolt tipped with a faint green sheen—poison, most likely.
The prince's chalice was buried deep in his chest, blood already pooling in the marble tiles.
Red stepped forward, gaze hard.
"Amateur."