Part III — The Shape of a Lie
Elira was brought beneath the Cathedral.
The public believed executions happened swiftly.
They did not.
Below the sacred halls were corridors carved into bedrock — chambers lined with iron doors etched in scripture. Cells where candles never went out. Rooms where silence was cultivated like a crop.
Lord Caedryn himself attended her interrogation.
He dismissed the guards.
Sat across from her.
Studied her.
"You survived," he said calmly.
Elira did not answer.
"Do you know why?"
She shook her head.
He leaned forward slightly.
"Because something inside you wished to survive more than it feared death."
His eyes were not cruel.
They were searching.
"You are not the first," he continued quietly. "And you will not be the last."
Elira felt it then.
The warmth in her chest.
Not spreading wildly.
Waiting.
"You call it corruption," she whispered before she could stop herself.
"And what would you call it?" he asked.
She did not have the courage to answer.
But something inside her did.
The torches lining the chamber bent toward her.
Not violently.
Not explosively.
Like flowers turning toward sunlight.
The Inquisitor did not flinch.
Instead, something like satisfaction passed through his gaze.
"Yes," he murmured.
"There it is."