Chapter 27
Alaric emerged from the council chamber with the distinct impression that his brain had been slow-roasted over the coals of diplomacy.
Another two hours of bartering logistics and ceremonial phrasing—what Varantia should offer, what Edrathen demanded in return, how many horses constituted a generous gift without implying weakness.
If he signed one more treaty, he feared his hand might detach itself out of protest and gallop back to Solmara on its own.
He rubbed at the corner of his eye with the back of his knuckle, vaguely aware that the wax from the last seal he’d pressed had likely stained his signet.
He rounded the corner of the corridor without paying attention to anything except the hope that, in his chambers, a glass of something aged and generous was waiting for him.
Instead, he collided squarely with someone in the hall.
Scrolls spilled to the floor with a soft, papery slap. Alaric instinctively reached out to steady the other figure but was too slow; the man had already crouched down, fingers carefully gathering the fallen parchment.
“My apologies,” Alaric muttered, stepping back.
The man looked up. Older. Bald. Dressed in long gray robes. The chain draped around his shoulders confirmed it.
Priest of Orvath.
He recognized him from a few Council meetings.
The man had spoken little, but always at the precise moment silence grew heavy.
Especially during that meeting—the one where the High Preceptor had suggested they “use the prominent occasion of the nuptials” to extend Orvath’s reach into Varantia by embedding a priest within the retinue.
Alaric had smiled, bowed politely, and filed the request exactly where it belonged.
No, thank you.
The man smiled faintly, a calm expression that bordered on serene.
“No harm done, Your Highness,” he replied. “It is I who wasn’t watching where I walked. That is the danger of old habits—my feet know the corridors better than my eyes these days.”
Alaric crouched beside him, helping gather the last of the scrolls. Thick parchment. The edges smelled faintly of wax and pressed herbs—something used to preserve vellum or perhaps something more ritualistic. He couldn’t be sure.
As the priest leaned forward to retrieve a wayward scroll, the sleeve of his robe slipped just enough to expose a portion of his forearm.
Alaric froze.
A tightly wound chain encircled the man’s arm just below the elbow. Brutal and plain. The skin beneath it was red, raw, and broken in places. The flesh had grown around it, or maybe the chain had been fastened too tightly for too long. His fingers were tinted with some kind of ink.
Alaric grimaced slowly, something cold unfurling in his gut. He cleared his throat and tried to sound normal.
“At least let me make amends by walking more carefully next time,” he said with a tired smile. “I’ve had enough treaties shoved into my hands today to start a second war.”
The old man chuckled softly, tucking a scroll under one arm. “Then may Orvath grant you strength to endure peace as well as you would endure battle.”
The man gathered the scrolls under his arm.
His joints cracked softly as he straightened—or attempted to.
His back had long since accepted defeat; he remained slightly stooped, as though bowing to invisible burdens no one else could see.
The man was short, with a hooked nose that made him look perpetually halfway to a frown.
And yet, somehow, he didn’t seem sour. He seemed—what was the word?
Pleasant.
That in itself was the strangest part.
And possibly an opportunity. Evelyne was likely still in the Archives, pulling reports or ordering records. She deserved space to pursue her own answers. He saw that now.
Which left him free to investigate his part of the puzzle.
Politics could lie. But the bones of a place told the truth.
And Alaric had always preferred to hear it whispered through stone.
“I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” he remarked after a pause, brushing dust from his palm. “It wasn’t introduced properly during the last council session.”
The priest tilted his head slightly. “It wasn't meant to be.”
Alaric blinked. “Ah. Is that an insult, or a tradition I’ve yet to offend?”
The old man chuckled. “Neither, I hope. The servants of Orvath relinquish their birth names upon ordination. We take no pride in lineage, nor in individual distinction. Titles suffice. Simplicity purifies intention.”
Of course they did. Alaric resisted the urge to sigh.
“Then what should I call you, if not by name?”
“Adjudicant will do,” the man explained with a soft nod. “This is my role in the Doctrine. Or nothing at all, if that suits you better. I don’t insist on formality unless the audience does.”
Alaric immediately recalled the structure of the Doctrine—at the top stood the High Preceptor, the supreme head of the entire faith.
Below him were the regional overseers, known simply as Preceptors.
But here, in the castle, it was the High Preceptor himself who held residence.
Just beneath them in rank were the Adjudicants.
Alaric raised an eyebrow. “You're dangerously close to being reasonable. That might get you exiled from the clergy.”
The Adjudicant gave a faint smile, almost conspiratorial. “I won’t tell, if you won’t.”
They began walking slowly down the corridor together. Most of the castle seemed to be built more to withstand sieges than to house people. But in this particular wing the stone was smoother. It felt like someone had thought about comfort once, a hundred years ago, and then promptly forgotten.
The Adjudicant walked unbothered, like someone who had long since made peace with the shape of his life.
And then, casually, like one might ask about the weather:
“How do you feel about your upcoming marriage, Your Highness?”
Alaric huffed a short breath of amusement.
“Somewhere between well-prepared and morally kidnapped,” he replied. “Depends on the hour.”
“A fair answer. If nothing else, it shows you're thinking.”
“That’s my mistake,” Alaric explained. “I found out recently that thinking tends to complicate the illusion of peace.”
They reached the heavy stone doors of Orvath’s chapel sooner than Alaric expected.
The hall leading to it was colder than the rest of the wing.
The torches here were fewer, and their flames burned lower.
But the corridor itself grew noticeably more crowded.
Not with courtiers or servants, but with figures cut from an entirely different mold.
Members of the Celestial Assembly moved in clusters—silent, imposing, and oddly synchronized, like a storm that had learned to walk on two legs.
Alaric slowed slightly, letting his gaze drift over them without being obvious. He counted seven before he stopped trying.
“Is it always this cheerful in your halls?” he murmured, low enough for the Adjudicant to hear.
The priest gave a mild smile. “They are present more than usual, yes. The wedding draws attention. Normally, they remain in their Hall of Vigilance in the city. Now, they’re everywhere.”
Alaric hummed under his breath. “We keep a few in Solmara, but not inside the palace.”
“You are fortunate,” the priest said, without malice. “They serve Orvath with unwavering discipline, but… they are not easy company.”
That was putting it gently.
They passed two more standing at the chapel entrance. No weapons drawn, but armed all the same.
He angled his head. “Would it be terribly improper if I visited the chapel? Just to have a look.”
Adjudicant paused mid-step, then offered a gracious incline of his head. “Not improper. Orvath welcomes those who seek clarity of purpose. Whether they find it… or not.”
That sounded vague enough to mean you’re being watched, so behave, but Alaric gave a polite nod anyway.
“Clarity of purpose is a strong phrase for a man looking for five minutes of silence,” he said.
The Adjudicant’s smile returned, faint but unreadable. “Then you’ll find what you seek.”
He gave a final nod and drifted toward the chapel.
The two white-robed figures of the Celestial Assembly flanking the doors remained perfectly still.
Alaric followed and felt it: the pressing and almost physical weight of their gaze.
He hated their presence. It always made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t quite rationalize.
They smelled wrong, too. Cloying and too herbal, like incense trying too hard to cover rot.
He stepped into the chapel and instinctively veered toward the back, slipping into the last pew in silence. He settled on one of the backless stone benches and bowed his head, just enough to appear contemplative.
He lacked tact, true—but making the most of inconvenient moments? That was practically a talent.
The chapel was small by Varantian standards, almost severe in its restraint. No gilded panels, no painted saints—just bare stone walls, iron sconces, and the faint, metallic tang of cold dust clinging to the air like old breath.
Alaric didn’t bother searching for hidden sigils; there would be none here.
The Doctrine of Orvath was not new. Orvath had once been one of the Old Gods, as had Ilmora and Rhyssa.
Worshiped in the same halls that had crowned kings before the world cracked.
During the Age of Aetherum, mortals wielded magic as a divine gift, until it began to turn against them.
Ilmora saw laws become cages. Rhyssa saw devotion twisted into chains. Orvath saw strength wasted in submission.
Together, they became the Triad of Rebellion, breaking the seals and giving mortals what they called the truth—that magic had never been a blessing, but a slow execution.
First came the illusion of power. Then, the cost in flesh.
The Triad urged mortals to stop using it before it consumed them entirely. That was the story.
Or at least, that was the one that had been told ever since.
Alaric was never a believer. Myths polished into doctrine always hid something ugly beneath. But if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that religions were excellent at hoarding knowledge. And Orvath’s faith, for all its severity, had been there before and after the Sundering.
Alaric glanced around slowly. The architecture gave nothing away, but Cedric’s notes had been precise. The irregularity in the northern wall, just to the left of the third torch. A hairline seam, invisible unless you knew where to look.
Alaric didn’t approach. Not now. That would be reckless and a little too on-the-nose, even for him.
He rose and crossed to the Adjudicant instead, who was now arranging scrolls on the stone altar.
Charm was always his favorite misdirection.
If they were watching his mouth, they wouldn’t see what his hands were doing.
“Forgive the interruption,” he whispered, “but I had a question.”
The priest turned to him with that same serene gravity.
“I’ve been studying different forms of liturgical discipline,” Alaric continued smoothly. “Old structures. I’d be curious to observe one of Orvath’s rites firsthand. Are there any services being held this week?”
The Adjudicant considered him for a moment. “There is one,” he said. “In the middle of the week. The fourth day of Nyrix.”
“So, before the wedding.” Alaric bowed his head slightly. “I’ll stop by. Clarity before a wedding ceremony would be helpful.”
“May Orvath bless you with endurance,” the priest intoned, placing two fingers to his temple in ritual farewell.
“And you with silence,” Alaric replied smoothly, offering the traditional response, that he read in one scroll. He gave a final nod, turned, and strode out without another glance.
No congregation tomorrow. No witnesses. Just a locked passage and time. The first time in Edrathen his nosiness may have helped.
Perfect.
He stepped into the corridor and allowed himself a single, private smile.