Morning broke gray and cold as the caravan rolled toward Bredford’s outer gates.

  From a distance, the city looked untouched by war—stone walls clean, banners hanging straight, towers proud against the sky. It was the kind of place that believed itself eternal.

  Lucius rode ahead of the wagon, posture relaxed, cloak dusty, every inch the picture of a merchant who’d done this road too many times to care anymore. Ashe kept us in a loose line behind him, eyes forward, head down. Hugo hummed under his breath. Mateo said nothing at all.

  The gates loomed closer.

  “Hold,” one of the guards called.

  The caravan slowed to a stop. Steel clinked as halberds shifted. I could feel Gino tense beneath me, muscles coiling, but I kept my hands steady on the reins.

  Lucius smiled easily and raised a hand.

  “Morning, lads. Merchants’ Guild out of Eldbury. Cloth, general goods, salt, tools. Papers should be in order.”

  One guard took the documents while another waved two men toward the wagon.

  “Check the crates.”

  My pulse thudded in my ears as one of the guards climbed up and pried open a lid. The wood creaked loudly—too loudly. I held my breath.

  Inside: bolts of cloth, neatly folded. Rough-spun wool on top, finer fabric beneath. The guard rummaged through it with bored hands, poking, lifting, clearly disappointed there was nothing interesting to steal.

  A long silence followed.

  The guard glanced at his companion. They exchanged a look—one of shared disinterest more than suspicion.

  “Everything looks clean,” the first guard said.

  The second nodded. “Let them through.”

  The gates groaned as they began to open.

  Just like that.

  We rolled forward, wheels clattering over stone, passing beneath the shadow of Bredford’s walls. I kept my eyes down as we crossed the threshold, resisting the urge to look around like a tourist.

  Inside, the city breathed—vendors calling out prices, carts rattling past, the smell of bread and dung and smoke mixing in the air. People brushed by us without a second glance.

  Mateo leaned closer, voice barely a whisper. “Empire never thinks the knife’s already inside the ribs.”

  Hugo grinned. “Their mistake.”

  Ashe said nothing. His gaze swept the streets, counting exits, measuring distance, already mapping the city in his head.

  The gates closed behind us with a dull, final sound.

  Bredford had let us in.

  And it had no idea what it had just welcomed.

  ***

  Bredford swallowed us whole.

  The streets were alive with noise and color—vendors shouting over one another, carts rattling over stone, the smell of bread and roasting meat drifting through the air. People moved with purpose here, well-fed and unafraid, as if war were nothing more than a rumor whispered by distant roads.

  We split naturally, like strangers who’d merely arrived together by coincidence.

  Lucius reined in beside me and pressed a coin purse into my hand. It was heavier than I expected.

  “Don’t waste my money, kid,” he said quietly.

  I nodded, tucking it into my belt.

  He tossed another pouch toward Ashe, who caught it easily and gave a brief nod. When we checked inside later, it was packed with crowns—at least a hundred.

  Mateo’s eyes practically lit up. “Ashe,” he said eagerly, already grinning, “you think I could buy a new sword? Mine’s got a bend in the—”

  Ashe swatted him away without even looking. “That money’s for food and shelter for two weeks, you idiot. Use your own damn money.”

  Mateo deflated instantly. “Worth a try…”

  Hugo laughed under his breath, already eyeing a nearby stall where skewers of meat sizzled over an open flame. “City like this,” he muttered, “I could eat my way through half the mission before sundown.”

  Lucius lingered a moment longer, his gaze settling on me. There was something in his eyes—calculation, maybe, or warning.

  “Don’t do anything rash here, okay?” he said. “May the Father guide you.”

  I swallowed and nodded again.

  Ashe motioned us forward. “We settle near an inn by the mills and granaries,” he said. “Eastern quarter. Close enough to watch the grain houses without drawing attention.”

  He glanced at each of us in turn. “We get rooms together. After that, we blend in. Separate. Learn the city.”

  The street narrowed as we headed east, the buildings changing from merchant stone to more utilitarian brick and timber. The air smelled faintly of flour and river water now, the rhythmic thump of mills audible beneath the city’s chatter.

  Bredford went on around us—laughing, trading, living.

  And beneath it all, unseen and unsuspected, we began to settle in.

  Like embers waiting for night.

  ***

  The inn was modest but clean—the kind of place merchants favored when they didn’t want questions asked. Low ceilings, narrow halls, the smell of stew soaked into the walls. We paid for two rooms without haggling.

  Mateo and Hugo claimed the one next to ours, already arguing over who got the bed closer to the window.

  I stepped into my room and set my satchel down at the foot of one of the beds. The mattress sagged under my weight when I sat, springs creaking softly.

  Ashe didn’t bother sitting.

  He stood by the window, half-hidden by the curtain, eyes fixed on the granary across the street. Wagons rolled in and out in steady rhythm, sacks of grain hoisted onto shoulders, guards pacing with lazy confidence.

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  “Shipments are constant,” he murmured. “Light watch. They rely on the walls, not patrols.”

  I followed his gaze for a moment, imagining fire climbing those walls, grain turning to smoke. The thought made my stomach twist.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I said, standing.

  Ashe turned and placed a hand on my shoulder—not hard, but firm.

  “Don’t get into trouble, Thomas.”

  I gave him a small smile. “Of course.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  I stepped back into the street, pulling my cloak tighter as the city swallowed me again. The marketplace was still bustling, voices rising and falling like waves. Children darted between stalls. Merchants laughed over deals. A woman scolded a boy for stealing an apple.

  Two weeks, I thought.

  Two weeks and this place would burn.

  I walked slowly, letting the noise wash over me, wondering how many of these people would lose their homes before dawn ever broke again.

  And whether the Father was watching.

  Or waiting.

  ***

  The cathedral rose from the surrounding streets like a white wound in the stone—tall, clean, untouched by the grime of the market. Its doors stood open, and the sound of voices drifted out into the street, low and rhythmic.

  A sermon.

  I don’t know why my feet carried me there. Maybe anger has a gravity of its own. Maybe some part of me still wanted to understand how words could do so much harm.

  I slipped inside and took a seat near the back, keeping my hood low. The air was heavy with incense and candle smoke. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, breaking into colored shards that painted the pews in red and gold.

  At the altar stood the priest—a pot-bellied man with soft hands and an easy smile. His robes were spotless. His voice was warm.

  “The Father doesn’t need anything from us,” he was saying, spreading his hands wide. “He has already given us this life, this world, everything we need to endure.”

  A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the congregation.

  “But,” the priest continued, his tone shifting just slightly, “shouldn’t we also give back to the Father? Are we not His sons and daughters in faith?”

  I felt my jaw tighten.

  “It is His will,” the priest said, tapping his chest, “not your will, that you give a portion of your labor to Him in gratitude. A tithe—not as a burden, but as an offering of love.”

  My fingers curled slowly in my lap.

  “Even though,” he went on smoothly, “my brothers and sisters, we have endured trials. Disasters. Even the loss of loved ones.”

  Something snapped inside me.

  My blood began to boil, heat crawling up my spine and settling behind my eyes. They’re the ones who took them, I thought. You. Men like you.

  Images flooded my mind unbidden—my father’s spectacles cracked on the stones, my mother kneeling, James’s scream cut short, Mara’s smile by the lake.

  The SIN pulsed against my side.

  Once.

  Twice.

  My hand trembled as it drifted closer, fingers itching to wrap around the cold iron. A voice—low, eager, familiar—whispered at the edge of my thoughts.

  Draw it.

  End it.

  Show them judgment.

  For a heartbeat, I could almost see it: fire and blood washing the altar clean, the priest’s words choking off in terror.

  But I didn’t move.

  Not here.

  Not now.

  The priest smiled again, serene and certain. “Honor the Father with your tithe,” he said. “And it is His will to bless you in return. Do not lose faith.”

  Faith.

  When the sermon ended, the congregation rose as one. People filed toward the altar in neat lines, heads bowed, hands folded. The priest lifted his palms, offering blessings, murmuring prayers as he pressed his thumb to foreheads.

  I stood when my turn came and joined the line.

  My hands were still shaking.

  As I waited, I wondered what would happen if I looked him in the eye. If he’d see what stood before him—not a sinner, not a penitent, but something forged in fire and loss.

  The line moved forward.

  The priest never noticed me watching.

  ***

  The flow of bodies shifted after the sermon, reshaping itself into something more orderly—and more predatory.

  A wooden collection box had been placed near the altar, its mouth yawning open. One by one, the congregation stepped forward. Coins clinked as they fell inside. Some people dropped their heads in shame as they offered less than others. A few kissed their fingers before letting the money go, like they were parting with a piece of themselves.

  The deacons watched everything.

  Their eyes moved constantly—measuring, counting, remembering faces. They stood stiffly at the edges of the line, hands folded, expressions carved from stone. When someone lingered too long at the box, a deacon would clear his throat. When a purse looked too light, a brow would furrow.

  I stepped forward when it was my turn.

  The pouch Lucius had given me felt heavier than it should have. I opened it and let three coins fall into the box. The sound echoed louder than I expected.

  The deacon nearest me glanced down, then up at my face. His eyes lingered for half a second—too long—before he shrugged, visibly tired, and waved the next person forward.

  As if three coins were barely worth the effort of judgment.

  I moved on to the priest.

  He dipped his fingers into a small bowl of oil and pressed his thumb to my forehead. The oil was cool, fragrant.

  “May the Father bless you, brother,” he said.

  Then he paused.

  His hand lingered just a moment longer than it should have. His smile faltered—not gone, but strained. His eyes searched my face, as if trying to place me in a memory that refused to surface.

  “You have a… fiery passion in you,” he said slowly. “Have you ever considered serving the Father more directly? Becoming a clergyman?”

  The word tasted bitter.

  “No, thank you,” I replied evenly. “I’m just a simple potter. I like my trade.”

  The lie slid out smoothly. Too smoothly.

  The priest studied me another heartbeat, then nodded. “All honest labor honors the Father.”

  I thanked him for the blessing and stepped aside.

  That’s when I heard the shouting.

  A woman near the back of the line was pleading, her hands empty, her voice breaking as she tried to explain. The deacons didn’t listen. One of them seized her arm, hard enough that she cried out.

  “I have nothing,” she sobbed. “Please—I lost my husband last winter—”

  “Enough,” the deacon snapped.

  They dragged her toward the side door. Her feet scraped against the stone floor as she twisted and begged, eyes wide with terror. The congregation looked away. A few bowed their heads in prayer. Others stared straight ahead, pretending not to see.

  My hand went to the SIN.

  Heat flared instantly, answering my touch like a beast straining against a leash. The voice rose again—clearer this time.

  Now.

  Teach them.

  My fingers curled around the grip.

  Then another hand closed over mine.

  Firm. Grounding.

  I sucked in a sharp breath.

  A voice, barely more than a whisper, brushed my ear.

  “Now’s not the time, Thomas.”

  I didn’t turn my head.

  I didn’t need to.

  The heat receded—reluctantly—as I forced my hand away. The woman’s cries echoed once more, then cut off as the door slammed shut.

  The priest began another prayer, smooth and practiced, as if nothing had happened.

  I stood there a moment longer, oil cooling on my skin, anger coiling tight in my chest.

  Then I lowered my head, pulled my hood up, and walked out of the cathedral—

  leaving judgment for a night that was still coming.