The next morning arrived veiled in fog—unnatural, dense, clinging to the cathedral walls like whispers refused to die. The bells hadn't rung. The usual hymns hadn't begun. Something was off.
Cassian stepped into the corridor outside his chamber, the sealed letter from Pope Marlin still fresh in his mind. The hallway was emptier than usual. The guards were gone.
"Strange. Something feels off today." He thought.
A figure approached—a young girl, maybe twelve, barefoot, dressed in white. Her eyes were a strange lavender, and she clutched a leather-bound book against her chest.
"You're Cassian," she said without preamble.
He nodded warily.
"I was told to give you this." She handed him a folded cloth. Within it, a single black feather lay curled around a shard of red crystal—pulsing faintly.
Cassian frowned. "What is this?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she placed two fingers to her lips, then tapped her temple.
Silence. Memory.
Before he could ask what she meant, she turned and walked away, vanishing into the fog like a dream dissolving in sunlight.
"Where did she go? Who was that girl?" Cassian muttered, after not finding his answers.
He returned to the alchemy chamber, locking the door behind him. The feather radiated faint heat. The crystal—some kind of volatile ether core—hummed at a frequency he didn't recognize. He'd worked with healing stones, energizers, combustion cores—but this was older. Wilder.
He placed it in a sealed vessel and activated a resonance scan. The glyphs flickered, then turned red.
[WARNING: FOREIGN SCRIPT DETECTED – CLASSIFIED ARCANE LAYER]
[Reconstructing linguistic patterns...]
[Keyword Identified: Ignis Venari – Flame Hunter]
Cassian's breath caught. Flame Hunter. It was a phrase found only in pre-Cataclysm texts—linked to a lost sect that believed fire was the purest form of divine judgment.
He opened the cloth again.
Under the feather was a message, barely visible under the folds.
"North Tower. Tonight. Do not speak. Do not bring light. Bring only fire."
He stared at it for a long moment. No seal. No sender.
Then he heard it—a knock.
Three sharp raps.
He stood, muscles tensing.
The door creaked open. Inquisitor Belrath stepped inside once more.
But this time, he wasn't alone.
A woman followed—tall, silver-haired, clad in the vestments of the High Tribunal. Her eyes were milky white, blind yet piercing.
"This," Belrath said grimly, "is Syra Valen. She sees sin. She reads it in the ether around your soul."
Cassian said nothing.
Syra stepped closer, inhaling.
Then she smiled.
"Interesting," she said. "You reek of unburned destiny. And secrets. So many secrets."
Cassian clenched his fists behind his back, "Damn."
Belrath crossed his arms. "You're being summoned to the Tribunal in two days. Until then, you are confined to this wing. Any unauthorized movement will be considered treason."
They left as suddenly as they arrived.
Cassian sat heavily at his workstation, gaze falling again on the black feather and red shard.
He had two days.
He would not wait that long.
Because tonight, under fog and silence, he would climb the North Tower.
With fire in his hand.
And a thousand questions burning in his blood.
—To be continued…