Torik had been escorted to a wide, low-ceilinged commons room. The stone walls were damp, but not unkind, lit with soft lanterns and warmed by quiet bodies. People filled the space. Dozens of them. Teenagers and young adults sat on benches or cushions, reading, practicing chants, or scribbling on parchment.
These are their recruits, huh, Torik thought, eyes scanning the room.
In another life, he might have ended up here. If the Unbound had found him five years ago, instead of Varlon's men, maybe he'd be reading scripture right now. Eating warm stew under a roof that didn't leak. Maybe even sleeping without a blade under his pillow.
"You'll be called for when the Holy Mother wants you. Don't wander off now, boy," the robed man beside him warned.
Torik flinched and gave a clumsy bow. "Y-yes, of course. Wouldn't dream of it."
The man gave a grunt of approval and turned to go. Torik turned to the room.
Was he here? Mox. The thought gnawed at him like a rat at his spine. He wouldn't let go of it. Not until he had an answer.
He walked quietly behind a boy reading from a cracked leather-bound tome. The boy glanced up.
"Are ya alright?" he asked.
Torik blinked, feigned surprise. "Sorr-ry, you just looked a lot like someone I know." He scratched the back of his neck. "You wouldn't happen to know Mox, would you? Short, dark hair. About your age. Freckles on each cheek. Talks like he's already got one foot in trouble."
The boy frowned, eyes narrowing. "I haven't. Wasn't through here, that's for sure."
Torik apologized and moved on, weaving between groups. He kept his face neutral. Curious, not probing. Just a humble courier, peeking around while he waited. That was the role. That was the lie.
He paused beside a girl bent over a slate, scratching numbers onto it with a bit of chalk.
"What's that?" he asked.
She glanced up. "Maths."
Torik raised an eyebrow. "Oh. Right. That thing where you stack numbers together until they scream."
She snorted. "It's just sums. Fractions, weights. Stuff for trade."
He nodded slowly, stepping back. They're teaching these kids. Not just prayer, not just sermons. Real knowledge. The kind the highborn hoarded like it was made of gold.
A priest wandered over, eyes kind but sharp. "You need something, lad?"
Torik kept his expression vague, a little awed. "Just looking around while I wait. Didn't expect to see numbers. Thought you only taught scripture."
The priest smiled. "We don't teach people what to think. We teach them how to think. The Bound forbid knowledge. We offer it freely, so they can choose their truth."
Torik nodded slowly, eyes low. But in his mind, something twisted. That sounded neat. Clean. But cults didn't get this big by letting people think for themselves. Somewhere, behind the smiles and books, there had to be chains.
He heard a whisper then. Low voices to the side.
"I saw it. Tried to hide it, but I saw the shape inside the sack. It was a crown."
Torik turned his head slightly. Kept walking, slow and aimless, drifting toward the sound.
"You think it's the one? The one they made all the fuss about?"
"Had to be. I wonder what they'll do with it."
"I heard it makes the wielder a god."
"No, it makes the wielder evil. That's why the king had it."
A third voice joined. "I heard it holds Tharoghul."
"In the Last's Name," the others murmured in unison.
Torik's chest tightened.
They kept talking, and he kept walking. Their words curled in his ears like smoke. They said it had been taken downward. Lower floors. Somewhere beneath.
Good. Now he had a direction.
He slipped out the side door, footsteps light. No one called after him.
The halls outside were quiet. He passed a corridor and saw it, a massive armored figure standing sentinel.
One of the cult guards.
A man, tall and silent in full armor, face shadowed beneath his helm. Human unlike those from the Bound, but no less imposing.
Torik leaned against the wall, Veilbinding humming at the edge of his thoughts. He didn't vanish. He didn't need to. Just shifted slightly, made the guard see what it expected to see. A shadow, a wall, a flicker of motion at the edge of sight.
Then he gave the guard a gift. A trick of the eye. A shape darting at the end of the corridor.
The guard turned. One heavy step. Then another.
Torik repeated it. Another flicker.
The guard growled and stomped after it.
Torik slipped past, silent as mist, and opened the door the guard had been watching. A stairwell yawned below.
He descended.
The walls narrowed. Torches flickered in brackets. He reached the bottom and crouched.
Another guard. Patrolling.
Torik waited. The man moved slowly. Predictable. He darted under the blind spot, close enough to smell the sweat and mildew on his armor. Pest beneath predator.
He reached the hall at the end and opened a side door.
Cells. Dozens.
He moved through them, slow and cautious. Most were empty. One held a man curled on the floor, mumbling. Another held a woman staring at the wall, unmoving.
Then he saw it.
A shape. Small. Slumped.
His breath caught.