The lanterns came first, flaring against the estate walls like sudden wounds in the darkness. Soren jerked upright in his narrow bed, the shard against his chest pulsing with violent cold that stole his breath. Something was wrong.

Through his small window, he caught glimpses of a black-cloaked procession marching through the main gates, their silvered staves catching the torchlight in brief, threatening flashes. The Velrane guards stood aside without challenge, a sight so unusual it sent ice sliding down Soren's spine.

'They've come for you,' Valenna whispered, her voice sharp as winter frost. 'The Church does not forgive. The Church does not forget.'

Soren pulled on his boots with trembling hands, every muscle still aching from Kaelor's brutal training regimen. He had barely finished dressing when his door crashed open, revealing three house guards with grim faces and averted eyes.

"Come," the lead guard said, not meeting Soren's gaze. "You're summoned to the great hall."

"By Lord Callen?" Soren asked, though he already knew the answer.

"By the Inquisitors of the Illuminated Church," the guard replied, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "They carry Archon Devren's personal seal."

The shard pulsed again, colder than before. Soren's fingers instinctively moved to his sword belt, but the guards stepped forward as one.

"Don't," the lead guard warned. "It will only make it worse."

The journey through the estate's corridors felt like a funeral procession. Servants flattened themselves against walls as they passed, faces pale with fear or something uncomfortably like satisfaction.

Word had spread, the troublemaker who had brought the Church's wrath upon House Velrane was being called to account.

The great hall blazed with torchlight when they arrived, every lamp lit despite the late hour. Black-robed figures formed a half-circle before the main dais, their faces hidden within deep hoods.

At their center stood a taller figure, distinguished by the silver embroidery that edged his robes and the ornate staff he carried, not a weapon but a symbol, the eight-ringed sigil of Solmir's Cathedral atop a shaft of polished silver.

The lead guard's grip tightened on Soren's arm as they approached, then released him with a slight push forward. He stumbled, still weak from his injuries, and found himself alone in the center of the hall, a dozen hooded gazes fixed upon him.

"Soren Thorne." The lead Inquisitor's voice filled the hall, deep and resonant, a voice accustomed to pronouncing judgment.

He pushed back his hood, revealing a face that might have been carved from pale marble, austere features, silver-white hair cropped close to the skull, and eyes the color of winter skies, cold and unyielding. "By writ of Solmir's Archon, we summon you on charges of heretical aid and interference with sacred justice."

The Inquisitor unrolled a parchment sealed with crimson wax, the symbol of Archon Devren's personal authority. "You are accused of aiding the fugitive heretic Naeria Veyl in her escape from rightful Church authority. Of obstructing the Cathedral Watch in their sacred duty. Of potential contamination by forbidden knowledge."

Each charge landed like a physical blow. Soren felt sweat breaking out across his forehead despite the hall's chill. The wound in his shoulder throbbed in time with his racing heart, a constant reminder of his vulnerability.

"I didn't—" he began, but the Inquisitor raised his staff, silencing him with a sharp gesture.

"Denials will be heard before the proper tribunal," he said, voice hardening. "Under the light of Solmir's sacred fire, where falsehoods burn away."

Movement at the far end of the hall drew Soren's attention. Lord Callen entered through the family's private door, his tall figure somehow more imposing in a simple black robe than most men in full ceremonial dress.

His pale, merciless eyes surveyed the scene with calculating precision, missing nothing as he assessed the threat to his house.

But he remained silent. Made no move to intervene. Simply watched, as if the proceedings before him were some mildly interesting theater rather than the seizure of his house's Blade.

'He waits to see which way the wind blows,' Valenna whispered, contempt edging her voice. 'Whether you're worth defending or better sacrificed.'

The lead Inquisitor gestured, and two of his black-robed companions moved forward, producing chains that gleamed oddly in the torchlight. Not ordinary iron, but something else, metal etched with glowing script that pulsed with faint blue light. The sight of them sent a wave of nausea through Soren's body, though he couldn't have explained why.

"Soren Thorne, you will accompany us to the Cathedral for proper questioning and judgment," the Inquisitor declared. "Resistance will be considered confirmation of guilt."

"House Velrane disciplines its own."

The voice cut through the hall like a blade, sharp and unexpected. Veyr Velrane stood in the doorway, his slight limp more pronounced than usual as he approached. His face remained composed, but something in those pale eyes burned with an intensity Soren had never witnessed before.

"You have no right to seize him like a common cutpurse," Veyr continued, positioning himself between Soren and the Inquisitors with deliberate precision. "He is sworn to our house. His actions, whatever they may be, fall under our authority first."

The lead Inquisitor turned slowly, his winter-cold eyes narrowing as they fixed on Veyr. "Heretics are not 'owned,' Lord Veyr. They are tried."

The word hung in the air, heretic, with all its terrible implications. Not criminal. Not misguided. Heretic. A designation that placed one beyond the protection of law, family, or tradition.

Veyr's posture stiffened, but his voice remained level. "Has he been proven heretic? Or merely accused? House Velrane has stood as pillar of the faith for eight generations. Our Blade deserves the courtesy of proper process."

"Lord Veyr—" his father began, a note of warning in his voice.

But Veyr continued as if he hadn't heard, words flowing with the precision of someone who had spent his life wielding language as others wielded swords. "Soren Thorne served this house honorably in the tournament. He faced Ser Daven Trescan with courage that forced a noble knight to reveal Aura. His loyalty has been tested and proven."

He moved closer to Soren, each step deliberate despite his limp. "If you claim him, you claim us. House Velrane is not so easily cowed."

The hall fell silent. Servants pressed against the walls, barely breathing. Guards shifted uncomfortably, hands hovering near weapons they dared not draw. The air itself seemed to thicken with tension as Veyr's challenge hung between them.

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