The chapel bell tolled dawn, its solemn chime echoing through the frost-laced corridors of Seraphad. For most, it was the call to prayer. For Lucien, it was a signal—one more gear turning in the machine he'd quietly built.
He stood by the arched window of the scriptorium, eyes fixed not on the sky, but on the city below. Seraphad, the holy capital. A place that bathed in light, yet buried its secrets in the coldest parts of the earth.
Behind him, clerics murmured prayers. Scribes scratched pens across parchment. Life went on.
As it always did before it crumbled.
---
Later that Morning, In the Cleric's Hall
Lucien carried a silver tray—modestly polished, two goblets, one bottle of sacramental wine. He moved with a servant's poise, eyes cast downward. But inside, he was counting footsteps, memorizing guard routes, calculating how long it would take to get from the sanctum door to the stairwell in an emergency.
The hall was nearly empty. Just two high-ranking priests speaking in hushed voices near the hearth, backs turned.
Perfect.
He approached slowly.
"Your Excellencies," he said with a slight bow. "The wine you requested."
They barely looked at him. One waved a hand dismissively. The other muttered something about "always late."
Lucien placed the goblets carefully, poured the wine—just enough. Then, unseen beneath the rim, he twisted his ring and released the smallest speck of ash into one of the cups. Just a pinch. Enough to sour the priest's stomach for a few hours—nothing more.
Why?
Because he needed the man out of tomorrow's vote.
And because suspicion breeds division. If one priest fell sick, the other might wonder if someone wanted him out of the way. They might start watching each other. Whispering. Distrusting.
Lucien left the hall without a backward glance.
---
That Night, in the Dormitory
Sera sat on her cot, combing through old texts. She looked up as Lucien entered, brushing snow from his shoulders.
"Where were you?" she asked.
"Delivering wine," he said, hanging his robe.
She laughed lightly. "Is that what the devil does in his free time?"
Lucien smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "You'd be surprised how much can be accomplished over wine."
She watched him for a moment, a line forming between her brows. "You're planning something, aren't you?"
He met her gaze. "Always."
"But what is it?"
Lucien crossed the room, sat beside her. Close—but not too close.
"Sera," he said gently, "when the fire comes, do you think the embers care who started it?"
She blinked, unsure how to respond.
"I'm just... tired of pretending," he murmured, rising. "Good night."
She didn't sleep at all after that.
---
Underground, in the Forgotten Wing
Torches lit the path to the old archives—sealed decades ago after the last fire. Lucien had found the key months ago, wedged behind a crumbling gargoyle.
Now, he entered the chamber like a ghost, footsteps silent.
Rows of forgotten scrolls and moldy ledgers lined the shelves. But Lucien wasn't here for records.
He moved to a hidden panel in the wall and slid it open.
Inside: letters. Dozens. Stolen correspondences. Bribes. Proof of deals made in shadows.
One by one, he spread them across a stone table, scanning them quickly.
Corruption. Lies. Blackmail.
All weapons. All loaded.
He smiled.
---
End of Chapter 10