The plan for the 'Pious Vigil' required a level of theatricality that Deacon found increasingly exhausting. He had to play the part of the grieving, spiritually awakened Lord, a man humbled by the divine intervention that had saved his city. He spent the morning in public prayer at the chapel's main altar, ensuring that Father Marius saw his 'devotion.'
Marius, for his part, was a portrait of oily suspicion. He stood by the high altar, his silk robes rustling as he watched the Castellan kneel on the cold stone. "It is heartening to see such faith, My Lord. The thunderstone was indeed a gift from the heavens. But the crypts... they are a cold, lonely place for a vigil. Are you certain you do not wish for an acolyte to attend you?"
"The ancestors speak most clearly in the silence, Father," Deacon replied, his voice a masterpiece of soft-spoken humility. "I seek only to offer my gratitude in private. Two hours of solitude is all I ask."
Marius eventually conceded, his greed for the continued 'consecration' funds outweighing his distrust. He handed Deacon a heavy, iron key—the key to the upper gates of the crypt. The lower sanctum, where the Iron Seal was allegedly kept, was supposedly sealed with a mechanism that only the chaplain knew.
The distraction was executed with military precision. Just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, a frantic messenger arrived at the chapel doors. Dr. Kelly—Major Kiley—had declared an outbreak of the 'Blue Fever' among the young acolytes at the northern seminary. The description of the symptoms was vivid and terrifying. Marius, as Deacon had predicted, turned pale and immediately gathered his senior staff, rushing toward the seminary with a flurry of holy oils and protective charms.
Deacon waited ten minutes, then slipped into the side entrance of the chapel. He was not alone. Shadowing him in the darkness was Staff Sergeant Rodriguez, carrying a leather roll of Miller's specialized masonry tools and a small, shielded lantern.
The descent into the crypts was a journey into the cold, damp heart of the House of Cassian. The air was stagnant, smelling of ancient dust, wet limestone, and the faint, sweet rot of old cedar. The walls were lined with the effigies of past Lords, their stone eyes staring blankly into the gloom. .
"Thorne said the Iron Seal is in the 'Altar of the Silent Heir,'" Rodriguez whispered, her lantern casting long, flickering shadows against the tombs. "Look for a sarcophagus with a broken sword on the lid."
They found it in the furthest corner of the lower sanctum—a small, unassuming tomb of white marble, tucked behind the massive sarcophagus of the Lord who had founded the city. The sword carved onto the lid was indeed snapped at the hilt. It was the grave of the true heir, the boy who had died in the hunting accident.
"Miller said the mechanism would be hidden in the base," Deacon said, kneeling in the grit of the floor. He began running his fingers along the cold marble, looking for the telltale signs of a hidden catch. He found it near the foot of the tomb—a small, recessed square of stone that didn't quite match the grain of the rest.
He pressed it. There was a dull, heavy click of a counterweight shifting deep within the masonry. The front panel of the tomb slid back an inch, revealing a hollow space within.
Inside, resting on a bed of rotted velvet, was the Iron Seal. It was a massive ledger, bound in black iron plates and locked with a heavy, rusted padlock. Beside it lay a bundle of parchments—the forged lineage papers and the original depositions Timon had mentioned.
"We have it," Deacon breathed, reaching for the book.
But as his fingers brushed the iron, the sound of a heavy door creaking open echoed from the top of the crypt stairs.
"My Lord?" a voice called out—not Marius, but the younger, sharper voice of the sub-prior, a man who hadn't gone to the seminary. "Are you still at your vigil? The Father has requested an update on the 'blue fever.'"
Deacon froze. He was caught in the act of desecrating the tomb of the man he was supposed to be. He looked at Rodriguez, who had already drawn her short axe, her eyes cold and ready.
"No," Deacon whispered, grabbing the Iron Seal and the papers. "Hide the tools. We're leaving through the ventilation shaft Miller mapped."
He shoved the ledger into his cloak, the weight of it dragging against his shoulder. They scrambled into the darkness of the rear alcoves just as the sub-prior's lantern light began to spill over the stairs. They squeezed into the narrow, soot-stained chimney of the old heating system, climbing upward with the desperate agility of soldiers escaping a burning building.
They emerged onto the chapel roof, the freezing wind stinging their faces. Deacon looked down at the iron-bound book in his arms. He had the evidence of the crime, the fraud, and the theft. He had the leverage he needed to control the Church. But as he looked back at the spire, he realized the sub-prior would find the open tomb. The secret was no longer just in the granary; it was out in the world, and the hunt for the 'Siege Worm' was about to become a very real, and very lethal, political reality.