Time lost meaning in the grey stone room. The only markers were the slow creep of pale light across the floor from a high, barred window and the rhythmic change of the guards outside the door every two hours. Inquisitor Greyford did not return.
I was provided with water and bland sustenance on a tray, delivered by a silent acolyte who would not meet my eyes. The atmosphere was not one of punishment but of quarantine. I was a contaminated specimen, to be contained until the experts decided whether to dissect or destroy me.
The pressure within me did not abate. It was a coiled spring, tightened by fear, by the lingering echo of the Anchor's despair, and by the sheer, exhausting effort of maintaining control. The holy power was no longer a quiet ember; it was a restless sun, reacting to every surge of my emotion. A flicker of fear? A warm pulse in my chest. A spike of anger at my helplessness? A golden heat in my palms I had to clench my fists to suppress.
I spent the hours practicing the most basic meditation exercises from my first days as an acolyte—breath control, mental focus, visualizing a contained vessel for the light. They helped, but they were like using a cup to bail out a flooding ship. The power was growing faster than my control.
Near what I guessed was evening, the lock clicked. Not Greyford, but a different man entered.
He was older, perhaps in his late seventies, with a lean, ascetic frame and hair the color of iron filings. He wore the simple, unadorned white robes of a high-ranking cleric, with a stole of violet—the color of penance and wisdom. His face was a network of fine lines, but his eyes were a clear, piercing blue that missed nothing. Archbishop Matthias.
I had met him once, years ago, as Selene. He had been a cardinal then, a quiet, scholarly supporter of the saint's public works. He had a reputation for integrity but also for a ruthless dedication to the Church as an institution. He was the man Greyford had summoned.
He did not sit. He stood before me, his hands folded within his sleeves, his gaze calm and assessing. "Lady Rosalind Thorne. Inquisitor Greyford's report makes for… extraordinary reading."
I rose and curtsied, my movements stiff. "Your Eminence."
"He claims you discovered a forbidden locus beneath the east wing. That you interacted with a residual entity of great age and corruption. That you spoke of the first saint in a manner bordering on heresy." His tone was neutral, reciting facts. "What do you say to these claims?"
He was giving me a chance to craft a story, to recant. A trap wrapped in courtesy.
"I say the Inquisitor's observations are accurate," I replied, meeting his eyes. There was no point in denial. "I found a hidden chamber. There is a tormented presence there, bound to the foundation. It called itself the Anchor. It spoke of being a sacrifice for the first seal."
Matthias's expression did not change, but the air in the room seemed to grow heavier. "The Anchor is a doctrinal myth, child. A metaphor for faith's role in sustaining the world."
"It is not a metaphor. It is a man. Or what's left of one." The memory of the blackened bones, the psychic scream, rose up, and with it, a sympathetic surge of golden light. I felt it flare behind my eyes, a brief, internal flash. I locked my jaw, forcing it down.
The Archbishop's piercing blue eyes sharpened. He had seen something—a faint glow from my pupils, perhaps, or a subtle shift in the room's energy. "You seem… agitated. The entity's corruption may have touched you more deeply than Greyford realized."
"I am agitated by injustice, Your Eminence. I am troubled by a sin that is a thousand years old, which forms the foundation of our existence. I was treading on dangerous ground, but his calm demeanor was more unnerving than Greyford's fury. "The… resonance of the place. It affects one's spirit."
"Indeed." He took a slow step closer. "Tell me, Lady Thorne. Before this incident, you were a student of modest attainment, known for a fleeting infatuation with the Crown Prince. Now, you are a researcher of obscure history, an uncoverer of ancient secrets, and a young woman who holds a conversation with an archbishop about foundational sins without trembling. Who are you?"
The question was a blade. It was the same question Kaelen had asked in a different way. Every day, my two souls battled to provide an answer to this question.
"I am someone who opened the wrong book," I said, deflecting. "I could not unsee what was written in that book."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his thin lips. "A compelling answer. It reminds me of someone I knew long ago. A girl who saw too much, who felt the weight of the world too keenly." His gaze grew distant for a moment. "She, too, asked inconvenient questions about origins and sacrifices."
My breath caught. Selene. He was talking about me. My past self.
He focused on me again, his eyes now holding a deep, unnerving scrutiny. "Inquisitor Greyford recommends you be transferred to a remote cloister for an indefinite period of spiritual cleansing and quiet contemplation. This is to protect you from corruption and to safeguard the Church from unsettling questions.
A cloister. A living death. A place where I would vanish as completely as if I'd been sealed in the crypt.
"The Crown Prince may have other ideas for my future," I said, a desperate gambit to play one power against another.
"Prince Cassian's interest in you is noted," Matthias said, his tone cooling slightly. "But the spiritual well-being of a noble soul falls under my jurisdiction. Unless he formally intervenes, my decision will stand." He studied me. "You have two days. The Prince is occupied with the aftermath of the poisoning scandal and preparations for the Northern Border Council. If he does not claim you for his… projects… by then, you will be taken to the Cloister of Silent Waters at dawn on the third day."
He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "That girl I mentioned," he said, without looking back. "She believed light was meant to reveal truth, not just to comfort. It is a dangerous belief. Truth often breaks the vessels that try to hold it."
He left, and the lock clicked shut once more.
His words swirled in my head. He had known Selene. He recognized something in me. Indeed, it wasn't the Saint he recognized, but rather the consistent pattern. The inconvenient seeker of truth.
And I had two days.
Two days before I was removed from the board entirely, buried in a cloister. Cassian was my only possible leverage, but appealing to him was like begging a spider for mercy.
The pressure within me spiked again, a hot, anxious wave. Two days. Two days. The mantra beat in time with my heart. My control slipped. A tiny spark of golden light, no larger than a firefly, escaped my clenched fist and zipped across the room, dissolving against the stone wall with a soft hiss.
I stared at the spot, horror drenching me. It was happening. The leaks were starting. A week would find me in a cloister, surrounded by pious nuns attuned to the faintest whisper of divine magic. In a carriage under Greyford's escort, a moment of stress might cause a full-blown manifestation.
I had two days not just to avoid the cloister but to find a way to hide what I was becoming.
As night fell, painting the room in deep shadows, a new sound joined the change of guards—a faint, rhythmic scraping against the stone floor outside my door. Then, a soft thud, followed by a muffled curse in a familiar, cheerful voice.
"Blast these infernal buckets!"
Elara.
A guard's stern voice. "You cannot be here, Lady Frost."
"I'm on cleaning duty! Punishment for 'disrupting the sanctity of the archives' or some such nonsense. This is the clergy's slop sink, isn't it?" Her voice was all injured innocence.
"It is, but—"
"Then I'm in the right place! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a truly impressive amount of dirty mop water to dispose of. Stand aside, unless you want to wear it."
There was a grunt, the sound of a heavy bucket being set down, and then the distinct, wet splash of water hitting stone and, from the guard's yelp, likely his boots.
In the ensuing moment of chaos, something small and hard slid under my door, skittering across the floor to my feet.
A frost-blue pebble, veined with silver. A Northern message stone.
I snatched it up, curling my hand around it. It was cool to the touch. As my skin made contact, Elara's voice, faint and whispery, spoke directly into my mind as if from a great distance, the stone's magic carrying her words.
"Rosalind. Brother says two days. He's working on it. The 'quiet place' they want to send you is a one-way trip. Do not get in that carriage. The stone will get cold if danger is coming. Be ready."
The connection broke. Outside, Elara was apologizing profusely to the sodden guard, her cleaning duty abruptly terminated as she was ushered away.
I clutched the message-stone, its coldness a comfort. Kaelen knew. He was "working on it." But what could he do? Storm the academy? Demand my release? That would ignite the very conflict he needed to avoid with the border council looming.
The pressure inside me flared again, a golden warmth spreading up my arm from the stone, reacting to the surge of hope and fear. I couldn't wait passively. I had to be ready.
But to be ready, I needed to master the unmasterable. I needed to control the intense passion burning in my chest, with only two days and a few ineffective techniques at my disposal.
And in the dark, the first Saint's disciple waited in endless torment, and the first Saint's successor in the Church watched me with knowing, troubled eyes.
The countdown had begun.