The next morning, Kirias headed for the library. It was a massive, circular structure of white stone, its walls reinforced with subtle mana-threads to protect the parchment within from age and humidity. As he climbed the wide steps, the air grew cooler, smelling of old paper and ink.
Inside, the silence was absolute. High, vaulted ceilings trapped the whispers of the few researchers present, turning them into a soft, indistinct hum.
"Scholar Caldris," he introduced himself at the main desk, pitching his voice to that of a weary but focused intellectual. "I'm looking for the historical records regarding the Church of purity… and any available texts on the foundational theory of magic circles."
The librarian behind the desk didn't look up immediately, finishing a note in a ledger with a feather quill. When he finally did, his gaze swept over Kirias's robes and hood, evaluating his status.
"The Church of Purity's records are in the North Wing, second floor," the librarian whispered, his voice as dry as the parchment around them. "But the foundational texts on magic circles are kept in the restricted vaults. You'll need a seal of patronage or a guild recommendation to access the advanced manuscripts. We only keep the introductory theory in the general stacks."
Kirias gave a slow, understanding nod. He didn't have the seal yet, but he had the Viscount's name in his pocket if he truly needed it. For now, the general stacks would have to suffice.
He moved through the aisles of the North Wing, his footsteps muffled by the heavy woolen rugs. He scanned the massive, leather-bound volumes until he found a section dedicated to the early theological structures of the Church of Purity. He pulled three heavy books from the shelves.
Next, he navigated to the general theory section. He selected a thinner, newer-looking manual on the geometry of magic circles.
With the stack balanced in his arms, he found a secluded seat in the far corner of the floor, tucked behind a pillar that hid him from the view of the main desk. The desk before it was made of dark, polished oak, scarred by the pens of many scholars before him.
He sat down, the chair creaking softly under his weight. He placed the books on the table with a muffled thud and took a moment to adjust his hood, ensuring his face remained in shadow.
He leaned forward and began to turn through the pages of the first text on the Church, his eyes scanning for any mention of the Saintess and their deity.
The records were clear and unwavering. The Church of Purity functioned on a foundation of genuine divine power, a force granted by a god who remained distant yet undeniably present through their chosen vessels.
The Saintess, according to the scriptures, was the pinnacle of this connection. She was a being born with the highest possible affinity for the divine, a living conduit for a power that could purge blight and mend what was broken.
As he read, Kirias felt a cold chill of recognition. He thought back to the old records, the ancient texts that had also spoken of such things. If the text were to be believed, then at the Basilica, he should have felt that power. Unless… he couldn't feel it at all.
He forced himself to stay calm, his breathing steady beneath the shadow of his hood. If his own mana was unable to sense divine power, what was to say the opposite wasn't also true?
If he was blind to the god's influence, then there was a chance the Saintess and her divine senses would be just as blind to him. They couldn't find him if he didn't even register on their radar. It was a gamble, but it was a more comforting thought than the alternative.
He turned to the next two texts, but they offered little else. They mirrored the first almost exactly, merely shifting the focus to different historical eras and cataloging the lives of past Saints and Saintesses, of how they fought against the unholy. Each account reinforced the same narrative: a lineage of chosen vessels, each possessing that affinity for the divine. It was a closed loop of history, polished and consistent, leaving no room for doubt.
He turned his attention to the manual on magic circles, looking for the foundation of this world's power. The text explained that mages developed between one and eight circles formed around their hearts. These circles acted as the engine for their power. Each one granted a specific affinity that boosted magic within a particular field and served as a threshold, allowing the practitioner to channel the mana required for more advanced and complex spells.
The ancient records had also detailed this exact structure. He leaned back, a flicker of curiosity crossing his mind: had this fundamental aspect of magic truly remained unchanged through millions of years?
Before moving on, Kirias began a more specific search. He combed through the indices of several secondary texts, his fingers tracing lines of ink as he looked for any mention of techniques to strengthen or expand mana pathways. He needed something that addressed the physical conduit of magic within the body—ways to refine the channels so they could withstand the sheer pressure of the mana density.
He searched for hours, growing increasingly frustrated. He found plenty on the "circles" and how to refine their rotation, but regarding the pathways themselves, there was nothing. It was as if the mages of this era treated the body's internal infrastructure as a fixed, unchangeable constant. They focused on the engine, but completely ignored the pipes.
He closed the last manual with a silent sigh. There was nothing for him here on that front.
On his way back to the exit, his eyes landed on a collection of books about demons. He stopped in his tracks, a sudden stillness coming over him as he reached out to take one. He'd almost forgotten about them—or perhaps, he had simply been trying to.
He returned to the desk and opened the heavy, dark-bound volume. The text was a grim reminder of why religions like the Church of Purity held such absolute sway over the people. It described the entities not as mere monsters, but as existential threats to the fabric of reality, listing the different hierarchies and the sheer devastation they left in their wake.
As he stared at the sketches of twisted, abyssal forms, the silence of the library seemed to grow heavier, pressing in on him. He didn't need the book to tell him the cost of facing such things; the weight of that knowledge was already etched into his soul.
He closed the book with a hollow thud and stood up, his face an unreadable mask. He had seen enough. The "Silk" of the nobility and the "Soot" of the slums were just layers over a world that was fundamentally broken and dangerous.
He left the quiet, dust-filled air of the library behind and stepped out into the fading evening light. There was nothing more for him to find here—not unless he chose to use the Viscount's name to pry into restricted archives. Even then, he suspected further study on these subjects wouldn't offer him much more than he already knew. With the rules of this world finally laid bare, he began the walk back to his manor, ready for the solitude of the night.
The walk back to the manor through the Upper District was a stark departure from the quiet of the library. Here, the "Silk" was being draped in literal white and gold. Kirias watched from beneath his hood as servants on tall ladders wound garlands of sun-lilies around marble pillars and polished the brass knockers of every estate until they gleamed like the stars above.
The excess was staggering. He passed a courtyard where a young boy, barely six years old, was being barked at by a stern-faced tutor.
"Lower, Caelum! Your forehead must graze the stone," the tutor snapped, pressing a hand into the boy's back. "The Saintess's blessing is not for the stiff-necked. Again! From the beginning!"
The child wobbled, his knees likely bruised from hours of repetition on the cold masonry, but he dropped again with a practiced, desperate grace. Kirias looked away, his expression hidden by the deep shadow of his hood. The sheer scale of the preparation was reaching the point of absurdity; it was an expensive, hollow show of devotion.
"Tomorrow," he heard a nobleman murmur to a companion as their carriage slowed near a gated courtyard. "The high-road will be cleared by dawn. The Saintess is ahead of schedule."
"A blessing," the other replied, though his eyes were darting toward his own front gates, checking if his decorations were superior to his neighbor's. "The purity she brings will settle the unrest in the lower wards. It's about time."
Kirias tightened his pace, his boots clicking rhythmically against the pristine cobblestones. The muttering was everywhere. In the Lower District, the arrival meant hope for bread and healing; here, it was a display of political piety.
It doesn't concern me, he thought, pulling his cloak tighter. Let them perform. As long as they are looking at the banners and the boy on his knees, they aren't looking at me.
He reached the gates of his own manor. Compared to the gaudy displays of the surrounding estates, his home looked dark and indifferent. He preferred it that way. He stepped inside, the thick stone walls finally cutting off the sound of the celebrating city. The silence of the manor was a relief, but it was hollow. He knew that just beyond these walls, one of the most powerful divine conduits in the world was drawing closer with every hour.
Kirias locked the front door, the heavy thud of the bolt echoing through the foyer. He leaned his back against the wood for a moment, letting the silence of the manor settle over him. He felt a small, dry spark of satisfaction. For once, he hadn't let his research consume his basic needs. Before heading to the library, he had actually remembered to stop at the market.
This time, the larder wasn't empty. He had bought a few loaves of dense rye bread, some dried beef, and a small crate of apples.
He walked to the kitchen and cut a thick slice of the bread. He ate standing up, looking out the window at the flickering lights of the neighboring estates. The wealthy families were still out there, supervising their servants as they hung more silk and prepared for the arrival.
The excitement in the air felt like a physical pressure, but in here, it was just him and the stone walls. He had his information, he had his food, and he had a place to hide. He paused halfway up the stairs, a piece of dried beef still in his hand. A new, irritating realization struck him.
In his effort to be invisible, he was potentially doing the exact opposite. He looked out a hallway window at the street below. Every single manor in the district was draped in white. Some had elaborate floral arrangements while others had silk banners so long they brushed the pavement. The wealth of the Upper District was currently being measured by how loudly it could scream its devotion to the Church.
If his manor remained a dark, bare fortress of stone while every other house for miles was glowing with finery, it would stand out like a sore thumb. It wouldn't just look humble; it would draw attention.
"Dammit," he muttered under his breath.
He let out a short, tired breath. He really didn't want to play this game, but he couldn't afford to be the one outlier in the Saintess's path.
He didn't go searching for old crates or linens. Instead, he stood in the center of the dark foyer and raised a hand.
With a low hum of power, he began to weave. White threads materialized out of the air, spinning together into long, shimmering bolts of silk. With a flick of his fingers, the fabric surged outward, snaking through the windows and over the balcony railings. It draped itself in elegant, heavy folds over the front gate and the main entrance, looking every bit as expensive—and as devout—as the decorations of the neighbors.
It was a waste of mana for such a mundane task, but the result was perfect. To any observer, the manor now looked like the home of a wealthy, silent supporter of the Church.
Satisfied, he returned to the kitchen. He sat back down and ate a bit more of the bread and dried meat. He had done all that he could in the time he had. Now, all that remained was to see if his theory held true when the Saintess finally entered the city.