Dawn came gray and cold over the Thornwood.
Mist clung low to the ravine, swallowing the place where the stone bridge had fallen. No bodies surfaced. No shouts followed.
Only silence.
Adrian stood at the edge until Garrick's hand settled on his shoulder.
"They'll circle back," the older man said. "Not here. Somewhere easier."
Adrian nodded but did not look away. He had fought before—border skirmishes, tourney duels—but never like this. Never against men who had shared his table.
"You spared one," Thorne said from behind him.
Adrian turned.
Thorne's expression was unreadable. No mockery this time. No open hostility. Only assessment.
"He was frightened," Adrian said.
"They all are."
"That doesn't make them monsters."
Thorne's jaw tightened. "No. It makes them useful."
The words lingered.
Seraphine stepped between them again, though more gently than before. She looked pale but steady.
"We move," she said. "Before the decree reaches the villages."
Adrian's stomach dipped. "Decree?"
She met his eyes.
"You don't think he'll stay silent."
They reached the outskirts of Bramble Hollow by midmorning.
Smoke curled from chimneys. Farmers moved between fields. Children chased one another with sticks shaped like swords.
Normalcy.
Too fragile to last.
A church bell rang.
Not the deep, old bronze tone of the village shrine—but a sharper, newly cast sound.
Adrian followed the noise toward the square.
A royal messenger stood mounted beside the well, crimson cloak bright against the mud-brick houses. Two guards flanked him.
Villagers gathered slowly, uncertain.
The messenger unfurled a scroll sealed with the royal sigil.
"In the name of His Majesty, King Vortigern, chosen by divine right and guardian of the realm—"
Adrian felt Seraphine stiffen beside him.
"—let it be known that agents of heresy and demonic corruption have infiltrated our lands. Pagan cultists consort with dark spirits, seeking to undermine crown and faith alike."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
The messenger's voice grew louder, righteous.
"One Lord Adrian Voss, second son of House Voss, stands accused of treason and alliance with these abominations. He is declared enemy of the crown."
The words struck harder than any blade.
A woman in the crowd gasped. A man spat.
The messenger continued.
"By the king's mercy, any who deliver information leading to his capture shall be granted protection and favor. Any who harbor such heretics shall be judged accordingly."
Protection.
Favor.
Fear wrapped in promise.
Adrian felt the shape of it now—clean, deliberate.
Lucifer was not hiding.
He was reframing.
Thorne's hand drifted toward his sword. "We end this now."
"No," Garrick murmured. "Too public."
The messenger rolled the scroll closed.
"Furthermore," he added, voice smooth, "His Majesty announces the formation of a new sacred council to guard the realm against infernal influence. A Holy Tribunal to root out corruption wherever it festers."
The words hung in the air.
Seraphine's fingers dug into Adrian's sleeve.
"There," she whispered.
The first stone laid.
The villagers' fear shifted—no longer directionless, but guided. Structured.
Organized.
A man stepped forward hesitantly. "Does… does this Tribunal answer to the crown?"
The messenger smiled.
"To God's will."
Not crown.
Not king.
God.
Adrian saw it clearly now—the shift in language. Subtle. Intentional.
Monarchy bending toward something else.
They slipped away before anyone noticed them lingering.
In a copse beyond the village, Mirael sank onto a fallen log.
"It's spreading faster than we thought," she said.
"Because he wants it to," Adrian replied.
Thorne looked at him sharply. "You finally see."
"Yes," Adrian said quietly. "He could have crushed us last night. Instead, he lets us run. Labels us. Makes us proof of his narrative."
Seraphine watched him with something like approval.
"Pressure shapes conviction," she said softly, echoing words he did not know had been spoken.
Garrick studied Adrian's face.
"What will you do, Lord Voss?"
Adrian stared back toward the faint outline of the palace towers on the horizon.
For the first time, he did not see home.
He saw a throne occupied by something patient.
"If he wants an enemy," Adrian said slowly, "then I'll give him one."
Thorne's brow arched.
"You'll fight your own house?"
"My house is already fighting me."
Cassian's face rose unbidden in his mind—smug, golden-haired, ever at the king's side.
Had his brother known?
Had he helped craft the decree?
Seraphine stepped closer.
"You cannot half-stand in this," she said. "Once you move openly, there is no return."
Adrian met her gaze.
"I crossed that ravine last night."
A faint, sad smile touched her lips.
"Then welcome to exile."
Behind them, the church bell rang again.
Not old bronze.
New iron.
Forged for something enduring.
And in the palace miles away, King Vortigern listened as a young cleric knelt before him, trembling with devotion.
"We are ready to serve," the cleric said.
Golden eyes regarded him kindly.
"Of course you are," Lucifer answered gently.
"The faithful always are."