The cathedral rose before them—gothic, golden, and so tall it felt like it was actively trying to elbow the clouds out of the sky.
Arcade craned his neck, whistling. “Impressive. Especially for stolen parts.”
Crystal didn’t even flinch. “Relinquished,” she corrected calmly. “By the mythics. After the Mana War. Their donation was… generous.”
Arcade snorted. “You mean forcibly acquired.”
Crystal shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “I disagree.”
Silver folded his arms, surveying the towering spires with faint approval. “If they’d fought harder. With more discipline. They wouldn’t have lost.”
Hughes didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
He just looked at Silver.
The look said: Careful. Very careful.
Silver shifted, lips pressing thin, suddenly very interested in the cathedral’s flying buttresses.
Before anyone could escalate, the massive doors creaked open.
Radiants in luminous gold-trimmed robes stepped forward, faces serene in that practiced, unsettling way. One, A pureblood mouse, A Dawn Prelate, Marvin inclined his head.
“Knights of Clawdiff,” he said warmly. “Have you come to pay respects?”
Celeste hesitated, then smiled apologetically. “Sort of. Mostly… questions. Right now.”
“Ah,” the Dawn Prelate said, brightening. “Then you will want to come inside. The Luminarch Doctrine seeks to educate. And educating yourselves is a good first step toward understanding your sins—”
Arcade muttered under his breath, “Oh, this is going to be insufferable.”
“—and your privileges,” the Dawn Prelate finished smoothly.
Arcade grumbled, “Called it.”
Ray hissed quietly, elbowing him. “Behave.”
“I am behaving,” Arcade whispered back. “I’m whispering my contempt.”
Celeste was already halfway through the doors, carefully lifting her boots to avoid muddying the gleaming marble floor, as if the building might personally judge her for it.
The cathedral swallowed them whole.
Light filtered down through stained-glass windows depicting radiant figures, battles frozen in colored fire and gold. Every step echoed. Every breath felt… noticed.
Celeste tucked her scarf closer around her neck and followed the priests deeper inside, trying not to think about sins, privileges, or the way the air itself seemed to hum with quiet, watchful expectation.
Whatever answers waited here—
they weren’t going to come without a price.
Inside, the cathedral unfolded like a living reliquary.
Stained-glass windows climbed impossibly high, each pane depicting saints Celeste didn’t recognize—figures haloed in gold and mana-light, frozen mid-miracle or mid-judgment. Statues lined the nave: armored paladins, serene martyrs, saints with hands raised as if still blessing the faithful centuries later.
The floor gleamed. Too clean. Too perfect.
Paladins stood at measured intervals along the aisles, spears grounded, helms tucked beneath their arms. Their eyes followed Celeste as she passed—not judging, not hostile.
Assessing.
Not her posture.
Not her clothes.
Her mana.
Celeste leaned toward her team and whispered, barely moving her lips. “Be careful. They’re watching for… anything.”
Mezzo nodded solemnly. “Got it. No touching.”
Silver snorted softly. “Wise. Most of this costs more than you’ll earn in your lifetime if you break something.”
Mezzo turned his head slowly. “Oh, stuff it. Not everyone’s a prince.”
Silver straightened reflexively. “I am Heir-Regent of Sight and Lord Arcturus of the Outer Ring. Vast difference.”
Mezzo squinted. “Still a prince. And you can shove your titles up your—”
“Can it,” Ray hissed, not breaking stride. “And no swearing.”
Mezzo’s shoulders slumped instantly.
He muttered, sulky and offended, “This is like the worst school trip ever.”
Celeste bit back a smile, eyes flicking up to the stained glass again. The saints’ faces seemed to watch them now, expressions unreadable.
She didn’t like it.
Not the silence.
Not the weight of history pressing down on her shoulders.
Not the way the paladins’ attention sharpened every time her core stirred.
Whatever truths the Luminarch Doctrine claimed to teach—
she had the distinct feeling they weren’t meant for her kind.
They slowed near one of the side chapels, where a Radiant was arranging votive candles with practiced care. She looked up as they approached, smile gentle but alert.
“Excuse me,” Celeste said softly. “We’ve had reports of… unusual movement. Zombies slipping into secured buildings. We were hoping to look around, just to be safe.”
The Radiant nodded immediately. “Of course, dear. You’re welcome to walk the grounds.” She gestured down the aisle. “We’re holding tours and confessions today, and there will be a service at two bells.”
Hughes inclined his head politely. “Thank you, Sister. Are many of the clergy present today?”
“Most of them,” she said. “Though the Luminary Pontifex is unavailable.”
Hughes paused—just a fraction too long. “Pontifex Tàiyáng?”
“Yes,” the Radiant replied easily. “Arch-Luminar Tamsin Emilio will be leading the service instead.”
Something shifted.
Not in the room.
In Skye.
His shoulders tightened, ears angling back. His hand hovered near his deck instinctively, fingers flexing once before he caught himself.
Celeste noticed.
Of course she did.
She glanced sideways at him, saying nothing—but filing the moment away carefully, like a loose thread she’d come back to pull later.
As they reached the row of confession stands, the air shifted—thicker, heavier, like the cathedral itself was holding its breath.
Lysander stood near one of the Crown Confessors.
Skye froze so hard he nearly disappeared, ears flattening as he ducked behind Arcade on instinct.
Arcade swore under his breath. “Oh, come on. What is he doing here?”
Ahead of them, a carbuncle knelt at the altar, paws clasped, voice low and reverent as it prayed loudly for the sins of all hybrids and mythics. Every word echoed just a little too far.
Meanwhile, Lysander spoke quietly with another Crown Confessor, posture relaxed, perfectly at home.
Silver hadn’t expected to see him.
The moment he clocked Lysander’s silhouette, he subtly stepped back, angling himself behind Celeste and the others. His armor—borrowed, practical, undeniably hybrid—felt suddenly very visible.
Too visible.
The Crown Confessor nearest them—an owl, Crown Confessor Egan Agapetus with pale feathers and unblinking golden eyes—turned smoothly, wings rustling beneath layered robes.
“Welcome, Knights of Clawdiff,” the owl said serenely. “Have you come to confess?”
Lysander scoffed, folding his arms. “The confession booth is open today, is it? How… convenient.”
Pitch’s eyes flicked toward the exits. Counting. Measuring distance.
Ray shifted, jaw tight, shoulders stiff with something that looked suspiciously like guilt.
The carbuncle finished its prayer and rose, turning—
—and looked straight through Arcade.
Not past him.
Through him.
Arcade braced for confrontation. For judgment. For the usual sanctimonious sermon.
Instead, the carbuncle’s gaze slid away like Arcade wasn’t there at all.
It stepped past him, climbing the dais with measured grace.
“Do any of you wish to confess today?” he asked, voice neutral, almost bored.
Hughes stepped forward slightly. “We’re here on a private matter.”
The Crown Confessor inclined his head. “Do not be shy. Everyone confesses. Even those who believe they have nothing to answer for.”
Lysander smiled thinly, eyes flicking to Celeste. Yes, his expression said. Especially you.
Celeste shifted, rubbing her thumb against the edge of her arcbracer.
“I… don’t know,” she said softly. “I think I may not get any information I don’t already have.”
Behind her, Crystal Lockhart was slowly backing away, shoulders tight, clearly wishing she could dissolve into the marble floor.
She cleared her throat.
“Um—Knight Commander?” she said, a little too brightly. “I think I… might go ahead and check the western gallery. On my own. Just in case.”
Celeste turned, surprised. “Are you sure? We can—”
“I’ll be fine,” Crystal said quickly, already sidestepping toward a narrow side corridor. “I know this wing. And—uh—if I find anything, I’ll ping the arcnet.”
Her eyes flicked—briefly, nervously—to Lysander.
Then she was gone, boots echoing once before the sound was swallowed by the hall.
The space she left behind felt larger.
Colder.
Lysander’s smile widened.
“Come now, Commander,” he said lightly. “Confession can be… enlightening.”
Then his gaze flicked—
—and landed on Silver.
Lysander burst out laughing.
“Stars above,” he said, openly delighted. “Silver, is that your uniform? You look like a peasant.”
Silver went still.
Heat crept up his neck. Shame hit fast and sharp—old, familiar, well-trained. He dropped his eyes before he could stop himself.
Celeste moved without thinking.
She stepped in front of him, blocking Lysander’s line of sight with her own small, stubborn frame.
Her shoulders squared.
Inside her chest, something stirred.
Her dragon side—quiet until now—lifted its head and spoke for the first time.
You think he is worthy?
Celeste swallowed, heart pounding.
No, she answered honestly.
We are protecting him.
She didn’t look back at Silver.
She didn’t look at Lysander either.
She just stood there—between judgment and someone who didn’t yet know how to stand on his own.
Then Ray slipped to the side of the room and sat on the edge of one of the crates.
For a moment, she just stared at the floor.
Then she bowed her head.
Her hands came together—not casually, not because she was thinking, but deliberately. Fingers interlocked. Thumbs pressed close. Eyes shut.
Prayer.
Celeste noticed because Ray almost never sat still.
She noticed the way Ray’s shoulders lowered with each breath. The way her jaw unclenched. The way the fire in her hands died down to a faint ember-glow, contained and quiet.
It only lasted a little while.
A minute, maybe less.
Then Ray opened her eyes, exhaled sharply, and stood.
Silver saw her distraction and walked around her.
He looked at Celeste—really looked—and then stepped past her shoulder.
As he brushed by, something happened.
For half a heartbeat, Celeste felt it more than saw it: a warm prickle along her neck, like sunlight catching on skin. Iridescent scales shimmered into existence just beneath her collar—soft pastel hues, pearl and dawn-light.
At the same time—
Gold scales bloomed along Silver’s neck, fleeting and luminous, like a reflection answering a call.
They vanished almost instantly.
Silver didn’t stop walking.
But his step faltered—just slightly.
That got his attention.
He reached Lysander and inclined his head with practiced ease. “I’m doing community service.”
Lysander blinked, clearly not expecting that.
“…I’m sorry,” he said coolly. “Community service?”
Silver smiled thinly. “You should be. It’s character building.”
Lysander snorted. “If this is punishment, I almost pity you. Are you here for a service, Silver?”
“No,” Silver replied. “Information.”
The owl priest turned his head with a smooth, unsettling motion. “What information do you seek, child of Sight?”
Before Silver could answer, the carbuncle spoke again, voice calm and absolute.
“The Light will reveal all truths. It is inevitable.”
Lysander’s eyes slid back to Celeste.
“Speaking of truth,” he said pleasantly, “come now, Commander. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”
Agapetus stepped forward, wings folding with ceremonial precision, and gestured for Celeste to approach.
Hughes moved instantly.
He planted himself between them, voice level but immovable.
“She will do that when she chooses.”
The owl paused.
Just… stopped.
It turned his head—not to Hughes, but to Lysander—and said politely,
“The Commander’s consent is required.”
Lysander’s jaw tightened.
Annoyed now.
He stepped past Hughes, brushing close to Celeste as he did. His voice dropped, low enough that only she could hear.
“I’m watching you,” he murmured. “If any corruption touches Silver—if he falters—there will be no place in Clawdiff you can hide. Not from the Judges.”
Celeste blinked. “I… don’t understand.”
Lysander was already walking away.
Silver stood a few paces off, rigid, staring at nothing—one hand unconsciously hovering near his collar where the gold scales had appeared.
For the first time since joining the Knights of Clawdiff, something had happened that rank, charm, and training couldn’t explain.
And for the first time—
he wasn’t sure who, exactly, was protecting whom.
