Several days had passed since the confrontation in the Clock Hand Tower.

  Archbishop Rhyla Venn sat alone in her assigned chambers, the room lit only by a half-dozen candles hovering above her desk, their flames steady and pale with restrained magic. The light reflected faintly off the glass beads woven into her braids—tiny flecks of color catching and releasing the glow with every subtle movement of her head.

  She leaned forward over a spread of notes, annotations written in a precise, angular hand. Margins were crowded with revisions, questions, symbols only another scholar—or inquisitor—might recognize. Her sharp, dark eyes moved quickly, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed the calm she tried to maintain.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Venn closed her eyes for a moment and exhaled through her nose. Slowly, she rose from her chair, joints protesting as she crossed the room.

  When she opened the door, Aelun and Eryndor stood waiting.

  She offered them a thin, tired smile and stepped aside. "Enter."

  The two did not waste time with pleasantries. As soon as they crossed the threshold, they began to move—Eryndor drifting toward the far wall, Aelun's gaze sweeping the ceiling, corners, and floor with methodical precision. It was not the first time they had done this. It would not be the last.

  Venn closed the door behind them and folded her arms.

  "How long must this continue?" she asked quietly.

  "Until the Accords pass safely," Aelun replied without looking at her, "or until we find what we're looking for."

  Eryndor paused near a shelf of books, his expression apologetic. "I don't enjoy this either, Archbishop. Truly. But our options are limited."

  Venn let out a short, humorless breath. "You must not suspect me too deeply, then." She gestured vaguely at them. "You sent a young Saint and an elf. If you truly believed I was a threat, you would have sent Isolde. Or the Grand Master. Would you not?"

  Aelun finally turned to her.

  For a heartbeat, their eyes met—and Venn shivered.

  There was something in the elf's gaze that felt invasive, as though it slid past flesh and bone and brushed against the shape of her thoughts.

  "Is that what you think?" Aelun asked softly.

  Her fingers curled reflexively at her side.

  "We are the ones checking on you," he continued, smiling faintly, "because I requested it. I believe you are the most likely suspect."

  Venn blinked. "Me?"

  Eryndor stiffened and looked sharply at Aelun. "Her?"

  "Everything about you is too convenient," Aelun said calmly. "You submitted to testing conducted by a demon almost immediately."

  "Because I know I'm innocent," Venn shot back.

  "Perhaps," Aelun replied. "Or perhaps because you knew he would find nothing." His smile sharpened. "Even if you are open-minded. Submission without hesitation, to a test conducted by a demon, is… unusual."

  Before he could finish, Venn cut in, irritation bleeding through her composure.

  "We are under severe time constraints. We will be working alongside demons until the coven is dealt with, regardless. I saw no negatives in compliance."

  "Hm." Aelun's tone made it clear the answer did not satisfy him.

  Eryndor returned to his side. "I've finished searching the room. I don't sense anything."

  "Of course you don't," Aelun said lightly. "If they can move beneath Morgan LeFaye's notice while within the Hallows, we will not detect them with simple sweeps."

  Venn threw her hands up slightly. "Then why continue this? This is the fifth visit in as many days, and the Accords are nearly complete. Surely your time is better spent elsewhere."

  Aelun shrugged. "I'm just following orders. I'm just as curious as you to see what Darius has in mind."

  At the sound of the name, Venn's fingers flexed—just barely.

  Aelun's gaze dropped to her hand, and a knowing smirk touched his lips. "We'll be seeing you soon, Sister."

  Eryndor bowed politely. "Archbishop."

  They left together, the door closing with a quiet, final click.

  For a moment, the room was silent save for the soft hum of candleflame.

  Venn's jaw tightened. She lifted a hand and scratched at her scalp in agitation, beads clinking softly.

  "They know."

  The words came from the shadows.

  Venn did not turn in alarm. She scoffed instead, letting her shoulders relax as she faced the darkness.

  From it, Azeal stepped forward. Venn's demeanor shifted completely.

  The tension drained from her spine. Her eyes glazed over, pupils dulling as something colder and more distant settled behind them.

  She turned to face the Demon Lord, then scoffed.

  She walked away from him and crossed the room, her steps measured, almost casual. Sitting at the edge of her bed, she leaned back on her palms, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. Her mouth twisted into a frown.

  "I thought we agreed," she said coolly, "that Commander Darius needed to be put out of commission. Killed, if possible."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Azeal clasped his hands behind his back, posture relaxed—almost indulgent.

  "If you had seen the wound inflicted upon him, you would have assumed he would be. Just like me," he replied. "And mind your tone, Pale Seer."

  "Truly?" Venn—the Pale Seer—asked dryly. "Because not only is he not dead, he's apparently well enough to move about."

  Azeal hummed. "I witnessed it myself. A demonic swamp Drake tail to the neck. The fact his head stayed on is a miracle in itself." Azeal shook his head in disgust.

  "And yet he is perfectly fine now. Better than ever, actually."

  "Fantastic." Pale Seer's annoyance was palpable.

  Azeal turned slightly, eyes gleaming. "Why are you so concerned with that boy? He is no threat. Your attention would be better spent on the LeFaye girl."

  The Pale Seer's expression sharpened. "Trust me when I say my concerns regarding Selene are deep and plentiful. Commander Darius is not my concern." Her fingers dug into the bedding. "Devotion is."

  She looked up at him then, eyes hard.

  "The longer he wields that blade, the more dangerous it becomes. That sword is the single most effective weapon against demons and demonkin ever forged. Period."

  Azeal chuckled softly. "Are you truly afraid of the weapon?" he asked. "Or are you still fleeing the shadow of the one who created it?"

  Her jaw clenched at the words, muscles tightening beneath her skin—but her voice remained steady.

  "Regardless of my personal history, the truth stands. Devotion will be a hurdle for us moving forward. Best to deal with it now, while the boy is still… inexperienced with its full applications."

  Azeal tilted his head. "Speaking of moving forward—are preparations complete? Can you get us out of here?"

  "With recent developments," the Pale Seer said, irritation bleeding through, "our movements have been… impeded. I'll need more time." She paused, then added, "If you can secure access to the Hallow's Demon Hearts, I can free you immediately. Or—if you can create additional demon hearts."

  The air around Azeal distorted.

  In an instant, he was no longer across the room. Shadow folded inward and spat him out directly before her.

  His clawed fingers snapped up, gripping her chin, forcing her head back. His eyes searched her face with cold, predatory scrutiny.

  "I will not sacrifice REAL demons for your games," he said quietly. "Even if I find them entertaining."

  The Pale Seer's breath hitched. She met his gaze for a heartbeat—then balked, her eyes sliding away.

  Azeal released her.

  "As for their location," he continued mildly, stepping back, "it is impossible to know. You of all people should understand that. You were once… close with Morgan LeFaye, were you not?"

  She scoffed, rubbing at her jaw. "For a time. So it's still impossible—even for you? Wonderful."

  "Yes," Azeal said, unbothered. "But rejoice. You and the one you call Cursed Bounty managed to infiltrate the Hallows. That alone is worth commendation."

  "Infiltrate," the Pale Seer muttered. "Right."

  Azeal's smile widened.

  "You feel it too, don't you?" he asked softly. "Like we're all dancing in her hands?"

  "Yes," she admitted. "As though she's using us to sharpen her granddaughter's fangs." Her arms folded tightly across her chest. "Quite literally."

  "Exactly," Azeal said. "But does that change anything?"

  "No," she replied flatly. "It doesn't."

  She exhaled, then continued, "From what I've gathered, the Accords will persist for at least another week—until all parties are satisfied. Give me three days. I can break what binds the four of you here."

  "We will require it br oken for a dozen others as well," Azeal said. "Will that be too much for you?"

  "No," she answered. "We'll simply require more material. We have no further use for your supply of demon blood anyway. We can use that."

  Azeal inclined his head. "Excellent! Then we will wait."

  Shadow swallowed him whole, his form dissolving as though it had never existed. The darkness slipped away, leaving the room still and silent once more.

  The Pale Seer waited.

  Only when she felt his absence did she mutter, "Damn demons."

  Her body shuddered.

  Light returned to her eyes.

  Archbishop Rhyla Venn blinked, breath uneven, her hands trembling slightly as awareness rushed back into place. Rhyla Venn blinked. She looked around.

  The room felt… wrong. Not disturbed—everything remained exactly where it should be. There was no lapse in time or her memory. But the air carried a faint unease.

  She looked around her chambers, eyes tracking from wall to wall, to the candles still burning low at her desk. Her gaze lingered on the necklace hanging from the post at the foot of her bed—a simple chain, worn smooth with age. She made one more look over her shoulder and exhaled.

  Rising, she crossed to the small side table tucked against the wall. Kneeling, she placed her palm beneath it and tapped three times—slow, deliberate. As she did, Vaylora bled from her skin in a faint, shimmering mist, and she whispered a chant under her breath.

  The air beneath the table warped.

  A veil manifested, forming an orb of condensed Vaylora. The orb hovered for only a moment before collapsing inward. In its place, resting gently on the floor, was a small glass vial.

  Venn took it carefully.

  Cradling the vial between her hands, she bowed her head as if in prayer. Soft divine light bloomed from her palms, wrapping the glass in warmth. When she opened her hands again, the vial was no longer empty—filled perhaps a quarter of the way with faintly glowing essence.

  Her breathing quickened.

  "I stopped releasing Vaylora for about a quarter hour. Oh dear," she whispered.

  Archbishop Venn sagged slightly. Still, she straightened, resolve setting in. Vaylora drifted up around her like slow-falling snow as she began to chant again, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.

  "Lies cannot hide from the eyes of gods," she intoned.

  "Let all sin be laid bare before the altar of truth."

  She pricked her finger with a practiced motion. Blood welled, then fell—one crimson drop striking the vial's lip before vanishing inside. The wound sealed instantly, skin knitting back together as she continued.

  "Through my sacrifice," she whispered, "let my heart be washed clear. Show me the way."

  The room was filled with light.

  Vaylora surged outward, weaving itself into an image suspended before her. A vision—clear, undeniable.

  She saw herself sitting at her desk, candles burning low.

  Then—her body stiffened. Shuddered.

  Her breath caught. "I remember this," she said quietly. "But… why does it feel distant. Like watching someone else."

  The vision shifted.

  Aelun and Eryndor entered her chambers. She saw herself talking to them. Again, she remembered the conversation, but the responses she gave felt strange.

  "I thought it was just the stress."

  "Yes," she whispered. "That happened, then I moved to the bed after they left."

  The image moved again.

  She expected to watch herself walk to the bed; she did. However, what happened in between was unfamiliar.

  Her brow furrowed.

  "…What?"

  The next moments made no sense. She saw herself speaking—moving, reacting—but the memory was absent. Entirely gone. A second presence stood before her.

  Venn staggered back a step, horror blooming cold and sharp in her chest.

  "No… no, no, no," she whispered. "That didn't— I would remember—"

  The vision continued, merciless. She could see the exchange, the postures, the closeness—but no sound carried through the divine light.

  The final image showed her sitting on the bed once more.

  Her body shuddered.Then the light collapsed.

  Venn slumped back into her chair, breath ragged, hands shaking in her lap.

  "This is the first time," she said hoarsely, "the first time I've gotten something concrete."

  She stared at the empty air where the vision had been.

  "But… what does it mean?"

  Silence answered her. Rhyla Venn swallowed hard, fear finally seeping through her composure. "What do I do?"