Ava and Thomas walk through the hidden Sand Market alongside a bishop of the Sand Temple, their footsteps echoing softly against ancient stone.
The market is quieter than usual, its activity subdued after the earlier chaos. Alchemical lanterns cast steady light across the arched passages, and guards of the Sand Temple stand at measured intervals, their presence calm yet absolute.
Ava breaks the silence.
"Bishop Zane," she says, her voice controlled but edged with frustration, "you are a bishop. How can you not order our people to be freed?"
Thomas, walking on the other side, nods sharply.
"Yes, Bishop. How can you not?" he adds. "You are the highest-ranking representative of the Sand Temple within the kingdom."
He gestures vaguely with his hand.
"And he is what? An owner of an antiquity store?"
Bishop Zane shakes his head slowly, not in dismissal, but in quiet correction.
"Lord Kaelan's identity," he says evenly, "is not merely that of an antiquity store owner."
Ava and Thomas both stop walking.
Their eyes widen almost simultaneously.
A bishop addressing someone as *Lord* is no small matter. Such a title is reserved for the pope of the Sand Temple, rulers of great temples, sovereigns of nations, or beings whose authority stands above kingdoms themselves.
Thomas swallows.
"So," he asks carefully, "what is his identity?"
Bishop Zane's gaze remains forward as he answers.
"Lord Kaelan belongs to the direct line of alchemists under the Almighty God."
Ava's breath catches.
She is a member of the royal family of the Royal Griffon Kingdom.
While her family is not one of the Twelve Blood Families, they trace their origins to the Era of Blood and pride themselves on neutrality, choosing no single god to worship.
Yet even so, as an alchemist lineage, they have always stood closer to the Sand Temple than to any other religious power.
She understands what those words mean.
Direct lineage.
Chosen.
Thomas, who follows the Lord of Pain, understands as well. The implication places Kaelan on a level comparable to the direct lineage of the White Family within the Church of Pain.
Authority without a crown.
Power without proclamation.
Bishop Zane slows his steps.
"We are here."
He raises his hand and knocks on the door of the Void Antiquity Store.
From inside, a calm voice answers.
"Come in."
Bishop Zane opens the door.
Inside, Ava and Thomas see two men standing on either side of the counter, motionless and silent, their presence radiating quiet pressure. Behind the counter stands Kaelan.
He looks up as they enter.
"You two," Kaelan says evenly, eyes settling on Ava and Thomas, "may take your people and leave."
He pauses briefly.
"This is the last time."
Ava and Thomas freeze.
Bewilderment flashes across their faces as they struggle to process what they are hearing and what must have occurred before their arrival.
Bishop Zane bows his head slightly.
"Thank you, my Lord."
Ava and Thomas react a heartbeat later, bowing hastily.
"Thank you," Ava says.
"Our gratitude," Thomas adds.
Kaelan does not respond further.
After a brief exchange of formal greetings, Ava and Thomas back away and leave the store. Outside, a Sand Temple guard steps forward and gestures for them to follow.
They are led toward the holding area.
Bishop Zane remains behind.
Clive, who has been waiting nearby, quickly falls into step behind Ava and Thomas as they walk.
Thomas glances at him sideways.
"How are you related to Lord Kaelan?" he asks, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice.
Clive hesitates, then answers honestly.
"I'm not related to him. I sought his help while investigating the case."
As they walk, Clive recounts what he has uncovered: the dolls, the clay, the Watson family, the Masoon Gang, the fate-reversing ritual, and finally the connection to the Dicken family.
With every word, Ava's expression grows more severe.
"The Dicken family," she repeats quietly.
Thomas exhales sharply.
"They're deeply tied to the military," he says. "Suppliers. Contractors. Strategists."
The implications are immediate and dangerous.
If the Dickens family is involved, then this is no longer just a criminal case. It touches the military foundation of the kingdom itself.
They continue in silence, urgency weighing heavily on each step.
Back inside the Void Antiquity Store, Bishop Zane watches them leave through the doorway. Only when they are gone does he turn and approach the counter.
Kaelan stands as before, expression unreadable.
Bishop Zane bows slightly.
"Was it acceptable," he asks carefully, "to imprison members of the kingdom's police?"
Kaelan's gaze remains steady.
The question hangs in the air, heavy with politics, authority, and consequence, pressing invisibly between the shelves of the Void Antiquity Store. Bishop Zane holds his posture, respectful but uneasy, fully aware that the words exchanged here may ripple far beyond the Sand Market.
Kaelan smiles faintly.
"Bishop Zane," he says calmly, "what would you have done if this had happened in Markos City?"
The name lands with weight.
Markos City is Bishop Zane's homeland, a powerful coastal city on the western edge of the Golden Sand Continent, governed directly under the Sand Temple's influence. A place where temple law overrides royal decree, and where hesitation is considered weakness.
Bishop Zane answers without pause.
"I would have thrown them into prison," he says evenly, "and ensured they never saw the light of day again."
Kaelan turns away from the counter.
He walks slowly toward the shelves lining the back wall, where bottles of wine rest undisturbed. Some are sealed with sigils long forgotten by modern alchemists, their glass clouded by centuries. A few bear markings from the Era of Blood itself.
He studies them for a moment, fingers trailing lightly along the labels.
"Then tell me," Kaelan says without turning back, "why was it unacceptable here?"
He selects a bottle and lifts it from the shelf.
Bishop Zane's jaw tightens.
Inwardly, irritation flickers. Markos City is not Olden City. Olden City is the capital of the Royal Griffon Kingdom, not some third-rate backwater. It is the heart of a rising superpower, a kingdom whose steam fleets dominate the seas, dividing the Holy Continent and the New Continent.
They do not rule the entire Lake Island, not because they lack strength, but because of the Lady of the Lake.
That alone changes everything.
"Lord," Bishop Zane says, a note of restraint barely masking his frustration, "the two situations are completely different."
Kaelan uncorks the bottle with a soft pop and pours the wine into a crystal glass. The liquid is deep amber, catching the light like captured sunlight. He then produces a second glass and sets it gently on the counter, sliding both the bottle and the empty glass toward Bishop Zane.
Kaelan raises his own glass and takes a sip.
The wine blooms across his tongue, rich, layered, ancient. The first taste carries warmth, followed by a faint bitterness that sharpens the senses, then a smooth, lingering sweetness that settles deep in the chest. It is not merely fermented fruit, but history, patience, and time distilled into flavour.
He exhales softly, satisfied.
"Bishop Zane," Kaelan says, "you must understand something."
He turns back, glass in hand.
"If we wished," he continues calmly, "we could destroy the Royal Griffon Kingdom at any moment."
The words are spoken lightly.
They hit like thunder.
Bishop Zane does not flinch, but his fingers tighten around the stem of his glass.
"That much, I understand," he replies after a brief pause. "But making enemies over small matters is unwise."
Kaelan tilts his head slightly.
"Small matters?" he repeats.
He sets the glass down gently.
"The Hidden Sand Market," Kaelan says, "is the most influential alchemy and transcendence market not because of what it sells, but because of where it exists."
He gestures faintly to the stone beneath their feet.
"The power governing this place cannot be controlled by kingdoms," he continues. "If we allow the Royal Griffon Kingdom to cross the line without consequence, others will test how far they can go."
His gaze sharpens, though his tone remains even.
"Precedent," Kaelan says, "is far more dangerous than confrontation."
Bishop Zane nods slowly.
He understands.
After a moment of silence, he asks carefully,
"Lord Kaelan… should we allow the Church of Disaster to continue using the Lord's artefacts?"
The question is asked without fear.
Without reverence.
Bishop Zane does not know Kaelan's true identity. If he did, he would not be standing upright, nor casually sipping ancient wine in his presence. He would be kneeling, forehead pressed to stone, afraid even to breathe.
Kaelan answers without hesitation.
"Let them use the artefacts," he says. "Not until we know who they are, but until we know *why*."
Bishop Zane's brows knit slightly, but he does not argue.
Kaelan's thoughts shift.
Clive.
The kidnapped children.
The Watson family.
The fate-reversing ritual.
By now, the pieces should be falling into place.
Kaelan lifts one hand.
Alchemical energy flows effortlessly from his fingers, subtle and precise. The air ripples above the counter, and a thin panel descends smoothly from the ceiling. Runes flicker to life along its edges as the surface solidifies into a translucent screen.
Light blooms.
Images begin to form.
Kaelan watches in silence as the screen activates.