The marble corridors of the High Citadel gleamed like frozen moonlight. Every step Alexander took echoed cleanly, a perfect rhythm swallowed by the hush of the place. The walls, polished to the point of reflection, turned movement into ghostly repetition. Somewhere far above, bells chimed the hour, a thin, silver sound that made the silence feel even deeper. Incense burned from unseen alcoves, too sweet, too heavy, the smell of sanctity laid thick over the faint stench of rot.
He didn't make it to the inner sanctum before someone blocked his path.
Richard of Varne, High Priest of the Third Circle, loomed like a slab of granite draped in ceremonial silk. His hands glittered with rings that caught the candlelight, each one a sermon on wealth disguised as virtue. His face glowed with the kind of confidence only men who never left the safety of temples could wear. A cluster of acolytes followed in his wake, pale and nervous, carrying scrolls and the faint odor of dust.
"Well, if it isn't the Lord of Bondrea himself," Richard said. His lips wrapped around the title as if it were a piece of spoiled fruit. "How does one inherit a graveyard and still have the nerve to walk proud?"
Alexander smiled faintly. "By wearing lighter shoes, I imagine."
Richard blinked, thrown for an instant, then scowled. "You think you're clever."
"Not particularly," Alexander said. "Just thin enough to pass through doorways without assistance."
The acolytes froze, unsure whether to laugh or look away. The moment stretched; the marble air itself seemed to hold its breath. Richard's face darkened, a vein at his temple pulsing like a warning.
"Careful, Alexander," he said, lowering his voice. "The Citadel may tolerate arrogance, but it doesn't forgive blasphemy."
"I'll be cautious," Alexander replied smoothly. "Especially around men who confuse appetite for faith. I don't want to get eaten."
Richard's nostrils flared. He stepped close enough for Alexander to smell the wine and incense on his breath. "You may have Jacobo's favor for now, but one mistake, one whisper against the Priesthood, and I'll be there to carve your name out of history."
Alexander met his gaze, unflinching. His tone was almost kind. "If you can spell it, Your Highness."
For a heartbeat, Richard looked ready to strike him right there among the carved saints. But pride, or perhaps cowardice, anchored him. He turned sharply, his heavy robes whispering against the floor, and strode away with the weight of the sanctimonious. The acolytes hurried after him, scrolls fluttering in their arms.
Alexander waited until they vanished around the corner. Then he murmured to the still air, "Faith, it seems, grows heavier with the man who preaches it."
He adjusted his cuffs, straightened the line of his coat, and continued toward Jacobo's chambers.
The High Servant awaited him by the balcony, a figure carved from white and gold. Afternoon light framed him in a soft halo, though the warmth of it died at his smile. Jacobo's gestures were graceful, his presence immaculate, but behind his eyes calculation flickered like a well-tended flame.
"Alexander," Jacobo said, turning with measured ease. "You took your time."
"Distance has a way of humbling men, Your Grace," Alexander replied, bowing his head. "And Bondrea is far humbler than most places."
Jacobo chuckled, a sound that seemed practiced. "So I've heard. Tell me, did you find Gustav of Galiera? I was hoping he'd accept his place on Vishora."
Alexander let a pause linger long enough to seem sincere. "No trace. My scouts found signs of travel near the southern marsh, but the trail went cold. I suspect he's hiding from the Knights of Light. He always did have a talent for survival."
Jacobo's expression thinned. "How very unfortunate… and convenient."
Alexander tilted his head just slightly, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his lips. "You think I would hide him, Your Grace?"
"I think," Jacobo said slowly, "that men like Gustav tend to die when you're nearby. Which is sometimes a blessing… and sometimes a problem."
Alexander's eyes flicked to the balcony, then back. "Then let us hope I remain a blessing." His tone was polite, but beneath it coiled something sharper, an edge honed on years of obedience.
Jacobo turned to his desk, hands gliding across a neat stack of letters. "You've done well, all the same. Bondrea may be ashes, but its position is crucial. We'll need strong hands there to rebuild order. The Light needs a foothold in the south again."
Alexander bowed slightly. "Then I'll make it shine brighter than ever."
"I'm counting on it," Jacobo said, and lifted a sealed parchment. "Which is why I've made a small adjustment to your command."
The seal gleamed red and fresh in the light. Alexander broke it open, eyes scanning the name. His mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. "Lukas Drier."
Jacobo smiled, pleased by the flicker of reaction. "You worked well together in Bondrea, didn't you? Consider him your Weapons Master, your general in military matters. You handle politics; he handles soldiers."
Alexander folded the parchment with deliberate care. "A fine match, Your Grace," he said. "When does he arrive?"
"Tomorrow morning." Jacobo's tone was easy again, almost cheerful. "Best to welcome him personally. A united command will reassure the Priesthood."
"Of course," Alexander said softly. "We wouldn't want anyone to think I've grown too independent."
Jacobo's smile lingered a little too long. "Independence is a beautiful thing, my boy… when it remembers who lit its candle."
Alexander inclined his head, the perfect picture of composure. "Always."
When he left the chamber, the air outside the door felt colder. The hush of the Citadel returned, heavier than before. He walked the corridor slowly, hands clasped behind his back, his reflection moving beside him in the marble: calm, disciplined, untouchable.
But his thoughts were not.
Lukas Drier. A watchdog in uniform. A leash disguised as a partner. Jacobo didn't trust him, not truly. Not after Bondrea.
As Alexander stepped into the courtyard, the bells began to toll for evening prayer. Their echo rolled through the stone like the heartbeat of a distant god. He looked westward, where the sun was sinking behind the hills, and his voice dropped to a whisper no one would ever hear.
"Perhaps it's time I speak with Philip."