The cathedral rises higher the closer I get.
Not abruptly.
Not dramatically.
It doesn't loom or threaten. It simply exists in my vision more fully with every step I take, its black stone walls stretching upward like they were carved from a single slab rather than assembled piece by piece. Narrow spires cut into Alderra's pale sky, sharp but controlled, as if whoever designed them understood restraint better than excess.
The stone doesn't look old in the way ruins do.
There are no cracks spidering through the walls, no signs of erosion along the edges. No vines or moss claiming the corners. The surface is smooth, dark, maintained with care that borders on obsessive. Whatever time has passed since this place was built, it hasn't been allowed to leave a mark.
The structure doesn't feel abandoned by history.
It feels worn.
Like the building itself is aware it still serves a purpose, and it's quietly measuring whether I do as well.
I climb the steps alone.
Each footstep echoes briefly beneath my boots before the sound disappears, swallowed by the size of the structure. The cold up here is different from the rest of Alderra. It isn't sharp or biting. It settles instead, creeping into joints, into the spaces between breaths. A reminder to slow down. To be aware of where I am.
I don't turn around.
I can feel Nairix behind me.
He's far enough away that I no longer hear the tap of his cane against the stone. No rhythm. No sound to track his position. But he's close enough that I'm aware of him the way you're aware of someone standing just outside your vision.
Waiting.
At the top of the steps, three figures stand beneath the cathedral's entrance.
They were silhouettes before.
Dark shapes against darker stone.
Now, they're clear.
Two men stand slightly apart from the center, positioned symmetrically as if by habit rather than instruction. They wear pristine white uniforms—long coats with clean lines, buttoned neatly down the front. Their gloves are folded behind their backs, their posture relaxed in a way that suggests confidence rather than carelessness.
They don't look like guards.
They look like people who know no one would dare treat them as such.
Their expressions aren't hostile.
They're amused.
Between them stands a woman.
She doesn't stand rigidly, nor does she lean. She simply occupies the space naturally, balanced without effort. Her dress is elegant but understated, dark fabric tailored to move easily rather than draw attention. Long black hair falls neatly down her back, catching faint light as it shifts with the breeze.
Her eyes are a calm, striking blue.
Sharp enough to notice everything.
Soft enough not to announce it.
There's nothing exaggerated about her presence.
No crushing pressure.
No obvious authority.
Yet it's impossible not to notice her.
I stop a few steps away.
Instinct surfaces before thought has a chance to interfere.
I bow.
Not deeply. Not submissively. Just enough to show respect.
"My name is Dagian," I say evenly. "Thank you for receiving me."
The words sound formal in my own ears, but they're safe. Neutral. The kind of thing no one can misinterpret.
The two men glance at each other.
Then one of them lets out a quiet giggle.
It isn't loud. It isn't mocking. Just soft laughter, restrained but poorly hidden, like he finds the situation more entertaining than he expected.
"Oh, there's really no need for that," he says, waving a hand casually. "If anything, we should be bowing to you."
The other man nods, lips curved upward. "After what you did, formalities feel a bit… misplaced."
I straighten slowly.
My expression doesn't change, but my attention sharpens.
"I don't understand," I say.
The first man chuckles. "That's fine. Most people don't."
Before I can ask what he means, the woman steps forward.
She closes the distance without hesitation, her movement smooth and unhurried. She reaches out and gently takes my hand.
Her touch is light.
Careful.
Like she already knows how fragile I am, even if I don't show it.
Her fingers trace over the scars across my knuckles and palm—old cuts layered beneath newer ones, lines of healed damage intersected by fresher marks that haven't fully faded yet.
"…You were hurt badly," she says.
Not a question.
An observation.
I let her look for a moment longer than I should.
Then I pull my hand back.
"The Imgrel did most of it," I reply.
My voice comes out flat. Blunt. Honest. The same tone I always use when I don't know what response is expected of me.
She studies my face, then laughs quietly.
"A straightforward answer," she says. "No dramatics. No self-praise."
Her gaze sharpens slightly, curious rather than judgmental.
"I see you really are living up to what I've heard."
She steps back and bows—graceful, practiced, precise.
"My name is Koret," she says. "Lady Koret, heir to the Koret noble family."
I nod once.
Nobles.
Even before she explains anything further, I already understand what that means.
In the Fifth and Fourth Layers, power doesn't belong to a single authority. It never has. It's divided, shared, distributed through influence rather than decree.
In the Fifth Layer, the Sunderlands and the Corlanos are the most notable families. Both reside near the Libo District, far north of Evervale. Their reach extends quietly—trade routes, hunter funding, district oversight—power that moves without announcing itself.
In the Fourth Layer, it's different.
Three houses stand above the rest.
Koret
Paulo
Illyana
They don't simply influence the hunter organization.
They rule it.
Lady Koret turns slightly, gesturing toward the massive cathedral doors behind her.
"We should go inside," she says. "It gets quite cold in Alderra this time of year."
I don't hesitate.
The doors open silently.
No creak. No grind of stone against stone.
Inside, the cathedral is vast.
The ceiling arches high overhead, supported by dark pillars etched with faint, ancient designs. They look static at first glance, but when I focus too long, the patterns seem to shift slightly, as if they're not meant to be understood all at once.
Candles line the walls in precise intervals, their flames steady and warm, reflecting off polished stone floors. Large murals stretch across the walls—figures frozen in scenes of war, creation, and judgment.
Gods.
Or beings people once called gods.
Some are towering and inhuman. Others appear almost human, save for their eyes or the way their shadows bend unnaturally beneath them.
I recognize none of them.
Lady Koret walks beside me as we move deeper inside.
"After your battle with the Imgrel," she says casually, "the noble houses began to take an interest in you."
I don't react outwardly.
Inside, something tightens.
"We reviewed your history," she continues. "Your conduct as a hunter. Your record. The way others describe you."
She pauses, just long enough for the words to settle.
"And your bloodline."
I keep walking.
"Specifically," she adds, "your shared blood with Erik Solmaris."
The name lands heavier than I expect.
Not painful.
Just heavy.
I don't look at her.
We reach the center of the cathedral.
The Nave.
Two figures are seated ahead.
One of them I recognize immediately.
Calexis.
She sits upright, posture perfect, pale hair unmoving, eyes fixed forward. She looks exactly as she did during the Hunt—cold, controlled, untouched by chaos.
Beside her sits a man.
He wears a black crown—simple in design, unmistakable in meaning. His red hair is short and spiked, slightly messy, like he didn't bother styling it. A long, dark blue royal garment drapes loosely around him.
He's sitting wrong.
His legs rest casually on the railing of the seat in front of him, arms draped over the railings on either side. Relaxed. Almost careless.
Like he doesn't care where he is.
Lady Koret and I approach from the side.
Calexis stands.
"It's good to see you again," she says bluntly. "Especially while conscious."
I incline my head slightly.
The crowned man waves a hand without standing.
"Ah, don't be so stiff," he says. "You've already bowed enough for one day."
Then he stands.
He brushes off his garment casually as he turns toward me.
Dark glasses hide his eyes completely.
For a moment, I don't recognize him.
Then he laughs lightly.
"Ah—right. Sorry about that."
He tilts his head down.
The glasses shift.
I see his eyes.
They glow.
Not brightly. Not violently. Just unmistakably.
Red irises threaded with faint white, and within them sit pupils shaped like stars—deep purple, slowly turning as if they're alive.
The air changes.
Pressure settles into the room.
"My name," he says, smiling,"is Ash Mercer."
He straightens fully.
"King of the Third Layer."