The disruption came before breakfast.
Three sharp knocks.
Not hurried. Not frantic.
Deliberate.
I had just finished reviewing a ledger when my aide entered without waiting for full permission—already a breach of protocol.
"Your Highness," he said, bowing quickly. "The Church has dispatched a representative."
I did not look up immediately.
"Dispatched," I repeated.
"He arrived at the eastern gate moments ago. He requests an audience. Immediately."
Immediately.
In the previous timeline, the formal inquiry had begun in the second week.
After Dologany's complaint had been submitted.
After the rumors had matured.
This—
This was day three.
That was not how it had happened before.
"Name?" I asked.
"Inquisitor Marcellin Vale."
Not the High Priest.
Operational.
Faster than expected.
"Escort him to the receiving chamber," I said, rising. "With full courtesy."
The aide hesitated. "Shall I notify His Majesty?"
"No."
Too soon.
If this was acceleration, I needed clarity before escalation.
Inquisitor Vale did not resemble the caricature many preferred to fear.
He wore no gilded vestments. No dramatic embroidery.
His attire was charcoal gray trimmed with a single vertical band of white along the collar—subtle, unmistakable.
White gloves.
On his right hand, a silver ring bearing the Church's sigil.
Not large.
Precise.
His hair was light brown, kept short. His eyes—gray.
Not cold.
Empty would be more accurate.
He bowed with correct depth.
"Your Highness."
"Inquisitor."
His voice was calm. Even. Neither deferential nor imposing.
"I appreciate your willingness to receive me on such short notice."
"The Church's presence is rarely without purpose."
A faint inclination of his head. "Purpose ensures clarity."
We took our seats across a narrow table. No tea was requested.
He placed a slim leather folio before him but did not open it.
"Please understand," he began, "that my visit is procedural."
"Procedures often are."
His gaze remained steady. "Recent activities within the capital have prompted routine reviews of certain correspondences."
"Certain?"
"Those connected to strategic houses."
Measured.
Not accusatory.
Audit.
"Have you maintained communication with outer provinces in the past month, Your Highness?"
"Yes."
"Frequency?"
"As appropriate."
A pause.
"Have you met with any foreign envoys recently?"
"No."
He nodded once, as if checking an invisible box.
"And yesterday," he continued, "your visit to House Rhapala was… timely."
There it was.
No emphasis.
No accusation.
Simply documentation.
"You are well informed," I said.
"The Church values awareness."
In the previous timeline, my meeting with Seraphina had not drawn immediate attention.
Or perhaps it had.
And I had not known.
"May I inquire as to the purpose of your visit?" I asked.
"To ensure alignment," Vale replied smoothly.
"With what?"
"With stability."
A familiar word.
Too familiar.
He finally opened the folio.
Inside were several sheets.
Copies.
Not originals.
"That is a transcript of your correspondence with the southern trade bureau," he said lightly.
My fingers remained still.
That letter had been innocuous.
Administrative.
But the copy bore a marginal annotation.
Not mine.
A small symbol near the signature line.
A mark I did not recognize.
"When was this obtained?" I asked.
"The Church maintains archival partnerships," Vale said. "Transparency is mutually beneficial."
Partnerships.
In the previous timeline, Dologany had provided the Church with materials.
Now the Church already possessed access.
Which meant one of three things.
Someone accelerated the report.
The Church had suspected me earlier than I realized.
Or the board had never been as static as I believed.
"Is there a concern regarding this document?" I asked evenly.
Vale's gaze shifted slightly—not to my face.
To my desk.
"To maintain procedural integrity," he said, "we will require temporary access to your private ledgers and outgoing dispatch records for the past quarter."
There.
Not a request.
A declaration wrapped in civility.
In the previous timeline, that demand had come after public accusation.
Now it preceded it.
Refusal would signal guilt.
Compliance would surrender visibility.
A micro-loss either way.
"You will have supervised access," I said.
A fractional narrowing of his eyes.
"Unsupervised review is standard."
"Standards evolve," I replied.
Silence.
Measured.
He studied me for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then—
"Very well. Supervised."
A concession.
Small.
But not clean.
He had forced the frame.
Before closing the folio, he withdrew a final sheet.
"This," he said, "is a record of projected travel requests submitted under your seal."
I felt it before I read it.
A request to inspect western fortifications.
Filed two days ago.
I had not submitted it.
The seal was accurate.
The handwriting—close.
Not perfect.
In the previous timeline, a similar document had surfaced in week two.
Evidence of 'strategic repositioning.'
Now it was already in his possession.
"I do not recall authorizing this," I said.
Vale's tone did not change.
"That is precisely why we review such matters promptly."
Promptly.
He slid the page back into the folio.
"We would not wish misunderstandings to compound."
Neither would I.
"Of course," I said.
He rose.
The meeting had lasted less than twenty minutes.
Efficient.
As he adjusted his gloves, he paused.
"The High Priest sends his regards."
A beat.
"And his expectations."
Expectation.
Not warning.
Not threat.
Expectation implies outcome.
He bowed once more and departed.
The corridor outside felt different.
Servants lowered their voices as I passed.
A guard avoided direct eye contact.
Whispers travel faster than official decrees.
The Church had entered my residence in daylight.
Procedural or not, the signal was clear.
Inspection had begun.
I returned to my chamber and closed the door.
The forged travel request replayed in my mind.
In the previous timeline, it had appeared later—strategically timed to coincide with testimony.
Now it surfaced before any accusation.
Which meant someone had moved earlier.
Or someone knew I would.
Regression was not protection.
It was exposure.
If the Church already possessed altered documents…
Then the execution was not a reaction.
It was preparation.
In the previous timeline, I had thirty days.
Now—
I was no longer certain.
Someone had already adjusted the board.