{Chapter: 52: Possible Shadows Beneath the Crown}
Soon after the main battalion entered the capital under the cloak of night, a second, much smaller group appeared at the outskirts of the city gate. Their approach was quiet but deliberate, the sound of hooves rhythmically echoing off the cobblestones as their torchlight flickered against the surrounding walls. In stark contrast to the earlier flood of soldiers, this contingent exuded an aura of secrecy and purpose.
James Woz, still seated astride his black warhorse near the now-secured gate, turned his head the moment he spotted the procession. A rare smile broke through his otherwise hardened expression.
He raised his hand to signal the guards, who had since become tense again at the sight of new arrivals. "Stand down," James called out with calm authority. "They're expected."
Once the newcomers passed through the city gate, James dismounted and moved forward to greet them.
"Bishop Safi!" he exclaimed warmly, stepping forward and extending his hand. "I'm glad you made it in time."
The leading figure, a gaunt yet dignified man dressed in the flowing deep-blue robes of the Ecclesiastical Order, dismounted with the slow grace of someone accustomed to both power and protocol. His beard was streaked with white, and a large sigil of the Holy Flame gleamed against his chest.
After a polite nod, Safi took the offered hand. "Your Highness," he replied, voice gravelly but composed. "The journey was long, but it seems your summons held enough weight to make haste necessary."
James then gestured to the man beside him, a younger figure with a slight build and a quiet but sharp presence. His clothes, though simple, bore a strange mixture of local and foreign tailoring—suggesting travel, danger, and discretion. "Let me introduce someone of importance, Bishop," James said, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "This is Ciel. He's not widely known, even among our own intelligence network, but he's been crucial in the silent war against heresy in the Principality of Marton."
James smiled faintly, as if savoring the introduction. "In truth, he might know more about cult activity than anyone else I've met. He can smell heresy from miles away."
At first, Safi seemed dismissive, offering only a cursory glance toward Ciel. But something in James's tone, or perhaps in Ciel's stance, caused the bishop's eyes to narrow curiously.
Before he could speak, Ciel took a step forward, clearly flustered and almost starstruck. He extended his hand and bowed his head slightly. "Bishop Safi, it's truly an honor. I've read every decree you've issued and studied your written condemnations of heretical sects from the Southern Plateau to the Fractured Marshes. To stand before you—" he paused, overwhelmed, "—it's a moment I never expected. You're the flame in the dark for those of us fighting this plague from the shadows."
He was so excited as if he had seen his idol that he even spoke incoherently.
The bishop raised an eyebrow in surprise. He hadn't expected such genuine enthusiasm. Most people feared or despised his title, associating it with inquisitions, torture, and fire. But admiration? That was rare.
He allowed himself a small smile. "Well… I must say, it's refreshing to meet someone who doesn't scowl at the mere sight of me," he said dryly. "If Marton truly has agents like you, then perhaps there's hope yet."
Ciel immediately showed a look of shame on his face: "I don't deserve it, I don't deserve it. When it comes to dealing with cultists, you are the greatest authority in charge of the Heretic Hunting House. It is my honor to be appreciated by His Highness James. How could I..."
The two men shook hands, gripping firmly, their mutual respect kindled in that moment. Yet, as the compliments grew more flowery and the conversation began drifting into theological theory, James's expression began to sour.
Listening to their mutual bragging about business and the idea of continuing, James, who knew where the two men came from, felt extremely annoyed. Is it fun for a cult leader and the executioner responsible for purging heretics to brag about each other? In a word, annoying.
He cleared his throat loudly, waving his hand as if brushing away smoke. "Alright, alright, you two, let's stop here for now. Let's deal with the important things first, and it won't be too late to talk later!"
The two men snapped back to focus and nodded in unison. "Of course," they said simultaneously.
Trying to suppress a groan, James turned to Ciel. "Give him the map. Let's stop wasting time."
"Right away."
Ciel produced a tightly rolled map from a sealed scroll tube. It was hand-drawn, detailed with meticulous notes and symbols. Upon handing it to Safi, the bishop immediately unrolled it, holding it open beneath the torchlight. His eyes scanned the layout of the capital with trained precision.
The city was divided into sectors, each marked by circles of varying colors—green, orange, and red—representing levels of suspicion and risk. The map didn't just show streets and buildings; it revealed the invisible currents of fear, faith, and corruption flowing beneath the cobblestones.
And in the center, outlined in thick crimson, was the royal palace.
Safi blinked, momentarily stunned. "The palace…?"
He stared at the enormous red circle dominating the heart of the map. "This… this suggests you intend to search the royal palace as part of this operation."
James's expression darkened slightly, but his voice remained even. "Correct. If there's any place cultists would hide without fear of being questioned, it would be inside the one structure no one dares to inspect."
"But your mother still resides there," Safi said cautiously, his voice lowering. "The queen regent is, by law, the head of the palace until coronation. Searching the palace before you're crowned… it might be seen as undermining her authority. It will raise questions. It might even—"
"—suggest I'm forcing her to surrender power," James finished grimly.
There was a long silence.
The torches flickered in the wind, casting dancing shadows on the map and on the stone walls of the gatehouse.
"I'm aware," James said finally, voice tight. "But the cost of doing nothing is far greater. I've received too many reports, too many patterns of behavior that point to something festering in the capital. The cultists are no longer hiding in the gutters—they're infiltrating the noble courts, the merchant councils, and yes… even the palace guard."
Safi folded the map slowly, his face unreadable. "And if your mother refuses the search?"
"Then I will apologize afterward," James replied coldly. "But I will not let this kingdom rot from within while I stand idle out of courtesy."
For a moment, Safi said nothing. Then he tucked the map into his sleeve and gave a solemn nod. "Very well. I'll support you."
Relief passed over James's face for a fleeting second, before vanishing behind his usual controlled demeanor.
After poring over the map with careful scrutiny, Bishop Safi's brows furrowed as his gaze landed on a particular location outlined boldly in red ink—the royal palace itself. He paused, visibly perplexed. With a slow, deliberate tone, he turned to James and asked, "Hmm... There are so many potential hiding spots marked on this map, yet I find myself wondering... why is the palace included among them?"
James, who had anticipated this question, let out a soft sigh. He folded his arms behind his back and gave the bishop a calm, measured look.
"There's no way around it," he admitted, his voice low but firm. "My mother, though kind and noble, is not particularly adept at managing internal affairs. Over the past few years, the structure of the palace has grown loose—too many people coming and going, too little oversight. The cult may have already found cracks to slip through. As uncomfortable as it may be, a thorough search is necessary. I'll speak with the Queen Mother myself and explain everything. You don't need to worry about stepping on anyone's toes."
He paused for a moment, and though his words were even and composed, there was a subtle weight behind them—a quiet implication that not even his own mother knew about the planned inspection of her residence.
That single line of thought hung heavily in the air, unspoken but understood.
Ciel, however, had been watching closely, his mind racing with possibilities. He stepped closer to the bishop and said in a lower tone, "If the cultists have managed to plant someone in the palace… then it's no longer just infiltration. It's possession. And that means we're already late."
Safi met his gaze, and the two exchanged a look only zealots of different stripes could share—recognition of the darkness ahead, and a willingness to walk into it without hesitation.
James adjusted his cloak and turned back toward the heart of the city. "We'll begin at dawn. Quietly. No public displays, no inquisitorial processions. If we're lucky, we can root them out before they scatter."
"And if we're not lucky?" Ciel asked softly.
James didn't look back. His voice was a whisper barely audible over the wind.
"Then we burn the rot out… no matter where it leads."
Safi's eyes narrowed slightly, picking up on the implication immediately. Even his own mother…? The bishop wasn't easily shocked, but that revelation took him aback. This wasn't just a young prince with lofty ambitions. No, James was a tactician—a calculating and ruthless one at that. He was willing to make sacrifices, cut deep, and bear public backlash if it meant rooting out a threat. The palace, sacred and symbolic as it was, had not been spared from his suspicion.
He truly doesn't trust anyone, Safi mused silently. Not even his own blood.
Safi's gaze slid back to the map, lingering on the list of locations circled in red, green, and orange. Among them were mansions of nobles, outposts of military commanders, guildhalls, and merchant estates—each one holding social significance, each one politically dangerous to touch. James, however, had drawn the line through them all without hesitation.
This was not a man bound by fear of repercussions. This was a crown prince prepared to offend every noble in the capital if it meant purging the heresy that clung to the shadows of his realm.
Capable... and dangerous. Safi could see now how James had outmaneuvered his siblings for the throne, keeping his footing firm even amidst scheming courtiers and hidden cults. But even with that admiration, Safi also knew that such a person—driven, shrewd, and unafraid—might someday see the church as an obstacle rather than a partner.
No… someone like this wouldn't hesitate to cast us out if we ever ceased to be useful.
Safi's years of ecclesiastical politics and spiritual maneuvering told him clearly: the church needed allies who could be controlled, not threats that could become tyrants.
Still, in the short term, there was no viable alternative. This prince might be a wolf in royal robes, but today, they shared a common goal. If the operation succeeded, the Church of the Holy Flame would gain a firm foothold within the Principality of Marton—an opportunity that could not be squandered.