(Varithiel — Church Territory)
Mist clung to the spires of Varithiel like a veil the sea refused to lift.
The island smelled of incense and rusted iron. Here, the Church ruled not through sermons—but silence. And at the highest point, woven into stone and scripture, sat the estate of Lord Executor Maelis Fraun—governor, strategist, and guardian of appearances.
He was already waiting as their ship docked.
Dressed in silver-threaded robes, eyes like clouded glass, Fraun bowed as Cornelius disembarked first, followed by Alberta, Francesca, and Dantes.
"Your Highness," Fraun said smoothly. "Welcome to Varithiel. May your stay reveal more than it conceals."
Cornelius returned a polite nod. "Lord Fraun. We hope so."
Alberta's bow was curt, eyes wary. Dantes said nothing, but the air shifted around him—casual on the surface, sharp beneath.
Francesca kept her hood drawn low.
Too late.
---
"There is no need for disguise here," Fraun said as they entered the stone archway. His voice rang lightly in the air. "The Duraret line holds no shame in this land."
Francesca stiffened mid-step. Cornelius glanced toward her. Alberta's eyes narrowed.
Dantes blinked once, then smiled—tight and cruel.
"Oh?" he drawled. "So this isn't just a handmaiden with a fondness for linen. We've been traveling with divine collateral all along. The Church's daughter, hiding in the laundry."
Francesca pulled down her hood and faced him with a flat glare.
"I didn't realize sarcasm counted as a noble title," she shot back. "Should I start calling you Lord Cynicism of House Trauma?"
Alberta almost smiled. Dantes raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Touché."
Fraun only gave a small, amused nod. "The Church will be pleased to know you've returned, Lady Duraret."
"I came for them," Francesca replied, low and sharp. "Not for you."
"Then let us see," Fraun said, turning toward the carved doors, "whether your presence is prophecy—or interference."
---
Night fell slow and cold in Varithiel.
The halls of the estate whispered.
And Dantes moved like smoke through the upper corridors, following the scent of incense and the sound of too-careful voices.
He paused near a cracked door.
Fraun's voice.
Another man's—unfamiliar, clipped.
"They've arrived?"
"With the girl, the Duraret, and the lost prince."
"Have you informed His Eminence?"
"Not yet. Lord Hugh's agents are watching. We wait for the oracle's confirmation."
"And the mercenary?"
"Fractured. Useful. But dangerous if he begins to understand too much. He'll destroy himself, eventually."
Dantes stepped back into shadow.
They hadn't said names.
Just roles.
Pieces.
Pawns.
---
Later, he stood in the courtyard under a black sky, the moon a pale wound behind clouds.
He didn't look back when he spoke.
"You're not as invisible as you think," he said. "You breathe wrong when you're close."
No answer.
But he knew someone was there. The watcher.
"Keep following us," he continued, "and next time, I won't bother pretending I didn't notice."
He turned slightly toward the dark archway behind him.
"And don't mistake this for mercy. I'll kill you, shadow or saint. No speeches. No guilt. Just one less pair of eyes."
A pause.
Then a smirk.
"Unless you're here for moral support. In that case, bring wine next time."
He walked away.
The watcher didn't follow.
But they also didn't leave.
---
Alberta awoke in the dead of night, the oil lamp flickering low.
She sat up slowly, hand already reaching for the blade beneath her pillow.
There was no sound.
But something was near.
Just outside the chamber door.
She moved quietly, feet barely touching the cold stone as she approached it.
Didn't open it.
Didn't speak.
She simply stood there.
Listening.
She could feel it—that weight. That presence.
Not hostile.
Just… watching.
It faded like a breath drawn back into the void.
She didn't sleep again.
---
Francesca found Fraun alone the next evening, seated near a wall of holy scrolls, his posture too relaxed.
"I wasn't raised to sleep well in homes that whisper about my friends," she said as she entered.
He smiled. "You disapprove of how I spoke to the Montagne girl."
"She has a name. And you knew it before we stepped ashore."
"Does it matter?" he said calmly. "The Church watches. The world watches."
Francesca stepped closer. "Then let them watch. But if you think you'll break her under your silence and incense—you haven't been paying attention."
Fraun studied her for a long moment.
"You were always meant to be sharper than your father."
She smiled coldly. "And you're far less clever than mine feared."
She turned to leave, but paused.
"She doesn't kneel," she said softly. "And you hate her for it."
Then she was gone.
---
The next morning, Fraun invited Cornelius to the solar hall. The room smelled of sunlight, ink, and quiet judgment.
"You've drawn attention," Fraun said lightly, pouring wine. "Not from me. From His Majesty."
Cornelius raised a brow. "Then His Majesty can send his questions directly."
"You know that's not how the king works," Fraun replied. "He watches. Listens. Waits."
"And what is it he fears?"
"Your company," Fraun said simply. "The Montagne girl. The Duraret girl. And the mercenary who knows far more than he should."
Cornelius's jaw tightened.
Fraun added, "Pieces like them are dangerous. Especially when they start to fit together."
A silence.
Then Cornelius stood.
"Warn the King, if you must. But next time, don't hide it behind wine and pleasantries."
As he turned to go, Fraun's voice followed:
"Don't venture too far alone, Your Highness. Especially not with her."
Cornelius paused.
Then looked over his shoulder.
"Then it's a good thing I never have."