The city of Seraphad slept under a veil of moonlight, but not all within it dreamed peacefully. The bells of Saint Arlen's tower had not rung that night—a rare silence that only added to the weight pressing down on the cathedral district.
Inside the Chapel of Saint Halvar, candlelight flickered nervously against the stained-glass windows, casting distorted saints across the stone floor. A junior priest was missing.
Again.
This time, it was Brother Elior—a quiet, devout man who had never once strayed from his duties. Gone without a trace. No signs of a struggle. Just… gone.
Father Galen stood at the altar, his aging hands trembling slightly as he read the latest report. Behind him, Bishop Aldric paced in slow, deliberate circles.
"This is no longer mere coincidence," the bishop muttered, his voice low, more to himself than to anyone in particular. "Someone is targeting us."
Galen glanced up. "But who would dare—?"
"Not someone from outside," Aldric interrupted, his eyes sharp. "This reeks of an inside rot. A cancer growing within."
Lucien, kneeling a few feet away, eyes lowered in mock devotion, let the bishop's words sink in.
Exactly as planned.
He'd chosen Brother Elior carefully. The man had a habit of wandering the garden at night—always alone, always thoughtful. Lucien had drugged his tea over three nights until the priest became drowsy and confused enough not to question the voice that told him to walk deeper into the gardens.
The actual 'disappearance' had been clean. No killing. No violence. Just a relocation and a spell of suggestion to confuse the mind. Elior now sat comfortably in an underground shack at the city's edge, surrounded by stolen Church wine and enough scripture to keep him pacified for weeks.
It wasn't about murder. Not yet. It was about fear.
Lucien rose from his knees, keeping his voice soft. "May I offer a thought, Your Grace?"
Aldric turned. The bishop's eyes narrowed, not unkindly, but cautiously. "Speak."
"If I may... it seems strange that these vanishings happen so silently, with no alarm, no witnesses. It could be someone the victims trusted."
The bishop froze for half a second. Just enough.
"You think it's one of us?" he asked, masking the fear behind authority.
Lucien bowed his head. "Not necessarily. But whoever it is—they know our routines. Our weaknesses. And they're using them."
He was careful to sound frightened. Vulnerable. Concerned.
In truth, Lucien already had their next target in mind: a low-level Templar with gambling debts. Another piece to move. Another soul to vanish.
By the time the sun broke over the city, the Council had called for internal audits. All priests and inquisitors were to be questioned, watched, kept from leaving the cathedral grounds without a formal request.
The Church was turning inward. Distrusting its own.
Exactly as he wanted.
---
That evening, Lucien walked through the alleyway behind the lower district chapel, the hood of his cloak drawn low. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and wet stone. Someone had spilled wine near a broken crate, staining the earth like blood.
He passed a boy no older than ten, holding out a chipped bowl.
Lucien dropped a copper into it and smiled. Not a fake smile, not entirely.
He remembered being that boy once.
Hungry. Unseen. Angry.
Sera found him there, standing in the alleyway as if waiting for something.
"You keep vanishing," she said, arms crossed.
Lucien blinked, caught off guard for once. "I was just... helping deliver food to the sick."
Her gaze didn't waver. "You're lying."
A beat of silence passed. Then he smiled again, softer this time. "You're right."
She frowned. "Why?"
"Because sometimes lies are easier than truths," he said. "And sometimes, the truth can scare people."
Sera didn't respond. She just studied him a while longer, as if searching for a sliver of who he really was.
Finally, she said, "I don't think you're dangerous. But I think you're hiding something. And I hope... when the time comes, you'll choose to trust me."
He said nothing as she turned and walked away. But the words lingered.
Lucien didn't hate Sera. In some quiet part of himself, he even admired her—her warmth, her stubbornness, her honesty. But she was a thread.
And when you're weaving a web, even threads you care about can get caught in it.
Back at his room, Lucien laid out new parchments. One contained a map of the cathedral's underground passages. Another showed the shifts of the northern watch post. A third was blank—but not for long.
He dipped the quill in ink and began writing the next rumor.
Another whisper. Another string to tighten.
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End of chapter 8