The corridor to the northern archives was cold—colder than usual. The stone walls whispered with echoes, and the torches flickered, like they too were afraid to speak.
Lucien walked with a purpose. His robes were plain, his footsteps soft. Just another priest tending to records. No one stopped him.
He had memorized the guard rotations, the weak floorboards, even which candles burned slower. Planning had become second nature.
But today was different.
Because someone else was watching.
She stood by the stairwell. Young. Inquisitor robes, freshly pressed. Too clean. Too eager.
Her name was Isolde. A name he'd overheard only once, muttered by a senior inquisitor who said she had "potential." That meant she was smart. Ambitious. Dangerous.
And right now, she was pretending not to watch him.
Lucien slowed near the scroll shelves, casually running a finger across the dustless wood.
"You're wasting your time," he said without looking up.
Isolde blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're watching me. I'm flattered, but there's nothing here."
She raised a brow, stepping closer. "I wasn't watching you."
He turned, finally meeting her eyes. Calm. Disarming. "Then I apologize. But if you're going to pretend to be a shadow, don't wear the brightest boots in the corridor."
She glanced down. Gold-trimmed leather. Rookie mistake.
Lucien smiled.
She frowned. "You're Father Lucien, aren't you?"
"Depends on who's asking."
"I've heard you're… unusual."
"I've heard the same about Inquisitors," he replied, taking a scroll from the shelf.
She didn't leave.
"Do you always wander the archives late at night?" she asked.
"Do you?"
She bit her lip, unsure whether to press or retreat. In the end, she nodded curtly and turned away.
Lucien watched her go, smile fading.
A threat, but not yet an enemy.
---
Later That Night — Dormitory Window
Snow had begun to fall again. The city below shimmered beneath the moonlight, rooftops covered like frosting on stale bread.
Lucien sat on the sill, half-eaten sweet roll in one hand, the other resting on a leather-bound journal.
Inside, he had drawn a rough sketch of Isolde's face.
Below it, one word:
> "Unpredictable."
He closed the journal, sighing softly. Every time he made progress, a new piece entered the game. But that was fine.
He liked pieces.
They made the board interesting.
---
The Chapel — Dawn
By sunrise, Lucien was already in prayer. Not because he believed.
Because it gave him access.
To the locked reliquary.
To the ceremonial schedule.
To the daily sermons and visiting bishops.
Information was power. And power was survival.
A junior acolyte knelt beside him. "Father Lucien… the high priest wants to see you."
Lucien didn't move. "Did he say why?"
"No, Father. Just that it's urgent."
He stood slowly, brushing snow off his sleeves.
The board just shifted.
---
End of Chapter 12