“Well, well.”
A faintly insolent murmur escaped the man as he drew himself upright and pressed a hand over his chest.
“Greetings to His Grace the Grand Duke.”
“You recognize me?”
“Is there anyone in the Roem Empire who doesn’t know the young master of Shearkan? Among knights, especially, you are legend itself.”
A gentle smile played across the man’s lips as he offered the flattering words. Varkas took him in with an icy, calculating gaze.
Light brown hair, skin warmed by a healthy bronze, and dark, bottomless brown eyes. He seemed entirely unremarkable at a glance, yet an unmistakable, predatory scent drifted off him.
After a long, cold silence, Varkas spoke.
“I haven't heard your name.”
“Ah… forgive my discourtesy.”
Keeping that easy smile, the man spoke deliberately.
“I am Roman Talis.”
“Dispatched from the Grand Cathedral in Valbon?”
“Indeed.”
The man conceded readily, the soft, lilting cadence of an Oshirian coloring his voice.
“To be precise, I belong to the Cathedral Guardians. Having received word that heresy runs rampant through the lands of Shearkan, we have arrived to assess the matter.”
“You made the journey in vain.”
Varkas cut him off without emotion.
“The investigation is already finished. Preparations to purge the heretics are complete.”
“Nothing less than expected of you.”
Letting out a soft exclamation of admiration, the man spread his palms.
“Still, having been sent on an official mandate, we cannot very well return empty-handed without lifting a finger. Is it not the duty of the Cathedral Guardians to hunt down heretics and bring them to justice? My men and I will gladly lend our swords to your subjugation effort.”
“I acknowledge the thought, but I must refuse. This is an affair I can resolve without foreign interference.”
“Foreign interference… that sounds rather harsh, does it not?”
The man put on a look of exaggerated astonishment.
“The Grand Duchy remains imperial soil, and the Church bears the holy duty of shepherding every flock across Roem.”
“All who have turned their backs on the faith will stand trial before the Eastern Diocese, as prescribed by law.”
Weary of the rehearsed platitudes, Varkas let his gaze turn cold and sharp.
“Whatever rank you hold, you are nothing more than a stranger to me. And I have no intention of allowing an outsider to turn my domain upside down at will.”
· · ·
“I will permit you to remain in Kalmor until the matter is settled. But I will not tolerate a single drop of my people's blood shed by your hand.”
The smile slipped from the man’s face, leaving his eyes wide and blank. Without another word, Varkas turned toward the stone steps leading to the private chambers above. A quiet, heavy voice caught his back.
“Is there a particular reason you are so eager to shut us out?”
His boot already on the first riser, Varkas caught the banister and looked back. The man had closed the distance with footsteps impossibly light for his towering build, and he pressed on, entirely composed.
“Since stepping foot in the East, I have heard several fascinating rumors concerning Her Grace the Grand Duchess. If your wariness toward us stems from her, then perhaps…”
“Do people often remind you that you don't know your place?”
Varkas’s voice dropped into a smooth, deadly whisper. As if detecting the murder hanging in the air, the man’s left cheek, dented by a shallow dimple, went taut. Leaning in, Varkas drove each word through his teeth.
“Do you truly believe my wife’s name is something a mere priest can roll around on his tongue?”
“…I have spoken out of turn. Forgive me.”
The man lowered his head with practiced deference. But the faint amusement flickering in those dark eyes did not escape Varkas. Stepping closer, Varkas loomed over him, radiating silent pressure. The stench of blood—thick, raw, like the musk of a cornered beast—struck his nostrils, and a sudden, sharp doubt flared in his mind.
“You… were you truly sent by the Central Church?”
Before he could press further, hasty footsteps clattered across the flagstones.
“My apologies for keeping you waiting, Your Grace!”
The priest who came hurrying toward them bowed low, breathless.
“The High Priest has instructed me to bring you to the inner study. This way, if you please.”
He then cast a hesitant glance at the tall figure beside them.
“And, Brother…?”
“I was just taking my leave.”
The man smoothly rescued the stammering priest.
“We are quartered at the Grand Cathedral's hospice. Should you reconsider, send word at any time. It would be my honor to serve His Grace in any capacity…”
“I will keep it in mind.”
Varkas cut him short and fell into step behind the guide. Even as the distance widened, the foul, metallic stench clinging to the air refused to fade. Varkas cast one final look back over his shoulder.
At that very moment, a gleam like a crack of lightning cut bizarrely through Roman Talis’s pupils. Leaving that unsettling afterimage behind, Varkas climbed the dim staircase.
“You broke your word.”
Varkas took a seat at the plain wooden table in the private prayer chamber, his tone flat.
“Have you already forgotten our pact to bury those absurd suspicions regarding the Grand Duchess?”
“The investigator's report was burned the moment you and I parted ways, Your Grace.”
Setting down his teacup, the High Priest let out a tired sigh.
“I do not know what rumors reached your ears, but the Central Church has never breathed a word of the Grand Duchess to anyone outside our walls. If the inquisitors dispatched here learned of something, it can only mean they uncovered it on their own.”
“So you claim you had no hand in summoning them?”
“None whatsoever.”
The old priest held his chin up firmly.
“Had I intended to call in the Cathedral Guardians, why would I have sought your aid in the first place? What could I possibly gain from their presence? I was just as blindsided by their arrival as you were.”
Varkas studied him, turning the words over in his mind. Indeed, inviting the Central Church to meddle directly in the East was the last thing this old man would ever desire.
When he spoke again, the edge in his voice had softened somewhat.
“Are their credentials verified?”
“Without question. Every last one of them carried a medallion bearing the Grand Cathedral's seal, along with letters of dispatch issued directly by the Holy See.”
Reaching into the folds of his vestments, the High Priest drew out a folded parchment and slid it across the table.
“See for yourself.”
Varkas unfolded the sheet and read through it carefully. The mandate, inscribed in Old Oshirian, bore the unmistakable crest of the Central Church alongside the insignia of the Cathedral Guardians.
“It is genuine enough.”
“Was there some reason you doubted them?”
Varkas shook his head faintly.
“No. One of them carried himself with a demeanor far too rough for an ordained priest, so I took note.”
“Is it not the sole purpose of the Guardians to pass judgment on heretics? A man cannot handle such bloody work without taking on a few rough edges.”
The old priest waved it aside, rubbing his furrowed brow with a weary hand before steering the conversation elsewhere.
“More importantly, what course do you mean to take now? The Cathedral Guardians will certainly launch their own independent hunt across the East.”
“I have no intention of letting them dig through my lands as they please.”
Tossing the parchment onto the table, Varkas delivered his answer without hesitation.
“The strike begins tomorrow. Once every last heretic is rooted out, the Guardians will have no pretext left to linger. High Priest, see to it that they are sent packing the moment the dust settles.”
“For that to happen, your operation must proceed without the slightest flaw.”
Doubt flickered in the old man's eyes.
“Should your strike fail, they will invoke their holy authority to conduct their own tribunal. If matters come to that, I will no longer have the power to protect the Grand Duchess from their scrutiny…”
“It will not fail.”
Rising from his chair, Varkas drove his gaze down upon the priest like an iron stake.
“I intend to tear every seed of heresy from this earth so this never repeats itself. So cease dragging my wife into your warnings.”
A brief, heavy pause followed before he added grimly,
“If you ever attempt to corner me by holding her safety over my head again, this house will forget every shred of respect owed to your holy office.”
“…I shall remember that.”
Leaving the High Priest’s hushed reply behind, Varkas turned on his heel and walked out.
By the time he rode back through the gates of the castle, the downpour had softened to a drizzle. Still, the sky hung heavy with pitch-black clouds.
With the occasional low rumble of thunder echoing in the distance, Varkas stepped into the grand hall. The keep was eerily quiet, as most of his men had bivouacked at the staging grounds.
“You have returned, Your Grace.”
As he walked down the corridor where the torches sputtered, the Head Butler, who had been directing the servants outside the dining hall, hurried forward to meet him.
Varkas shed his rain-soaked cloak and glanced into the warm, illuminated dining hall. His younger sister and a few elderly retainers were partaking in a late supper.
“Where is the Grand Duchess?”
At the reflexive question, the Head Butler, receiving the wet garment into his hands, lowered his eyes awkwardly.
“Her Grace informed us that she would take her meal alone in her bedchamber.”
END