The Sanctum's presence grew like frost creeping across old stone—silent, insistent, beautiful until it bit.
While sermons filled the chapel halls and banners fluttered in the wind, Zareena's town guards reported strange sightings: missing children later "returned cleansed," wandering confessors questioning lone mages, and whispers of a registry being compiled of those with "arcane impurities."
The fire they brought was no longer warmth. It was purification.
In the Hall of Records
Nasir laid out the notes from his informants. One page was marked with a black sun: the Sanctum's secret seal.
"They've started calling arcane practitioners 'Touched by the Abyss.' They're building a case. Quietly. Systematically."
Zareena leaned against the window, eyes locked on the northern ridge.
"Do we have a name for the source?"
Nasir tapped a parchment. "A reformist inquisitor. Brother Hezra. Devout. Brilliant. And ruthless. Prelate Arvain tolerates him because his methods bring results."
"Meaning fear," Zareena murmured. "And loyalty bought in blood."
Doren stepped forward
"They've petitioned the council in the capital. Asked to place a High Confessor in every northern province. They want to institutionalize their reach."
"That's not faith," Zareena said, "That's control."
Seredin, silent until now, turned to her. "This isn't their first attempt, Lady Serinova. The Eternal Flame once cleansed entire cities. But you are different."
Zareena met his eyes. "Why?"
"Because they fear what they can't purify. And you," he said, "are not easily burned."
The Inquisition Begins Quietly
One of the herbalist guildhouses is raided under suspicion of "witchery." A young hedge mage is branded and cast from the walls. Murmurs rise from the refugee quarter—some believe the Sanctum brings divine judgment, others call it a curse.
Zareena moves fast.
She invokes a long-forgotten town charter granting her the right to appoint Arcane Defenders: non-clerical protectors of magical order. She names trusted citizens to the role—mages, healers, even smiths with runic craft.
And for every holy fire, she kindles a secular lantern.
That Night, in the Sanctum Chapel
Brother Hezra kneels before a flame that burns silver.
"She resists us," he says to the light.
Prelate Arvain watches from the doorway. "Resistance is proof of need. Let her dig in. Let her people choose."
"But they already have," Hezra says, "and it wasn't us."
A pause.
Then: "Send word to the capital," Arvain orders. "Tell the Ecclesiarch we need permission for a cleansing audit."
Outside, the chapel bells toll.
Back in Zareena's Study
A new map lies open. It shows not just towns, but doctrine lines. Influence spheres. Paths where faith eclipses law.
Zareena draws a dagger through one region. Vireloch. Her province. Her line in the snow.
"If they want fire," she whispers, "they'll find we know how to freeze it."