Location: High Ecclesiastical Seat of Auron, Capital of Edenia
Time: Day 188 After Alec's Arrival
It began in silence.
The grand solar of the High Temple of Auron — a space of holy geometry, golden inlay, and carved suns upon every column — was filled with quiet tension. The kind that does not come from argument, but from the moment before a blade falls.
Five bishops sat in a circle of blackwood chairs, their robes rustling softly, each color-coded by region. At the head of the circle stood the High Prelate, Cardinal Bastien, First Voice of the Sun-Father's Will.
Before him: a scroll.
Before the scroll: a letter.
And within that letter — Alec Alenia's name.
"Speak," Bastien said at last, voice like velvet pulled tight across stone.
Orisian Se Melford The Bishop of Midgard's region rose — white-haired, sharp-eyed, and no longer able to hide the worry in his voice.
"Your Grace," Orsian said, "you've all read my report. The Duchy of Midgard has deviated from traditional governance. Lady Vaelora has resigned her council as advisory only, and now operates under the guidance of a man of unknown origin."
"Unknown?" another cardinal asked. "Or simply not ours?"
"Both," Orsian said, measured. "He wears no crest. Claims no faith. Speaks in systems and blueprints. His name is rising on tongues faster than the scriptures in some districts."
"Blasphemy," murmured another.
"Not yet," Bastien said. "But worthy of eyes."
📜 The Letter (Revisited)
Orsian had sent it weeks ago.
"This 'Lord Alenia' instructs Company scribes in a foreign tongue. Alters the structure of the duchy's guard. Introduces tools without blessing. Teaches the duchess's daughter languages never sanctified. He does not speak against us. But he does not speak for us, either. And that silence, I fear, is louder than denial."
🧾 The Vote
"We are not the King's court," said Bishop Frell of Selvanis. "We are the Sun's stewards. But if we do nothing—"
"We look weak," Bastien finished.
The chamber agreed.
No raised voices.
No shouts.
Just nods.
The kind that signal decisions long made.
"The Inquisitorial Order is not to be unleashed lightly," Bastien said. "But observation is not judgment."
He reached for the wax seal.
Pressed it against the parchment.
A team will be sent to Midgard. Inquisitorial Class: Grey.
Observation. Presence. Reporting. Do not confront the Lord Advisor. Not yet.
🌒 Elsewhere — Cloisters of Velistra
In the quieter sanctum where the priestesses of the Moon-Mother gathered, the news reached Abbess Anriel, High Whisper of Velistra's Hand.
She read the decree.
Frowned.
And then whispered to her apprentice:
"The men of Auron send wolves to chase what they don't understand."
"Should we intervene?"
Anriel shook her head.
"Not yet. Let the river stir. If it clears… we'll move."
🌧 Meanwhile in Midgard – Alec's Study
Alec read the coded report delivered by one of his information aides — a merchant-scribe embedded in a minor temple registry.
He stood by the window for a full minute after reading it.
No change in expression.
But his pulse ticked faster.
"They're watching," Serina said, entering behind him. She didn't ask what he was reading.
"Yes," he said. "And soon they'll send someone. Not swords. Not fire. Just… eyes."
Serina folded her arms.
"And if they see too much?"
"They won't understand half of it," Alec said. "And what they do see, they'll misinterpret."
"And what if they don't?"
Alec turned to her.
"Then we move faster than fear."
🕯 Closing Scene – Inquisitorial Orders
In a monastery outpost three days from Armathane, three riders gathered in silence.
All wore grey.
All bore rings marked with the twin circles of Auron's Observation Order — a signal not of judgment, but of deep surveillance.
They mounted without words.
And began the slow, steady ride toward the duchy where God's silence had grown loud.