Chapter 7: Chapter 7 — Premature Assumptions

Seldrin Vahl lounged in his study, swirling amber liquor in a glass too fine for the mood he was in. A long-backed chair of darkwood creaked beneath him as he leaned back, watching the Unifier Rings shimmer on the horizon like a mirage. They always seemed to open—just enough to mock a condemned man with the illusion of escape—before disintegration took them.

So poetic. So permanent.

The Rings could be traversed. Technically. There were rites. Devices. Gate-stabilizers older than the city walls. But no one was sparing that kind of expense for an exile. That was the whole point—send them through and never pay the price to fetch them back. The Gates unmade. They didn’t undo.

Bishop Cairn was gone. Finally. A smudge erased from a canvas too fine for his ilk.

Seldrin allowed himself a smile, thin and practiced. Not one soul in Thornehold suspected a thing—not even the vaunted City Lord Garron Thorne. They might suspect him, whisper his name in dark corners, but no one was stupid enough to challenge him.

Bishop had been an inconvenience. A wildcard with the wrong kind of conscience. Now, he was ash on the wind, and Vahl’s path forward was clear. He could continue weaving his little empire beneath Thorne’s nose—schemes like smoke, slipping through the cracks of the city’s towering walls.

A knock at the door shattered the moment. Then it burst open without permission.

The guard stumbled in, heaving, soaked with sweat, armor askew. One gauntlet hung half-fastened at the wrist. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed, face pale beneath the grime. A man who’d run hard without knowing why.

Seldrin sat up, spine rigid. “Unless you are moments from expiring, I advise you to reconsider barging into my study. Speak—quickly.”

The guard gasped for air. “It’s— it’s Bishop Cairn, sir. He’s alive.”

The silence that followed stretched eternity thin.

“No,” Seldrin said, tone glacial. “He is deceased. The Rings do not return what they consume.”

“I saw it, sir. So did half the outer watch. The air split. There was light, and then—he was just there. Whole. Breathing.”

The noble’s glass slipped from his fingers and shattered across the floor.

He’d watched the disintegration himself. Just a speck on the horizon, a flicker through scry-glass, but unmistakable. Flesh turned to light, and light turned to nothing. He’d seen dozens go through. They never came back. The Rings didn’t give things back. They ended things.

Seldrin Vahl, master of plans, did not blink. He did not shout. He simply stared past the guard into a future he could no longer predict.

Then, quietly:

“Fetch the Inquisitor.”

The guard blinked, unsure he’d heard correctly.

“Sir?”

“Now. Run.”

The man didn’t argue—just turned and bolted again, boots hammering stone like a failing heartbeat.

Seldrin exhaled slowly and sat down, not in triumph now but calculation. His wine had gone still in the bottle. No ripples. No tricks of the hand. This wasn’t fear of secrets—he didn’t believe in fairy stories.

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But this...

This had the shape of politics turning inside-out.

A boy no one was meant to remember had just survived the impossible.

And worse: something acknowledged him.

Not a place, not a thing, but some deeper current—one Seldrin couldn’t name—that had chosen not to let Bishop die.

He stood, restlessly circling the room.

Thoughts buzzed like hornets behind his eyes. If it was a mistake, it would already be corrected. If it was a trick, it would not have passed verification. The world didn’t break protocol—not in the open, not like this.

“Should he speak, the consequences are... problematic,” he murmured. “What did he witness? More importantly—who else did?”

The panic was there—but buried beneath it, something colder. Not dread. Contingency.

He crossed to a drawer and unlocked it. Inside: a slate of names. Paid silence. Debts owed. Promises made to people who didn’t believe in resurrection and didn’t care to.

A nobleman's seal. A blood-marked letter. Half a holy symbol, cracked and hidden beneath false documents. The drawer was a confession without a voice—a map of sins shared and debts traded under the skin of the city.

If this caught light, he’d burn with it. But if it didn’t—

Then he could spin it. Use it. Twist the narrative until truth choked on its own tongue.

A soft knock cut the room like a blade.

Seldrin turned. That wasn’t the guard.

The door opened without invitation.

A figure stepped inside. Their presence seemed to vacuum the warmth out of the space. Slate-grey robes, no heraldry, no sound. A gloved hand closed the door behind them with surgical care.

People whispered that the Inquisition had no heartbeat. That they spoke in dreams. That their robes were cut from veilcloth woven beyond mortal hands. Seldrin didn’t believe in fables—but standing here, he wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.

The room had gone quieter than quiet. The air itself felt thinner, drawn inward around the Inquisitor like it didn’t trust him either.

“Inquisitor,” Seldrin said, schooling his voice into velvet.

The figure tilted their head. “You look surprised. But you asked for me.”

He cleared his throat. “That was fast.”

“I was already coming.” The Inquisitor took two measured steps into the room. The candlelight dimmed subtly at their approach, as if uncertain it should remain lit. “The report reached my ears before the boy finished standing.”

Seldrin’s composure cracked for half a breath. He masked it with motion—adjusting his cuffs, straightening a stack of papers that didn’t need straightening.

“I had not anticipated such alacrity in the spread of news.”

The Inquisitor ignored the bait. “Walk me through it.”

Seldrin did. Cleanly. As cleanly as he could make it sound. He omitted the obvious. Lied where lies were needed. The figure said nothing, only listened.

When he finished, the Inquisitor stared at him for a long, unreadable moment. Then:

“You believed he would die.”

“I ensured it.”

“Yet he didn’t.”

Seldrin didn’t answer.

The Inquisitor’s voice remained dry, almost amused. “You understand the problem, then.”

“I am more than capable of containing the fallout.”

The Inquisitor gave a faint smile. “That’s not your decision anymore.”

Seldrin stiffened. “You’re moving to contain him?”

“No,” the Inquisitor said simply. “We’re moving to observe him.”

That shook him.

“You intend to grant him clemency?”

“We’re letting him walk,” the Inquisitor corrected, already turning for the door. “It’s what happens next that matters.”

Seldrin’s hands curled into fists.

“What happens next,” the Inquisitor added, without looking back,

“is that you begin praying he doesn’t seek vengeance for whatever game you're playing.”

The door clicked shut behind the Inquisitor, sealing the cold back into the room. Seldrin stood still for a beat, then snapped his fingers.

Another guard entered moments later, eyes sharp and posture tense from the urgency of the summons.

"Get Malden Vesk," Seldrin said coolly, each syllable crisp and measured. "Inform him he is to undertake a journey beyond the Rings."

The guard hesitated. "Sir?"

Seldrin turned with glacial elegance. "This affront will not stand. I expect it resolved with finality. Do try to grasp the stakes, will you?"

The man saluted and vanished.

Alone again, Seldrin poured a fresh drink, and this time, he did not mask the tremble.

"This was not meant to occur," he muttered, voice rich with disdain. "The plan was immaculate. Perfect! And now some upstart god deigns to unravel it all? Ha! Let them try."

He stared into the glass, his lip curled in disdain. "Bishop Cairn shall be ash before the next moonrise. My ambitions are not so fragile as to be swayed by divine theatrics."

He raised the drink in a mock salute to the empty room, spine stiff, every syllable carved with haughty precision.

"I do not lose. I restructure."