20. Reconnaissance

20.

The sun was already gone by the time Duskbane slipped away from his group of strays to sort out whatever that was. The High Duke’s daughter fainting over a gift wasn’t on his bingo card for the day—but then again, nothing about Crow ever seemed to go the way he expected.

He perched on the lip of the old bell tower, hood up against the cold, watching the cathedral’s upper spires like they might blink.

He didn’t trust this place.

Never had.

Not when he was a boy sneaking through the pews. Not when he was a scout with orders to map every blind corner. Not even now, with half a dozen glyphs laced through his coat and a field book stitched with magic no scribe could break.

He opened that book now, letting it rest on his knees.

> Time: Approx. 21:30 — moon at quarter-phase

> Weather: Clear, cold wind, minimal foot traffic

>

> ----------------------------------------

>

> Observation 01 – Upper Tower, second window from the left. Silver light. Flickering, not rhythmic.

> Not lightning. Not flares. Something else. Possibly sigil activation.

> Or celestial interference.

>

> Observation 02 – Increased Guard Presence:

> Guards repositioned across elevated paths. More Churchwatch stationed at lesser sanctuaries than usual. Two paladin-ranked seen entering the Archive Hall without escort. Possible internal audit or covert operation.

>

> Observation 03 – Echo Transmission [Encrypted Informant – Codename: ECHO]:

> "Cleanings have started again. Not just here. Other cities. Same pattern. They’re taking kids."

> Confirmed across three urban centers. Church-issued edicts cite "divine placement" for the orphaned. No paper trail once they're transferred to high sanctum orphanage vaults.

>

> Cross-Reference:

>

> * Orphan Intake Schedules vs. Current Census Logs: Discrepancies on final transfer dates

>

>

>

> * Missing persons lists from city registrars show children unaccounted for post-Cathedral placement

>

>

>

> Working Theory:

> Not recruiting. Culling. Hollowing protocols may have resumed. Children any form of celestial ties are most vulnerable—no threat if they remove their souls.

>

> Internal Note:

> This isn’t cleanup. This is preparation.

> The lights. The glyph storms. The sanctified awakenings. They're expecting something. Or someone.

> And if the pattern’s reforming—the Trinity is here and they’re planning something.

He snapped the book closed and hid it away, jumping off the tower and disappearing into the shadows.

----------------------------------------

He stayed there a moment longer, letting the wind bite his fingers. Letting the cold keep him sharp. Then he moved.

Slipped down from the tower in practiced silence. Cloak rustled once. That was it.

Backstreets were nearly empty. Even the rats seemed quiet. The city had that feel it got before a storm—still, stretched tight, waiting for something to snap.

He ducked beneath a crumbling arch, found the old chapel wall, and placed his palm flat against the stone.

The glyph shimmered. Recognized him. Let him through.

The undercity breathed. Cold. Stale. Dripping with time.

He kept his breathing measured. Calm.

But under his ribs—rage simmered.

The tip came from an old friend—an informant deep in the Church, likely on borrowed time now. His final message was short:

“The Cathedral hides records. Sealed ones. Look for the golden eye in the sunburst. Look beneath.”

Now, he was here for the truth.

To find what the Spark was preparing for.

And what he needed to prepare his group of lunatics for.

He might have come to Fangrest under the guise of checking out magical anomalies, but The Order sensed it.

A shift.

The currents were changing, and this time it’d be in their favor. Not the tyrants that wanted to see the world burn in the name of purity.

“They were never subtle,” he muttered, voice flat against the dark. “Not when the stars start whispering. And definitely not when they think their god is coming back.”

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t believe in gods. Not anymore.

What was once our gods could hardly be considered that.

He’d seen too many kids offered up to them.

----------------------------------------

The chamber was real. That was the first surprise.

Hidden under old wards—clumsy ones, meant to erase memory if you found your way in. He dispelled them like dust. Nullification was easier when the magic was lazy.

Inside the vault, the air smelled of dust and sanctimony. Scrolls lined the walls in neat little crypts of polished bonewood. He scanned the walls quickly, efficiently. Decades of reports, rituals, and observations.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Then he saw it.

The golden eye in a sunburst.

He pulled the scrolls free, fingers tight around the brittle parchment.

> “Increased mana experiments on orphans..."

>

> “Unveiled children exhibiting class instability…”

>

> “Mana draining and storage experiments…”

>

> “Subjects lacking divine connections demonstrate higher adaptability to Hollowing...”

Rage bubbled under his ribs.

How many children would have to die for them to get their fill?

The longer he scanned the more his rage built. Some children died, those who survived?

> “They were truley hollow, no one can get them to speak.”

His hands stilled on a report sealed with both wax and blood:

slower.

> Wrathbound Vessel. Subject Classification: Solar Paragon.

His hand curled tight around the edge of the scroll.

They didn’t name him. But they didn’t have to.

Kael.

They knew. They’d always known.

The report dripped with fear disguised as reverence. One line caught his eye:

> “The Paragon has returned. We must prepare the Vessel for sanctification. The sinners gather around him like moths to the blaze.”

Then he saw something that made him pause in the scroll.

> “The wolfborne boy could become a threat, the girl’s codex information can not be tracked. Action may need to be taken.”

Duskbane adjusted the ring on his finger, steadying his nerves. It was a simple band–its only distinguishing marker being an eclipse sigil.

So they had their eyes on Rowan, too.

And Crow. Unblessed, unstable, untrackable—she wasn’t just a mystery to them. She was a loose end.

So they did see them as the other two pieces of the Trinity.

It still didn’t line up. The Church believed Crow might be the Astral Keeper.

That title was always tied to support classes—Oracles, Seers, Healers. Never a Sentinel.

Why would they give a shield a blade?

“Tyrants masquerading as shepherds,” He thought bitterly as he riffled through the scrolls. He came across a ledger.

"Wool Imports – Northern Orphanages | Cathedral Storage"

He started to thumb through it before coming across what appeared to be a field report. The edges were scorched, the water damage wasn’t too severe though. Most of the document was still legible, though.

> Subject #34

> Initial Classification: Astral Warden

> Celestial class manifestation verified. Anchor-line glyph patterns confirmed. Subject exhibits high-level resonance with Trinity-lattice identifiers (Ref: 470-C).

>

> Verdict:

> Class deemed incompatible with Chosen Champion Initiative: Too unstable. Too powerful. Not obedient enough. Glyph core: destabilizing.

> Order issued to Extract.

>

> Action Taken:

> Class glyphs removed via Hollowing Protocol.

> Subject exhibited uncontrolled mana hemorrhage during extraction.

> Containment incomplete. Emergency secondary sealing invoked.

> Memory lattice fragmented. Traces of resonance may persist.

>

> Disposition:

> Returned to High Duke Callister Aurelia under modified designation: Unblessed.

> Publicly declared Unveiled. Guild record sealed.

>

> Note:

> Subject unaware of prior class. No recollection of glyph resonance or Anchor designation.

> Continue surveillance during convergence cycle.

>

> He swallowed, glancing at the note scrawled in jagged writing. Writing he knew. Hizashi.

>

> They said it would be clean. That she'd just forget.

> She didn't just bleed. She screamed. Not in pain—in loss. I think the glyphs were still fighting. The codex cracked in half,

> She collapsed. She was shaking like she was freezing.

> Callister was none the wiser. He accepted the lie like it was law. He looked at her like she was nothing.

> Like she failed him.

> But it was us. It was them.

> If she ever remembers what we took—what she was—

> The stars won’t be enough to stop her.

----------------------------------------

Duskbane stared down at the paper. His grip tightened. His pulse ticked like war drums in his ears.

Suddenly her Sentinal class made terrible sense.

And why Rowan was marked with that curse.

The Celestials and the Starfallen were going to get their prophets one way or another.

Even if it meant sharpening them into weapons to get their way.

And the Church didn’t just erase her class.

They ripped it out of her.

And thanks to them, what came back wasn’t a healer.

Wasn’t a Keeper.

Wasn’t what she was meant to be.

We though the anchor was lost–killed even. But, no, she wasn’t lost–she was buried. Her magic was stolen by monsters that feared her.

He scrubbed his face with his hands, then tucked the paper away gently. He heard voices approaching. He found one more file—buried beneath scorched reports and burned-out prayer tags.

This one hit like a blade through bone.

> Solar Paragon.

> Wrathbound Vessel. Status: Chosen.

> Requires sanctification. Resurrective potential confirmed.

> Keep the Anchor close-not found yet. The Wolf can be used.

His hand curled into a fist.

They were going to use them as pawns.

Again.

----------------------------------------

Back on the rooftops, he watched the window where Crow’s light still flickered.

She didn’t know.

Not yet.

Neither did the boys.

He remembered the last time the glyphs lit up like this.

Three of them. Barely older than they are right now.

One burned too bright. One collapsed under it. One was lost and never found.

He couldn’t save them.

Forget their names. Their faces.

But he’d never forget what it looked like when a Paragon lost control. When a Seer went blind from prophecy. When a Warden screamed, unanchored, as the sky cracked open.

The Church called it divine will.

He called it murder.

But it was happening again.

And this time—he wasn’t going to stand back and let the Church write the ending.

They were never broken, he thought, the wind tugging at his coat. Just unfinished.

Now they’re remembering.

He drew his scarf tighter. Eyes narrowed. Every line in his body is ready.

And that’s the part that should scare them.

Because this time, I know how the story ends.

And I’m not letting it repeat.