They did not take us toward the sanctuary.

  Instead, Calsen led us along a colonnaded interior walk that overlooked a series of enclosed courtyards. Lanternlight spilled across marble veined with gold, not worn smooth by pilgrims’ knees, but kept polished by hands that never touched the ground.

  I didn’t know Branfield could look this rich.

  Calsen extended a hand. “This way. The public halls are lively at this hour. I thought you might appreciate something quieter.”

  The first chamber they showed us was a gallery.

  “The Auric Cloister has been secured for the evening,” one of the attendants murmured to Calsen. Calsen nodded without slowing.

  Instead, the chamber was broken into islands of space, each one subtly claimed by a single object. A plinth here, a shallow sunken dais there, one artifact per pocket of light. The rest of the room was left deliberately empty, the marble floor unmarked except where wards had been inlaid flush with the stone.

  What is this? Logistical magic?

  I’d only ever seen anything like this when Sir Roland attended closed convocations.

  A sword rested upright in a clamp of pale brass. I took a closer look at it.

  They had an Epic sword, and they used it for display…

  Nearby, a torque of worked silver hovered unsupported above a ring of etched stone, slowly rotating as if reconsidering gravity.

  None of these items were labeled.

  I noted something else then, and my grip tightened on the straps at my shoulder.

  The enchantment patterns repeated.

  The modular reinforcements and standardized fail-safes became identical in philosophy. Sir Roland had once told me that heirlooms were messy. Magic warped around people over time, picked up habits, little quirks you could feel if you held them long enough. These didn’t have any of that.

  I stopped looking at the objects and started looking at the gaps between them instead. How evenly spaced they were; how easily another plinth could be added; how nothing here resisted being expanded.

  That was when it stopped feeling like a gallery.

  I lingered a step behind Anabeth without meaning to. Calsen slowed, matching our pace.

  “You’re welcome to take your time,” he said warmly. “Visitors often feel rushed in places like this. It would be a shame to turn contemplation into obligation.” Then he turned to Anabeth. “You mentioned scholarship earlier. May I ask in what capacity?”

  “I’m a junior researcher,” Anabeth replied. “Seconded through the Synod.”

  I thought she was a student? I wasn’t sure if she was lying now or if she’d been lying earlier.

  “Ah. The Synod produces careful minds. We’ve always valued that. And your focus?”

  “Applied stone and metal thaumaturgy,” Anabeth said.

  “Then you work where faith becomes measurable,” he said. “We find scholars like you indispensable. Sanctified objects endure enthusiasm easily enough. It’s neglect that breaks them.” At least he didn’t immediately try to convert her.

  “And you,” he said, turning to me at last. “You don’t study like she does.”

  I said nothing.

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  “But you carry yourself like a man who serves,” he continued pleasantly. “Do you devote yourself to any Saint?” The phrasing was careful and open-ended.

  I must not say a thing. I didn’t want to admit anything to this man, but I knew Ceralis would announce itself loud and clear.

  Anabeth looked like she wanted to say something, so I stared at her.

  Anabeth met my stare without surprise. If anything, there was a private gleam of amusement there. “My companion doesn’t talk much. He prefers to listen.” Her tone carried no apology. “But yes, he’s disciplined and methodical. Very respectful of authority, when it’s… competently exercised.”

  Calsen studied us both. “Discipline is a form of devotion,” he said at last. “Often a stronger one than prayer.”

  Anabeth smiled. “That’s been my experience as well.”

  Anabeth would be the last person to talk about discipline…

  He nodded, apparently satisfied, and gestured deeper into the gallery. “Then you will both appreciate what we preserve here. These works were not made for personal glory, or private faith. They were made to endure, to serve their purpose even when the hands that raised them are gone.”

  Calsen’s hand rested briefly on the back of the plinth beside us, fingers not touching the blade, only the stone that supported it.

  “Saint Eurelin is often misunderstood,” he said conversationally. “People think of him as a war-saint. In truth, he is the Saint of Continuance. Faith fails when it becomes private, when it lives only in the hearts of individuals. Hearts are… inconsistent. Structures are not.”

  I still had no idea why he brought us here and lectured us as though this were a tutorial, but soon it became clear.

  He continued, “Branfield is not a consecrated city. It lies beyond the direct purview of the Order of Twelvefold Flames. The Order protects what it can justify protecting. Small towns must therefore rely on ecclesiastical presence, Miss Anabeth.”

  The priest now addressed Anabeth instead of me.

  Branfield was dangerous and inconvenient—too small for patrols or blessings. It didn’t get protection. It got attention, and only after something went wrong.

  And yet, two travelers had reached it without incident. Silver armor and academic credentials, and not so much as a toll demanded on the road. And Anabeth had the gall to announce she came from the Synod of Thaumaturgic Studies. Maybe Calsen was showing her what they maintained and what they could deploy. Trying to impress.

  That, finally, made sense of the tone.

  Calsen stopped beside a plinth left empty for some reason. “The Synod’s interests are precise. They concern themselves with tolerances, with long-term stability. When the Order requires assets that must function far from consecrated ground, they prefer reliability over inspiration. So when a Synod-affiliated scholar visits Branfield unannounced, one naturally wonders which category of interest applies. Are you here to observe our methodologies? Or to review previous commissions?”

  Commissions? What was this man insinuating? What dealings had the Order had with this church?

  “I’m not here on behalf of the Order,” Anabeth said, more careful now. Maybe she’d also picked up the subtext. “And certainly not to renegotiate supply.”

  Calsen inclined his head, accepting the answer without appearing to believe it. “Naturally. The Synod prefers plausible deniability. Still, should your visit uncover questions relevant to continuity of provision, I trust you’ll allow us the courtesy of advance notice. Interruptions in supply chains benefit no one, least of all the Order.”

  Calsen resumed walking and led us past the empty plinth into a narrower side chamber. This one was lower-ceilinged, and the light warmer, less ceremonial.

  At its center, a single stone pedestal rose from the floor, and rested atop was boulder earring. Anabeth was wearing its twin.

  She glanced between the pedestal and its twin in her ear, and I could see her eyes visibly twinkling.

  I hadn’t questioned it when I first saw her. Stone jewelry wasn’t unusual for someone in, well, stone thaumaturgy.

  Calsen went on conversationally, “That model last appraised at twenty-five thousand Kohns. Under stable conditions, of course.” He spread his hands. “Recent bandit activity has… complicated procurement. Reinforcement-grade stone isn’t easily replaced once a quarry route goes dark.”

  Twenty-five thousand.

  That explained why Anabeth had picked it up. And the earring she wore actually sold Calsen our story.

  “Those who work in applied fields,” Calsen said gently, “develop an eye for assets. They recognize value where others see inconvenience. It suggested to me that your interests here might be… practical rather than doctrinal. The Radiant Concord has been doing its utmost to stabilize the region. We’ve invested heavily in calming recent bandit activity. You need not worry. Whatever your purpose in Branfield, we understand the importance of continuity.”

  Anabeth had drifted closer to the pedestal without quite committing to the motion. “Oh—oh, that’s nice. A deep-set anchor, triple-bonded. You only build like that if you’re planning for permanent installation… or you expect things to keep getting shaken.”

  Calsen watched her with the pleased attentiveness of a man who had just heard the correct question asked in the correct language.

  “In recent weeks, several such individuals have proven resistant to the usual pressures. They operate beyond consecrated ground, outside the rhythms the Order responds to efficiently.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Problems like that tend to resolve themselves only when someone with sufficient initiative happens to cross their path. When they do, it is customary for the Concord to acknowledge the restoration of continuity. Not as payment, of course. Certain assets are held in reserve precisely for moments when service aligns with need. An item like this is far more valuable in the hands of someone who understands structural stress.”

  Why couldn’t they just say they needed someone to take care of the bandits? Instead, we’d been walked through marble and doctrine and price points, shown artifacts like proof-of-concept diagrams, as if the problem were theoretical rather than bloody and immediate.

  “Mm,” Anabeth hummed. “Well. Continuity is important. We’ll see what we can do while we’re in the region.”

  Calsen smiled and inclined his head. “Of course. The Synod has always understood the value of initiative. It is always a pleasure to make the acquaintance of a delegate from the Synod.”

  The Priest and his guards escorted us out. The doors had barely closed behind us when Anabeth let out a satisfied breath.

  “My lord,” her voice immediately brightened, “don’t you think it’s high time we delivered a little good, old-fashioned knightly justice to a few bandits?”

  I adjusted the straps on my shoulder and kept walking.

  You just want the second earring.