Page 59

The walk to the Registry passed in a blur of half-waking streets—market stalls shuttered, flames guttering in lamps still lit from the night before. Festival ribbons fluttered listlessly overhead, as if even they’d lost the will to pretend at joy.

“So, did I commit a crime?” Orzen asked, voice even.

The larger Fist didn’t glance back. “Just conversin’ for a bit.”

The thinner one smirked, one hand resting on the hilt of the curved blade at his side. “The Elder’s been expecting a report. He likes to do his own questioning.”

“Lucky me,” Orzen muttered.

Their armor creaked in cold mechanical rhythm as they led him toward the Upper District—out of place against the tentative birdsong rising with the dawn.

When the building came into view—a humble temple with the look of a once-sacred place now twisted against its own purpose—Orzen’s stomach lurched. Stained glass gleamed in the early light. Gods and heroes of the faith watched with unblinking eyes. He’d never been one to pay them mind; they’d never bothered with him, so he didn’t see much point. The only one he recognized was Elaren—Mother of Blossoms—staff of flowers in one hand, a sword of light in the other.

The Fist led him inside. No need for locks and keys when no one wanted to be here in the first place. The air was cool and dry, and the lingering scent of incense hung in the air, though it’d been years since anyone had prayed here. The recesses where the gods once stood yawned empty. Only the outlines of where their feet had been remained in the dust.

It was a narrow temple; the long sanctuary now cut in two by a brick and stucco wall—newer stone biting into old. The outer room had been turned into the seat of bureaucracy for the small town: shelves sagging under stacks of scrolls, wooden desks cluttered with ledgers, quills, ink pots, and wax seals stamped with authority.

The Fist pushed him through a door cut into the new wall—into what had once been the inner sanctum. Naturally, it was Theordrin’s personal office now.

The room gleamed with the kind of grandeur only corruption could afford. Gilded trim along the desk, velvet cushions on a chaise that no one ever sat on. Comfort built for display, not use. Even a tall timepiece ticking quietly in the corner. That alone was a level of wealth Orzen had never witnessed.

The houseplants along the wall had gone gray at the edges, curling inward as though trying to escape. Orzen lingered on them, thinking ruefully that even the greenery couldn’t stand breathing Theordrin’s air.

Behind the desk, curtains heavy enough to smother the light were drawn back to reveal another stained-glass window spilling color across the floor. It showed a battle he knew only from tavern retellings—the legend of the Warden, sealing rot itself away.

He recognized the figures now: Elaren rising in glory behind her champion—the Warden. The golden sun and sword of the Dawnblades burned on the chest of his silver armor.

Across from them, a skeletal husk of a man in a tattered priest’s hood, skin wrinkled with exhaustion. The Rotfather, hollow-eyed beneath a broken mask—the skull of a deer, complete with twisted antlers.

Before him, a creature wrought of bark and bone, flesh and rot intertwined in grotesque beauty. No wonder children feared the Witherborn. Between them all stood a vast tree—half lush and green, half cracked and dying.

Theordrin loomed behind the desk like a vulture at roost, fingers steepled, eyes bright with calculation—measuring exactly how fragile his guest might be. He gestured toward the chairs opposite him: plain wood, stripped of adornment, meant to remind their occupants of everything they weren’t.

The Fist split, standing at either side of the door.

Orzen strode forward. Ignored the chairs. Theordrin didn’t smile. His eyes narrowed only slightly as Orzen remained standing above him.

“You should sit.”

Orzen ground his teeth and didn’t move. The Fist shifted behind him, leather creaking. Orzen let the moment stretch—long enough to make it clear it was a choice, not obedience, then he dropped into one of the low chairs. Even seated, it was impossible to meet Theordrin’s eye line. He should have known Theordrin would build his office to ensure that no one sat above him.

“Very good. Now, I hear you’ve been busy,” Theordrin said. He let the words hang like a net between them. “Wandering the town. Talking. Asking questions.”

“It’s what you paid me for,” Orzen said flatly, though his chest roiled with ire.

Theordrin folded his hands, the motion neat and deliberate. A smile touched his lips, but not his eyes. “And what did your wandering teach you about Thistlehold?”

“People don’t like you.”

Theordrin’s smile widened by a degree. “Dislike,” he said softly, “is the first step toward faith. People never trust what corrects them.”

Orzen kept his expression blank. He’d expected cold anger, not scripture. He hadn’t been called here before the break of dawn for a lecture disguised as mercy.

Theordrin’s fingers folded together in front of him. “And what of the Spirit Weaver?” His tone darkened. “Some call her a healer. But Water Weavers are the only true healers. Her magic is a breach in the pattern. The Cycle only turns when balance is maintained. When one strand pulls too far, the rest must stiffen to compensate.”

Orzen forced his breath steady, though his fists clenched at his side. “She’s powerful,” he said. “Overlooked. Disregarded. You shouldn’t underestimate her.”

Theordrin nodded once like he’d decided something. Then, with slow, deliberate care, he reached for a crystal decanter at the corner of his desk. The scent of spice and honey filled the air as he poured a measure into a glass.