Thessia sat in a dim chamber of the church, arms crossed, one leg bouncing. She hadn’t slept.

  Couldn’t.

  There were too many loose threads.

  Too many things that didn’t line up.

  The girl — or who she thought was the girl — was being processed by the Faith Transport Division.

  They claimed she was dangerous. Claimed she needed “reeducation.”

  Said it with the same tone nobles used to discuss stray dogs.

  Thessia didn’t believe that part. But she hadn’t asked questions either. Not yet.

  The girl sat across from her in silence, hood shadowing her face, legs folded neatly.

  She hadn’t said a word since arriving.

  Thessia watched her, searching for signs of fear. A flinch. A tremble. Something.

  “You’re calm,” she muttered. “Too calm.”

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  The girl tilted her head gently, her voice soft — but eerily still.

  “Sometimes… things beneath the surface show what’s real.”

  Thessia narrowed her eyes. “What does that—”

  Before she could finish, two robed clerics entered the room.

  “Time’s up. She goes now.”

  The girl stood without hesitation. As she passed Thessia, she stumbled — just slightly — and brushed against her side.

  Click.

  Something small. Warm. Slipped into her cloak pocket.

  She blinked. Almost missed it.

  The girl didn’t look back.

  Thessia lay awake in her quarters. Her fingers kept brushing the edge of her cloak without realizing it.

  Something about that moment refused to fade — the words, the calmness, the stumble.

  She reached in and felt it. Smooth. Warm. Familiar. A shard.

  It pulsed. Once. Then again.

  Then it ignited.

  A jolt of energy surged into her palm. Not painful — insistent. It filled her chest like a second heartbeat.

  She bolted upright.

  Rell stood in chains at the center of a jeering crowd.

  A false priest barked scripture.

  The Deacon grinned behind him.

  Ducalin watched from a balcony like a sovereign above a sacrifice.

  Beneath the church, the disguised owl slipped between glyph-lit walls.

  Whispers passed through his soul-tether like sparks.

  “Activate.”

  The beacon surged. Magic obeyed.

  Thessia was already sprinting through the stone halls.

  Her boots slammed against polished tile. Her muscles thrummed with borrowed mana.

  She didn’t know what drove her forward — just that she had to move.

  The shard pulled her toward the cathedral’s altar. Toward a mosaic she’d passed countless times before.

  But tonight, under the glow of the shard, its edges shimmered.

  She drove her fist into it.

  It cracked, collapsed inward, revealing a tunnel behind the wall.

  The scent changed immediately. Ash. Blood. Wet cloth.

  She stepped through — and stopped cold.

  Dozens of children stood shackled in rows.

  Gagged. Burned. Branded. Herded like animals by robed clerics toward black carriages hidden beneath the church.

  Her pulse spiked. Her vision blurred.

  And then she heard his voice again in her mind.

  “Church… trade kids. You wrong side.”

  “Bad men. Hurt girl. Must stop.”

  Her fists clenched.

  He’d been right.

  Every word.