Reivan had barely slept since the assassination attempt.

Not because he was worried about dying—though, admittedly, that was an issue—but because the implications were worse.

The Holy Kingdom of Saerun had moved.

They hadn’t just tried to kill him; they had tested him. And when powerful forces tested someone, it meant they were deciding whether he was a threat or a tool.

Now, they had chosen their next move.

The morning was quiet. Too quiet.

His estate, usually filled with the murmurs of his mercenary allies, the occasional laughter of Garm’s men, or the sharp conversations between nobles trying to worm their way into his influence, was still.

Reivan stood by his window, watching the capital wake up.

The streets of Veydris were as lively as ever—vendors shouting, noble carriages rolling past, beggars trying their luck at another day—but there was a shift in the air.

It was subtle. A slight hesitation in the way people spoke, an extra glance thrown over their shoulders. The whispers were louder today, yet somehow also more secretive.

He exhaled. So, the rumors had started.

Garm entered without knocking, as usual.

"You’re getting a reputation, boss," he said, holding out a letter.

Reivan didn’t take it immediately. He gave the mercenary a tired look. "Good or bad?"

Garm grinned. "Depends on who you ask. The nobles? Half of them think you’re a genius. The other half think you’re a dangerous lunatic."

Reivan sighed. "Sounds about right. And the Church?"

"Ah." Garm dropped into a chair. "That’s the fun part. They’re sending envoys."

Reivan finally took the letter. It was sealed with the emblem of the Holy Kingdom.

A sunburst wrapped around a sword. A symbol of righteousness. Or, in this case, righteous interference.

"Let me guess," Reivan muttered. "They want to discuss ‘faith’ and ‘moral integrity’ and probably ‘the will of the gods’?"

Garm chuckled. "Word is, they’re also asking about your soul."

"Lovely."

Reivan broke the seal and read through the letter. Polite, formal, full of empty words.

The envoys weren’t coming for diplomacy.

They were coming to size him up.

Sylpkx appeared at the doorway, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with something sharp. "So, we’re dealing with the Church now?"

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Reivan looked up from the letter and studied her expression.

He wasn’t surprised that she didn’t hide her distaste.

Sylpkx had always been wary of the Holy Kingdom.

No—wary wasn’t the right word.

She despised them.

And it made sense.

Reivan had always known what she was—half-beastman, half-human. A bastard of royal blood.

Her father had been a noble from the empire. Her mother? A princess from the northern beastkin tribes.

A woman who had been taken, married for political gain, and then discarded the moment she became inconvenient.

Sylpkx had been born between two worlds, belonging to neither.

To the empire, she was a reminder of a broken alliance.

To the beastkin, she was too human to be trusted.

And to the Holy Kingdom?

She was an abomination.

Reivan could feel her bloodlust crackling in the air like a brewing storm. It wasn’t the wild rage of a berserker—Sylpkx wasn’t reckless. It was controlled. Cold. The kind of hatred that never faded, only waited.

Reivan folded the letter and placed it on the desk.

"Don’t kill anyone yet," he said dryly.

Sylpkx scoffed, but he could see her fingers twitch. "I make no promises."

By midday, the envoys arrived.

They came in plain but elegant robes, gold embroidery woven just subtly enough to remind everyone of their power.

Two men and one woman, all carrying themselves with the calm confidence of people who believed the gods were on their side.

Reivan met them in his study, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

"Sir Reivan," the eldest envoy greeted him, a man with steel-gray hair and eyes that belonged to a man who had judged others for decades.

"Cardinal Alden," Reivan replied, matching his tone. "An honor."

The Cardinal smiled, though it was more polite than warm. "The honor is ours. We have heard… much about you."

"I hope most of it was good."

Alden chuckled. "Faith is a complicated thing. Some believe you to be a rising force of stability. Others…" He paused, gaze sharp. "Others whisper of dangerous ideologies."

Reivan already knew where this was going.

"‘Dangerous ideologies’?" he repeated. "I thought I was merely a merchant."

The younger envoy, a sharp-eyed woman named Sister Elira, gave him a small, unreadable smile. "That is precisely what we wish to understand."

Reivan leaned back slightly. "Then please, enlighten me. What concerns you?"

Alden studied him for a moment before answering. "You’ve gained an army without swearing fealty to the Emperor. You manage trade routes as if you govern your own territory. And most concerning of all, you have rejected offers of alliance from noble families in favor of—" he gestured vaguely, "—a different kind of power."

"A different kind of power," Reivan echoed. "You mean efficiency?"

Alden smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Perhaps."

Reivan could feel the unspoken accusation in the room.

The Holy Kingdom thrived on order. On hierarchy. On control.

And Reivan?

He was not part of their system.

They didn’t like that.

Sylpkx, sitting nearby, was watching the envoys like a predator studying prey. Her pupils had sharpened slightly, a faint reminder of her beastkin blood.

Reivan didn’t miss how Elira noticed.

He also didn’t miss how the envoy’s fingers curled slightly, tense, as if Sylpkx’s presence alone was offensive.

"Let’s speak plainly," Alden finally said. "We are concerned that your… influence may lead people astray from their faith."

Reivan raised an eyebrow. "By ensuring they eat and live in peace?"

"Faith is not only about survival," Elira countered smoothly. "It is about obedience to divine will."

Ah. There it was.

They weren’t just testing him.

They were setting up a narrative.

If he pushed back too hard, they would call him a heretic.

If he submitted, they would bind him to their influence.

Reivan smiled faintly. "The will of the gods is a complex thing, isn’t it? But I’m a simple man. I deal in tangible solutions, not divine mysteries."

"That is precisely why we worry," Alden murmured.

By nightfall, the rumors had already begun.

Reivan sat in his study, Sylpkx standing by the door.

"They’re calling you godless now," she muttered.

"Let them."

"And what will you do?"

Reivan tapped his fingers on the desk.

"I’ll remind them that gods do not govern trade, nor do they control war."

He smiled.

"Men do."