Saintess Celestia the evanescent was the first. She was Varant’s founder, and the eum-Creid’s forebear.

Among her most recent descendants, Celine and Renea clearly bore the strongest resemblance. They were the quintessential eum-Creids, with silver hair, blue eyes, and noble countenances to match.

But the first Saintess was not merely quintessential. She was pre-eminent. The pattern flowed from her, because she led it. Her hair was said to shine like actual silverwork, and her irises were allegedly the palest blue, with pupils opalescent.

The cathedral Kylian and Ciecout had just left was explicitly designed to evoke Celestia’s fabled beauty, her almost ethereal fairness passed down only in story. Over the ages, many great artists had aspired to capture her in portrait.

Yet one stood apart.

It was Noué Areygni, a woman who’d been dead for three hundred years, yet was still believed by many to be the greatest artist of the empire.

Her depiction of Celestia, alongside the silver wolf of Varant, simply titled ‘The Saintess and the Wolf,’ was more than just acclaimed—it was one of the most valuable pieces of art in existence.

And its frame, though mostly wood, was adorned with significant inlays of ivory.

It was the kind of treasure that none in Varant knew how to handle: not its merchants, nor the Church, nor even the eum-Creids. Like a priceless jewel, hidden away in a modest house worth immeasurably less, the painting caused endless anxiety—no place seemed fit to keep it, nor up to the task of protecting it.

The cathedral had, in a sense, sprung up around it—an ornate chest crafted to match its treasure.

“Does it not earn its reputation?” Ciecout beamed. “I am not a man to appreciate art, but I am endlessly fond of this piece.”

“I don’t know how appropriate it is,” Kylian said, honestly. “But I would be a liar if I said it brings no warmth to my heart.”

Centuries of portraits of Saintess Celestia had portrayed her so regally. How could they not? She was the first eum-Creid, and chief among them. Whatever beatific dignity was afforded Celine, was owed double to Celestia.

But Areygni’s portrait showed the Saintess who’d just been unceremoniously nudged off the wooden bench by the wolf—who also stole the cushion. Unconcerned, it curled up, hardly facing her way.

Celestia, meanwhile, was caught in the moment between surprise and laughter.

There were periods of Varant where such a depiction of her would have been seen as manifestly profane. In Areygni’s time it was certainly still a bold, and polarizing piece which cemented her reputation as an artist both uncompromising and intrepid.

The people of Varant took to the painting immediately.

For once, Celestia seemed close instead of lofty, a friend who cared intimately and stood by your side rather than a sanctimonious being who peered pityingly from above.

It helped, of course, that Noué Areygni was an artist purported to be divinely inspired, such that even her enemies conceded that her works carried heaven’s mandate. If that was the case, then the painting’s message, its visual parable, was clear—that joy and laughter could be found here on this earth, that piety took many forms, that the transient nature of life did not mean it was simply a stage on the way to the eternal.

And, of course, that even Saintess Celestia was forced to cede the nicest seat to her animal companion.

Kylian allowed himself a small smile.

But it was only momentary. Whether or not he thought Ciecout’s theories were plausible, while he was here, he would give them serious consideration, anyway.

If this was the lady in ivory, then the day of the wolf was a festival just a month away. But wouldn’t the throngs of people filling the streets only make escape more difficult?

“It would take an entire platoon of elite knights to even attempt to take the painting,” Kylian said. “And it would likely be ruined in the process.”

“I should think it would take more,” Ciecout said, shaking his head. “The artificers from the capital were not lax in their protection. If the frame is lifted, three meters of stone are conjured at every entrance.”

“Then…”

“I suspect our plotters wish to deceive us. By threatening the most valuable piece, they divert our attention away from relics of more modest grandeur,” Ciecout said.

“Plotters who cannot be certain you’ve decoded their message,” Kylian frowned.

“It’s not what you know or what they know, Sir Kylian. It is what neither side knows the other knows, or pretends not to know,” Ciecout chided.

“Father, how much of your time do you actually spend on theological matters?” Kylian asked.

“I am a man of devotion,” Ciecout snapped. “God forgive me for trying to protect our treasures!”

Ciecout kept grumbling, as they turned into the arcade.

“I am bringing you to a place few get to see, Sir Kylian,” Ciecout said most solemnly. “I assume you’re aware of the original church building?”

“I’ve heard this cathedral was built atop the ruins of one,” Kylian said. “Why?”

“I shall take you to a place few get to see,” Ciecout said. “It is one of these cathedral’s greatest secrets… and possibly the location of its greatest treasure.”

“Are you even allowed to do that?” Kylian frowned.

The priest did not answer. As they went on, the columns on both sides of the arcade started to draw in closer, narrowing until pillars could be reached with both palms. The arcade, it seemed, had a finishing point: the stairs downward into the crypt underneath the cathedral.

Kylian nodded to the three knights stationed near it, before he descended the stairs with Ciecout.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“We’re headed into the cathedral’s crypt?” Kylian asked. “Surely that’s not the secret you were referring to.”

“That’s right, Sir Kylian. There’s more,” Ciecout nodded. With a gleam in his eye, and a scholarly smile, he added, “The real secret is a room inside the crypt.”

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

Ailn was underground.

The men who’d attacked Ceric weren’t particularly hard to follow. They were a large group, all rough-looking, save for the unconscious Ceric they were carrying.

Besides that, they were fairly well known in the city, and didn’t feel they had to hide. They went about their business as they pleased, and no one paid them any mind so long as they only encroached on their debtors.

No one went running after loan sharks except idiots like Ailn, of course.

The sun had already started setting by the time he actually caught sight of them, and they certainly took their time moving through the industrial quarter. That made it easier to tail them—which was a blessing considering the crowds and narrow alleys—but unfortunately also meant this was going to take longer than he’d hoped.

He apologized to Renea mentally, realizing he was going to be way past just late. But, not knowing for sure what was going to happen to Ceric, he couldn’t just wait till tomorrow.

At the very least, he needed to know where they were headed.

They were still in the industrial quarter, but they were getting closer to the city’s heart. Typically, the loudest, hottest, and smelliest workshops were relegated to the city’s periphery—as Ailn’s tailing continued, tanneries and foundries started giving way to mason’s yards and woodshops.

By the time they reached the intersection of the industrial and merchant quarters, it was already evening.

Patiently, quietly following, Ailn watched them enter what looked like an abandoned mason’s lodge. Taking a few minutes to make sure that he wasn’t being watched himself, Ailn came up to the abandoned building’s entrance—lo and behold, the lodge was empty.

Save for a staircase to its basement.

“Don’t tell me it’s actually a cult,” Ailn murmured.

The last thing Ailn had expected today was a trip underground. Stopping to listen for echoing footsteps, he made his way down once he was certain he couldn’t hear any—if he was blindsided here, there was no telling what could happen.

He had no idea why loan sharks who openly roamed the streets would ever need to descend into the earth. Ailn had a horrible feeling he was going end up right in the middle of a ritual that involved human sacrifice.

That’s the kind of luck he’d had today.

In terms of space, the hidden passage at the castle had actually been better. The tunnel was only about five feet tall, and Ailn had to duck to traverse it.

But it was a tunnel that was clearly elaborately conceived: not only were walls shored up with timber, but there was lighting at regular intervals. They almost looked like LEDs mounted to the walls.

“Why don’t we have these at the castle?” Ailn groused. He was starting to think the eum-Creids actually were just stingy. Young as he was, he worried his eyesight was going to start failing him the longer he lived in that dimly lit castle.

This tunnel must have been ludicrously expensive to make. He still didn’t have a great sense of this world’s economics, but he got the sense you couldn’t build something like this with just loan shark money.

“Which means—” Ailn muttered, “—there’s something valuable enough that makes it worth their while.”

He was starting to get a better sense of what was going on.

Ailn had wondered why they’d run a racket outside the city walls, if they were just going to dig these tunnels deep in Varant’s inner city. The answer was that the predatory loans were likely a pretense for ‘acquiring’ labor.

The extramural suburbs were just beyond the knights’ reach, and their transient populations would be largely undocumented. If someone disappeared, hardly anyone would notice, nor would anyone be foolish enough to go looking.

He shuddered as he thought back to the middle aged woman from the hostel. He’d have to find a pretext to get on her case.

Or… not. Thinking about it, Ailn was pretty sure he didn’t have the time to chase down criminals as he pleased, no matter how disgusting he might find them.

Well… it would depend on what he saw. There was a certain level of horrible he couldn’t ignore, world-saving mission or not. Maybe that made him a hypocrite, but he didn’t care.

Gritting his teeth, he kept proceeding through the tunnel for a lot longer than he’d anticipated—still ducking the whole time—until he came to a fork.

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

Renea fidgeted as she watched the sun go down. Impatiently waiting by the front of the castle, she realized a week was all it took to lose one’s acclimation to the cold.

“I hope he’s back soon,” Renea mumbled.

“He’ll surely be here ‘n just a moment, Lady Renea,” Reynard said with an unbothered smile. “Why, I’m pretty sure I hear his footsteps right now.”

But the sound of footfalls was illusory, and Ailn himself was elusive. The sun continued to sink behind the mountains.

Ailn had a tendency to stay out rather late, but he’d always been back by this time at least. Despite her awareness she was overreacting, Renea felt her chest seize.

She wasn’t a natural worrywart, and she squirmed at the thought that she was becoming increasingly neurotic… but her world felt so fragile right now, like a snowglobe that cracked and threatened to drip away its contents.

Sophie was away, and when she was home she was moodier than ever. Even Ennieux had withdrawn since the inquisition.

Her new brother—well, he seemed to have purpose, and that was its own kind of vivacity. The new status quo had sucked the life out of everyone in the family except him. His presence helped to pierce the gloom.

Renea just wanted to find happiness with the family she had left.

“Sir Reynard, do you know where he’s been going out in the city?” Renea asked. She’d tried not to pry till now, but she couldn’t stand her restlessness any longer.

And Ailn had broken his promise anyway.

“He’s been spendin’ time at the Golden Apple I hear,” Reynard said. “His Grace has been goin’ to the tavern in a cloak, but any of us knights can recognize him a mile away.”

“I suppose there are worse taverns to frequent,” Renea sighed. She huffily kicked at the snow.

In a cloak? Renea really didn’t like the sound of that. She understood that certain situations called for going through a town incognito, but if he was repeatedly visiting the same tavern, then it was awfully suspect.

“You know, now that I think of it, I hear he’s made friends with a real bum,” Reynard said. “Probably on accoun’ of his good nature, though.”

Renea’s heart skipped a beat.

“A bum?” she asked. “A drunkard you mean?”

She could handle that. It wouldn’t make her happy, but it was hardly anything to fuss over.

“No, more of a… swindler I hear? Ceric Windrider. Pretty notorious in the city,” Reynard kept on prattling obliviously. “I hear he’s in bad with loan sharks. He’s been tryin’ for ages to drum up interest in an expedition to the ruined lands.”

“What?!” Renea cried. “Why has no one stopped him?!”

“Well, he’s a noble n’ we’re all knights,” Reynard scratched his cheek and shrugged. “Sides your brother’s clever. He can take care of himself, I’m sure.”

Renea bit the nail of her thumb.

Getting involved with loan sharks was one thing. But the kinds of people who wanted to ‘reclaim the ruined lands’ were more than just charlatans.

They were usually the agents or vassals of noble families who hated the eum-Creids.

To actually try and clear the miasma was a suicide mission. Unfortunately, interest in the deadly venture only ever rose when Varant did its job properly. The better protected the empire, the more the nobles forgot, and the less respect Varant was afforded. The lunacy of it all always burned Renea up.

She had a terrible feeling.

It was probably nothing, but…

“Sir Reynard,” Renea hesitated. “I-I know I’m not supposed to leave the castle—”

“Worried about your brother?” Reynard asked.

“...Yes.”

“Say no more, then, Lady Renea. I’ll get a carriage prepped for you and escort you.”

“Wait—“ Renea thought back to when she’d seen Ailn leave this morning. “Can you… run to the barracks and grab my brother’s sword?”