The night air still carried the weight of holy light, the sacred dome glowing faintly above the Holy Capital. But down here—beneath the golden hue—there was no warmth. Only footsteps and steel.
Charlotte led the group through a side street flanked by chapel walls, Noir padding silently ahead, her violet eyes glowing in the dark. Behind them, Garron, Laziel, and nearly a dozen Holy Guards moved in disciplined formation.
Charlotte's daggers were already in her hands.
"Careful," she whispered, slowing near a crossing. "There's movement up ahead."
They turned the corner.
And saw them.
Standing beneath the arch of a sanctified corridor were nuns, priests, and guards—cloaked in the robes of the Church, hands folded as if in prayer.
But their eyes told another story.
Each of them bore the mark—a crimson sigil glowing just above the brow. The same brand seen before on traitors of the Circle.
"You… serve the Church," she said, confused. "Why are you—?"
