The sanctuary was colder than the village beyond-air thick with incense dust and silence that hadn't moved in years.
Alberta knelt before a cracked mosaic of a forgotten goddess, her fingers tracing weather-worn tiles like she was trying to remember a prayer she'd never learned. Francesca stood guard at her back, eyes never resting, one hand on her hidden blade.
Then-footsteps. Calm. Confident. Familiar.
"Alberta."
She turned.
Ceasare Montagne stood in the doorway, cloak half-draped, hair windswept from the road. His voice was velvet. His smile-too warm for the cold room.
"You're alive," he said.
Alberta's lips parted. "Ceasare...?"
Francesca immediately stepped forward, protective. "We didn't send word. How did you find us?"
"I've been looking," he said smoothly. "Ever since the attack. Father wouldn't stop until he was sure."
He paused, then added softly-
"And Mercedes... she's waiting."
The name struck like lightning.
Alberta stood too fast. "You know where she is?"
Ceasare's smile curved. Just slightly. Just enough to unsettle.
"Would I lie to you?"
Francesca's hand inched toward her blade. Her silence spoke louder than any threat.
--------
Another voice shattered the silence.
"Step away from her."
Boots echoed against stone. A sharp cloak of navy and gold swept into the chamber like a stormfront.
Cornelius Crieur De Lion.
His presence cut through the air-commanding, frustrated, furious.
He didn't slow. Didn't ask.
"What in the hells do you think you're doing?" he demanded, gaze blazing toward Alberta. "You left without guards. Without word. Disguised and wandering through Wane-infested territory!"
Alberta rose fully now, veil stained, hands steady.
"We had no choice."
"No choice?" he snapped. "You risked your life. Francesca's life. You ran headfirst into danger without telling anyone."
He turned sharply to Francesca. "You enabled this?"
Francesca tensed, but Alberta stepped between them.
"Don't blame her."
Her voice was clear, cold steel under pressure.
"I gave the order. I left. Because I had to. Because the Church was watching. Because I couldn't trust the silence."
Cornelius faltered for a breath.
Then-Ceasare stepped forward, all sweetness and silk.
"She's safe now." And with that, he wrapped his arms around Alberta.
A sudden, too-familiar gesture.
Alberta stiffened.
Francesca's eyes narrowed.
Ceasare held her a moment too long before whispering, "You don't have to run anymore."
Alberta pulled back slowly. "Ceasare-don't."
---------
The tension broke with a scoff.
Dantes leaned against a cracked pillar, arms crossed, one brow raised like this was all a particularly dull play.
"Well, this is a touching reunion," he drawled. "Who's next? Childhood dog?"
Cornelius shot him a glare. "And you. Who even are you?"
Dantes gave a mock bow. "Dantes Lamolet. Professional meddler. Savior on occasion. Depends on the day."
"He's been with us since Guria," Francesca said.
Cornelius turned back to Alberta, jaw tight. "And you trusted him?"
"He saved our lives-twice," Alberta answered. "So yes."
Ceasare narrowed his eyes. "Still, I don't recognize the name."
"Good," Dantes muttered. "Means I'm doing it right."
Cornelius bristled. "You're speaking to a prince."
Ceasare nodded, stepping beside his half-brother. "Prince Cornelius Crieur De Lion. Show some respect."
Dantes didn't blink. "Sorry-do I kneel now or later? I've been out of touch with the etiquette manual since I stopped giving a damn."
Francesca let out the faintest exhale-half a laugh.
Cornelius stepped forward. Dantes didn't flinch. But Alberta raised her hand.
"Stop."
Her voice didn't rise.
But it didn't need to.
"The next person to draw a blade loses the right to speak," she said. "We're not doing this-not here."
Even the silence seemed to listen.
-------
Cornelius looked at Alberta, really looked-the blood on her, the dirt, the strength in her stance.
Not a runaway.
Not a victim.
Not a pawn.
But something more.
"She's changing," he thought. "And not even the gods are ready for what she'll become."
Ceasare's smile didn't reach his eyes anymore.
And Dantes?
Dantes just watched.
Not with suspicion. Not with awe.
But with the quiet knowledge of someone who's seen fire become something sacred.