The carriage wheels seized against the cobblestone with a shuddering finality. Soren lurched forward, the strange chains binding his wrists rattling with the sudden stop.

Through the barred window, he glimpsed it, the Grand Cathedral of Solmir, rising like a mountain of pale stone against the night sky. Massive spires of flame-glass twisted upward, each one glowing with an inner light that needed no torch or lantern.

The tallest tower burned amber against the darkness, as if it had captured a piece of the sun itself.

Bells began to toll, slow and resonant, each peal vibrating through the carriage walls and settling into Soren's bones. Three strikes, then silence. Three more, then silence again. The ancient rhythm of arrival, unchanged for centuries, the summoning of faithful to witness judgment.

"The welcoming bells," Veyr said, his voice barely audible over the rolling echoes. "Traditionally rung only for those who may not leave again."

Before Soren could respond, the carriage door was wrenched open. Four black-robed figures stood waiting, their faces concealed within deep hoods. Without a word, they seized him by the arms and dragged him into the night air.

The chains around his wrists suddenly flared with cold so intense it burned. Soren gasped, his breath clouding before him despite the mild spring night.

Frost seemed to spread beneath his skin, radiating outward from where the metal touched him. The shard against his chest pulsed once, weakly, as if struggling against some unseen force.

Veyr emerged from the carriage with more dignity, though Soren noted the tightness around his eyes as the Inquisitors gripped his arms. The heir's chains glowed with the same eerie blue script, pulsing in rhythm with something unseen.

"Move," one of the hooded figures ordered, shoving Soren toward the cathedral steps.

The great staircase stretched before them, wider at the base than ten carriages placed side by side, narrowing as it rose toward massive doors of black iron.

Dozens of hooded figures lined the steps, silent sentinels whose faces remained hidden in shadow. As Soren passed, he felt their gazes tracking him, not with the hot anger of hatred, but with the cold calculation of surgeons assessing where to cut.

"I count thirty-two," Veyr murmured as they climbed. "Full ceremonial complement. They've been planning this for days, not hours."

"Silence!" The lead Inquisitor's voice cracked like a whip.

The chains burned colder with each step, sending tendrils of ice through Soren's veins. By the time they reached the massive doors, his fingers had gone numb, the skin around the manacles white with frost-burn.

The wound in his shoulder throbbed in counterpoint, hot and insistent, as if reminding him of his vulnerability.

The doors swung inward without a sound, revealing not the soaring sanctuary Soren had glimpsed during public ceremonies, but a narrow stone staircase descending into darkness.

Torches lined the walls at irregular intervals, their flames burning with unnatural steadiness, no smoke, no flicker, just constant, unwavering light that cast more shadows than it banished.

"Down," the Inquisitor ordered, shoving Soren toward the first step.

The descent seemed to last forever, each turn revealing another flight, another level beneath the cathedral that the common folk of Northaven never saw. The air grew colder, heavy with the scent of old stone and something else, a metallic tang that caught in the back of his throat, familiar yet unplaceable.

When they finally reached level ground, Soren found himself in a circular chamber with seven corridors branching outward like spokes from a wheel.

The walls were carved with scripture, each passage flowing into the next without break or pause, forming an unbroken chain of holy text that encircled the entire space. The words seemed to shift when viewed directly, rearranging themselves in patterns that made his eyes water.

"The Hall of Ashes," Veyr whispered, his voice tight with something Soren couldn't identify. "Few enter. Fewer leave."

From one of the corridors came the sound of chanting, low, rhythmic voices rising and falling in patterns too complex to follow. The sound wrapped around them like physical tendrils, probing, seeking weakness.

The lead Inquisitor turned to face them, pushing back his hood to reveal that marble-carved face and winter-cold eyes. "The accused will be taken to the Inner Sanctum for preliminary questioning," he announced. "The witness will be prepared separately."

Two Inquisitors seized Veyr's arms, pulling him toward a different corridor than the one from which the chanting emerged. For the first time since their capture, Soren saw something like genuine concern flash across the heir's face.

"Remember your training," Veyr called as they dragged him away. "Remember what—" A black-gloved hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off whatever final advice he had intended to give.

Soren had no time to process this before his own captors shoved him forward, forcing him down the central corridor toward the source of that unsettling chant. The passage twisted downward, the walls narrowing with each turn until his shoulders nearly brushed the stone on either side.

The chanting grew louder, resolving into words he almost recognized, not quite Northaven's common tongue, but something older, something that resonated with the shard's cold presence against his chest. Each syllable seemed to vibrate through his bones, setting his teeth on edge.

The corridor ended abruptly, opening into a circular chamber that stole the breath from Soren's lungs.

At its center burned the Flame of Solmir.

Not a torch or brazier, but a column of living fire that rose from a pit in the floor to the domed ceiling high above. It burned with impossible intensity, gold at its heart shading to white at its edges, yet produced no smoke.

The heat hit Soren like a physical blow, sweat instantly beading on his forehead despite the chill that had settled in his bones during their descent.

"Bring him forward," a voice commanded from beyond the flame.

The Inquisitors pushed Soren toward the fire, forcing him closer than safety should allow. The chains around his wrists flared in response, the blue script brightening until it nearly matched the flame's intensity. They tightened suddenly, metal contracting against his skin with living malice.

Through the shimmering heat, Soren made out three figures on the far side of the pit – Inquisitors of higher rank, judging by the silver embroidery that edged their robes and the ornate masks they wore, each carved to resemble a face frozen in serene contemplation.

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