The chamber was smaller than Vencian expected. A private council room, windowless, lit by glyphlamps mounted on brass fixtures. The walls bore carved reliefs of past monarchs, their stone faces watching the table below.

King Valanoraths sat at the head, gray-haired and broad-shouldered, his presence filling the space without effort. To his left sat Duke Hadethon Dawnforge, dark-bearded and sharp-eyed. General Herrera occupied the right, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Chancellor Varethion sat further down, fingers steepled, his gaze calculating. Larion Marendil stood near the wall, hands clasped behind his back, face carefully neutral.

Seris sat across from Vencian, her posture perfect, her expression a mask of composed attention. She hadn't looked at him since they entered.

Vencian folded his hands in his lap and waited.

"Forgive the short notice," the king said, his voice carrying the weight of command softened by courtesy. "I thought, since we are all gathered, we might address several matters requiring collective judgment."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"First, the peace treaty with Sedron."

Relief flickered across several faces. Vencian felt it too, faint but real. The southern border had been a bleeding wound for years, draining resources and lives. House Vicorra and House Montaro both held territories along that line. The treaty meant breathing room, at least for a year.

"This grants us time to focus inward," the king continued. "Unfortunately, the kingdom faces threats that do not wait at our borders."

His tone darkened.

"The heretics. The terrorists. The Hollow Apostolate."

Vencian's thoughts turned cold and sharp.

The Hollow Apostolate. One of the oldest terrorist organizations in recorded history, active long before most noble houses could trace their lineage. They operated under a twisted religious philosophy, rejecting the Church of True Light and worshiping something older, something unnamed. Their attacks were ritualistic, brutal, and carefully timed to maximize chaos. They had threatened the kingdom's peace for generations, appearing and vanishing like smoke.

And they were dangerous precisely because they believed in what they did.

"The attack on Kaar last year," the king said, his voice grim. "The assault on Monteluz duchy. And now the massacre in Coriel."

Vencian's pulse spiked.

Coriel.

The king continued, oblivious to the shift in Vencian's thoughts. "We must act. The Hollow Apostolate grows bolder. They strike at our people, our faith, our stability. This cannot stand."

Vencian turned his head slowly, his gaze finding Larion.

The High Preceptor met his eyes. His expression was calm, almost serene, but the message was clear: Stay silent.

Vencian understood.

The Pentarch had been responsible for Coriel. The village had been their ritual site, their testing ground. The Church knew this. Larion knew this. And yet the king had just blamed the Hollow Apostolate.

Someone had manipulated the information. Someone had buried the truth and pointed the investigation in a different direction.

Vencian's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He lowered his gaze to the table and let the conversation move on.

The king turned to Seris. "Lady Valemont. Your duchy borders the Aurian Empire. The Hollow Apostolate originates there, or so our intelligence suggests. What measures have you taken to secure Angante?"

Seris's voice was steady, professional. "My soldiers patrol the border daily, Your Majesty. We've increased surveillance on known crossing points and established checkpoints along the trade routes. No suspicious activity has been reported in the past two months."

"Good," the king said. "Maintain that vigilance. We cannot afford another Coriel."

Vencian listened, his mind elsewhere.

The kingdom was sandwiched between two hostile nations. Sedron to the south, the Aurian Empire to the north. And within its own borders, an organization that struck from the shadows, leaving bodies and chaos in its wake. It was remarkable, really, that the kingdom had survived this long. That it had held its borders for over a century, repelling invasion after invasion, maintaining some semblance of order despite the constant pressure.

And now the pressure was building again.

His thoughts turned to the first conspiracy, the one that had nearly destroyed his family. The false evidence planted against House Vicorra, claiming they had leaked military intelligence to enemies, resulting in the attack on Monteluz duchy. The duchy controlled by House Montaro.

Ortega had been the scapegoat. He had confessed, taken the blame, and died for it. But Vencian knew the truth was deeper. Montaro had orchestrated it. Montaro had deliberately leaked sensitive military information about his own borders, then framed House Vicorra to cover his tracks. Ortega had been a tool, nothing more.

Of course, Vencian had no proof. The council had cleared Montaro of suspicion. The case was closed.

But if Montaro had tried once, he would try again. The next scheme would be worse. More careful. More deadly.

Vencian's thoughts turned darker.

His father and brother had been killed by a foreign Arkspren, a masked figure whose sword cut through steel and whose eyes burned black with power. The assassin had been professional, efficient, and seemingly unstoppable. But someone had hired him. Someone had ordered the deaths.

Montaro was the obvious suspect. He had motive, resources, and the ruthlessness to see it through.

But why spare Lumea and Vencian? If Montaro wanted House Vicorra destroyed, why leave survivors?

That was the question that haunted him. That was the gap in his theory that he couldn't close.

Vencian straightened in his chair. He raised his hand slightly, enough to catch the king's attention.

"Your Majesty, may I ask a question?"

The king turned to him, his expression curious. "Speak, Lord Vicorra."

Vencian kept his voice calm, measured. "You mentioned the attack on Monteluz duchy as part of the Hollow Apostolate's campaign. But if I recall correctly, the investigation concluded that attack was an act of internal betrayal. Leaked intelligence, falsified documents. Not external terrorism."

The room stilled.

Duke Hadethon frowned. Chancellor Varethion's eyes narrowed. General Herrera leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp.

Across the table, Duke Ignacio Montaro looked up. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes locked onto Vencian's.

Vencian met his gaze and didn't flinch.

"I don't mean to suggest the investigation was flawed," Vencian continued, his tone respectful. "But the pattern seems inconsistent. Kaar and Coriel bear the marks of ritual violence, public displays meant to instill fear. Monteluz, however, was a targeted military strike. The methods don't align."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"Could it be possible that someone within the kingdom is using the heretics as a cover? Framing the Hollow Apostolate to hide their own actions?"

The silence was sharp enough to cut.

Chancellor Varethion spoke first, his tone clipped. "Lord Vicorra, are you attempting to reopen a closed case?"

"No, Chancellor," Vencian said. "I'm simply noting a discrepancy. If we're attributing all recent attacks to the Hollow Apostolate, we may miss other threats operating in parallel."

"Or," Varethion said, his eyes cold, "you're attempting to sow discord by implying conspiracy where none exists."

"That's not my intention."

"Then what is?"

Vencian held his gaze. "Clarity."

Duke Hadethon cleared his throat. "The boy raises a valid point. The Monteluz incident was different. We should acknowledge that."

"But attributing it to internal conspiracy without evidence is reckless," Varethion said. "Lord Vicorra is young. Perhaps he doesn't understand the implications of such accusations."

Vencian's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice level. "I'm not accusing anyone, Chancellor. I'm suggesting we consider all possibilities."

Montaro spoke for the first time, his voice smooth and controlled. "Lord Vicorra seems unusually interested in revisiting old wounds. One might wonder why."

Vencian turned to him. "Because the wounds aren't healed, Duke Montaro. My family was nearly destroyed by that investigation. I think it's reasonable to want the truth."

"The truth was found," Montaro said. "Ortega confessed. The case was closed. Unless you have new evidence?"

"I don't."

"Then perhaps you should focus on the present instead of the past."

Vencian didn't look away. "The present is shaped by the past, Your Grace. Ignoring that seems unwise."

The tension in the room coiled tighter.

The king raised a hand, cutting through the exchange. "Enough. Lord Vicorra's observation is noted. The Monteluz incident was indeed different in nature. Whether that indicates a separate threat or simply a variation in tactics is unclear."

He turned to Vencian. "Do you have a proposal, Lord Vicorra? Or merely questions?"

Vencian took a breath. This was the moment.

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