Chapter 7 — A Quiet Crime
Dawn came late to the western wing.
Gray light seeped through the narrow barred window, illuminating stone walls stained faintly with old moisture and newer blood. The air smelled of iron and vinegar, the remnants of Clara's careful work still lingering.
Adrian sat on the edge of the bed, his back straight despite the ache radiating through every joint. His bandages had been replaced—cleaner now, tighter. The bleeding had stopped, but exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.
On the floor behind him, hidden beneath a folded cloak and pushed flush against the wall, lay the body of Brother Kael.
A Quietus agent.
A man who officially did not exist.
Adrian stared at his hands.
They were steady.
That unsettled him more than the killing itself.
Across the room, Clara stood near the wall, arms wrapped around herself. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear—focused. She had not cried. Not yet.
"They'll search the wing," she said quietly. "When he doesn't report back."
"Yes," Adrian replied. "Before midday."
She nodded once. "Then we don't have much time."
Adrian looked at her.
Really looked.
Clara Falkenrath was not strong. Not politically. Not physically. She was small-framed, her shoulders narrow, her hands delicate. Her chestnut hair was braided tightly now, no loose strands framing her face. Her hazel eyes, though, held something new.
Resolve.
"You don't have to stay," Adrian said softly. "Once you leave, I'll handle the rest."
Clara shook her head. "If they find him here, they'll blame you anyway. And if they suspect I helped—"
"They won't," Adrian said calmly.
She frowned slightly. "How can you be sure?"
"Because they don't think you're capable of anything," he said. "That's your shield."
Her lips pressed together.
"I don't like that," she admitted.
"I know."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Adrian stood.
"We need to move him."
Clara inhaled sharply. "Where?"
Adrian's silver eyes flicked to the far wall—opposite the hidden passage.
"There's an old waste shaft behind the eastern sub-wall," he said. "It leads into the undercroft tunnels."
Clara blinked. "How do you know that?"
"Because this wing was built to disappear people," Adrian replied evenly. "And because someone once tried to throw me down it."
Her face paled.
They moved carefully.
Adrian lifted the body, ignoring the flare of pain as he shifted Kael's weight. The assassin was lighter than expected—lean, compact, efficient even in death. Clara opened the stone panel quietly, watching the corridor beyond with wide, alert eyes.
They moved through the service passage in silence.
The waste shaft was exactly where Adrian remembered it—concealed behind a loose stone slab, its iron grate rusted and warped. A faint, stale air wafted up from below.
Adrian hesitated only a second.
Then he tipped the body forward.
It fell without sound, swallowed by darkness.
Clara closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them, she looked older somehow.
"Will they know?" she asked.
"They'll know he's gone," Adrian replied. "They won't know how."
They replaced the grate, sealed the stone panel, and returned to the chamber.
Time was slipping.
"Go," Adrian said. "Now."
Clara hesitated at the passage entrance. "What if they come while I'm gone?"
"They will," Adrian said. "That's the point."
Her breath hitched. "…Be careful."
He nodded. "You too."
She vanished into the wall.
Adrian returned to the center of the room and sat down.
And waited.
They came sooner than expected.
Boots echoed down the corridor outside—measured, disciplined, unmistakably Church-trained. Adrian rose slowly, rolling his shoulders once to loosen stiff muscles.
The door opened without a knock.
Three figures entered.
At their head was Inquisitor Verena Holt.
Up close, her presence was oppressive. Her ash-blonde hair was braided with ritual precision, her white-and-gold robes immaculate despite the western wing's neglect. Her golden eyes glowed faintly, reflecting light in a way that felt unnatural.
Behind her stood two knights of the Church.
The first was broad-shouldered and tall, with jet-black hair cut short and a thick beard framing a stern face. His eyes were dark and unyielding, his armor heavy and etched with protective sigils. This was Knight-Captain Marcus Rell, a veteran enforcer.
The second was younger, slimmer, with pale blond hair and sharp green eyes. His expression was tight with barely restrained hostility. This was Sir Rowan Vale, a junior knight—ambitious, eager, dangerous.
Verena's gaze swept the room.
She did not sit.
"Where is Brother Kael?" she asked calmly.
Adrian met her eyes. "I don't know who that is."
Sir Rowan stepped forward. "Liar."
Marcus raised a hand slightly, stopping him.
Verena studied Adrian in silence.
Something brushed against Adrian's awareness—not a voice, not a sensation, but a pressure. As if invisible threads were being drawn tighter around him, probing for resistance.
Adrian stood still.
Did nothing.
Said nothing.
The pressure slid off him—imperfectly.
Verena's brow furrowed.
"You were confined," she said. "Injured. Unarmed."
"Yes."
"And yet a Quietus agent failed to report," she continued. "Coincidentally, within the same span of hours."
Adrian tilted his head slightly. "Is correlation now proof?"
Sir Rowan's hand went to his sword.
Marcus glanced at Verena. "Permission?"
She did not answer immediately.
Her gaze never left Adrian.
"Tell me," she said softly, "do you believe in fate?"
Adrian answered without hesitation. "I believe in cause and effect."
Verena smiled faintly. "An unwise distinction."
She stepped closer.
The air thickened again, heavier than before. Adrian felt it clearly now—pressure not on his body, but on his possibility. A subtle urge to stumble. To hesitate. To say the wrong thing.
Correction.
Adrian breathed slowly.
And resisted.
Verena stopped two steps away from him.
Her golden eyes widened—just slightly.
"How curious," she murmured.
Sir Rowan frowned. "Inquisitor?"
"Enough," she said quietly. "This room holds no answers."
Sir Rowan stiffened. "But—"
"I said enough."
She turned back to Adrian.
"You are suspended from all further training," she said. "You will not leave this wing. Any further… irregularities will result in immediate execution."
Adrian inclined his head. "Understood."
Verena studied him one last time.
"You are not invisible," she said. "And you are not beyond reach."
She turned and left.
The knights followed.
When the door closed, Adrian exhaled slowly.
They hadn't found it.
But they had felt it.
That was worse.
The reaction from House Falkenrath came that afternoon.
Adrian was summoned again—but not to the family hall.
To the private study.
Duke Reinhard Falkenrath stood behind his desk when Adrian entered, hands clasped behind his back. The Duke's appearance was immaculate as always—dark coat, silver-threaded cuffs, posture rigid and authoritative.
Eldric sat in a chair nearby, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Mathias leaned against the bookshelf, smiling faintly.
"The Church is displeased," Reinhard said without greeting.
"So I've heard," Adrian replied.
Eldric chuckled softly. "You're becoming quite troublesome."
Reinhard turned. "You were searched?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"They found nothing."
Mathias laughed quietly. "Impressive."
Reinhard studied Adrian for a long moment.
"Tell me something," he said. "Are you trying to destroy this family?"
Adrian met his gaze calmly. "No."
Reinhard's eyes narrowed. "Then why provoke the Church?"
"I didn't," Adrian said. "They provoked me."
Eldric scoffed. "You stabbed a knight."
"He challenged me," Adrian replied. "Steel was drawn."
Reinhard was silent.
Finally, he spoke.
"You are no longer an asset," he said coldly. "But you are becoming a liability."
Mathias' smile widened.
Reinhard continued. "If the Church demands your death sooner, we will not resist."
Adrian nodded. "I wouldn't expect you to."
Eldric leaned forward slightly. "You're calm."
"I've already died once," Adrian replied. "This is an improvement."
For the first time, Reinhard looked… uncertain.
Only for a moment.
"Get out," he said.
Adrian bowed once and left.
That night, Adrian sat alone again, dagger hidden beneath his mattress, senses stretched thin.
The pressure had not returned.
Not yet.
But he felt it—watching, waiting.
He stared at the wall, silver eyes sharp.
"They won't stop," he murmured.
The Church.
His family.
Fate itself.
None of them would stop.
So he wouldn't either.
For the first time since arriving in Gala Prime, Adrian did not merely react.
He planned.
Far away, within a sanctum of white stone and burning sigils, Verena Holt knelt before a vast circular seal etched into the floor.
Her golden eyes were dark with thought.
"The anomaly persists," she said quietly.
The seal pulsed once.
A voice answered—not aloud, but within her mind.
Then escalate.
Verena bowed her head.
"Yes," she whispered. "We will