The Sanctum’s hall of judgment was colder than the ruin.

  Darius knelt on the black marble floor, armor dented, cloak stiff with blood that was not his own. Above him, thrones carved from modest wood, but adorned with golden thorns, lined the dais, each seat filled by a cleric of the Holy Synod. Light poured through stained glass windows depicting the Saints triumphant over witches and demons.

  On the lower steps, flanked by attendants, stood a boy no older than twenty. His tabard gleamed white, unblemished, and the glow of Vaylora clung to him. A Saint. New, freshly anointed, but already revered. His eyes lingered on Darius with something between pity and admiration.

  “You should not have gone without me,” the Saint said quietly. “If you had waited, and I'd been there, perhaps Sir Garran would still live.”

  Darius raised his head. His green eyes locked on the boy’s. “If you had gone,” he said, voice raw, “you would be dust with the rest.”

  A murmur passed through the clerics, but the eldest among them lifted a withered hand. “It is good you did not join Garran, child. You would have met the same fate. The ruin devoured seasoned Inquisitors—what hope would a newly anointed Saint have had?”

  The young Saint’s face flushed, but he lowered his gaze.

  The high cleric turned back to Darius. “Speak. Leave nothing hidden.”

  So he did. He recounted every step—the traps, the fire, the golems, the boulder that flattened his brothers. He described Selene, the woman waiting in the ruin, her words, her cunning, her false kindness. He left out his opinion of her obvious beauty. He told of the seal, the pouring of Vaylora, and the crystal they had unleashed.

  “It was no Demon’s Heart,” Darius finished, voice low. “It was larger, older. It was a Dragon’s Heart.”

  The hall erupted. Priests gasped, voices overlapping in disbelief. The high cleric struck his staff against the ground until silence returned.

  “Do you understand the implications, Inquisitor?” he demanded. “A Demon’s Heart is dangerous, yes—but a Dragon’s Heart? With it, she could strengthen her bloodline, breed a new generation of witches beyond anything we have faced. Or worse—bend it to ancient arcane rites long thought lost. The girl’s ambition may be fouler than another demon invasion.”

  Another cleric hissed, “If we had known that such a relic remained, we would have sent a host, not a mere company of Inquisitors. A legion of saints, knights, and blessed warriors to claim its essence. A Dragon’s Heart could bless our strongest champions, seed them with saint’s blood extracted from the crystal itself.”

  Darius’s breath caught. Saint’s blood. The phrase dragged him back to the ruin, to Selene’s voice, calm and venomous, insisting Saints and Witches were the same. He clenched his jaw until it ached. Lies. Heresy. And yet the words lingered, burrs in his mind, refusing to fall away.

  He bowed his head, burying the unease as quickly as it came. “I only know what I saw. She claimed it. She vanished with it. And she is no ordinary witch.” The high cleric’s eyes gleamed with a cold light. “No. If she is as you described. She has appeared under numerous names countless times. But she is the Princess of the Hallow, and her blood is cursed and royal alike.”

  Darius spoke before he could stop himself. “Then she is Morgan LeFaye’s granddaughter? The daughter of the half-elf demonkin Iwein LeFaye?”

  Gasps rippled through the gathered priests. The young Saint frowned, his voice uncertain. “What is a demonkin?”

  Darius turned his gaze toward the boy. His voice was steady, but bitter. “Any creature that drinks demon blood becomes one. Their bodies warp. Their power multiplies. They are no longer human, nor elf, nor beast—they become sub-variants of demons themselves. A Gifted who survives such a transformation is not a witch or a saint. They are something worse. Something akin to an archdemon.”

  The high cleric nodded grimly. “Yes. The records agree. The details are fragmented, but this much is certain: Iwein LeFaye was once a powerful witch. But ambition rotted his already corrupt soul. To surpass his mother, he consumed demon blood and became a demonkin. His strength soared. For centuries, he walked unchecked. He took a consort. A Saintess candidate and princess of a neighboring nation. In time, a daughter was born—this Selene. Not long after, Iwein succumbed to madness. He slew his wife and turned his wrath upon the world. To protect her granddaughter, Morgan herself was forced to strike him down.”

  The old man’s voice dropped lower. “That was more than twenty years ago. Since then, Morgan has been silent. Until four years past, when the girl began to move.”

  The Saint’s eyes widened. “And Darius survived this… this Witch Heir?”

  A chuckle ran bitter across the dais. “Survived?” The high cleric’s gaze fixed on Darius, sharp as a blade. “No. He was spared. She has a fondness for beautiful things. It is one of her tells. And Darius, by any metric, is quite beautiful." Male and female clergy present nodded their heads in agreement. This did nothing but confirm the validity of his survival.

  "She has ensnared more than one cleric with a smile, twisted more than one Inquisitor into a traitor. It is a miracle you did not fall. And we will ensure you have not been touched by her corruption before you serve again.”

  Another voice—low, sharp—cut across the chamber. “Garran was one of our finest. The Sanctum has not seen his like in a generation. And he chose you, Darius Veyle, because you were the best recruit we had seen in decades. He made you his heir in all but blood.”

  The high cleric’s gaze bored into him, thorns catching the light. “To fail Garran is to fail us all. Do not dishonor the man who forged you. Hunt down the Witch Heir. End her, and prove worthy of his trust.”

  Before Darius could answer, one of the younger clerics cleared his throat. “Should we… inform His Imperial Majesty of these events?”

  A silence fell. The question hung in the chamber like a blade.

  At last, the leader of the Synod spoke, reluctant, each word weighed like iron. “Yes. But only the major details. Garran’s death. The sighting of a LeFaye. Nothing more.” His eyes hardened. “The Emperor’s hands are already full with the brewing war across the border, and the wanderlust of his son. We cannot burden the throne with every whisper of witchcraft.”

  A murmur passed through the dais—agreement tinged with unease.

  The high cleric’s staff struck the stone. “Enough. Darius, your path is clear. After you have undergone purification, you will have our full support in hunting down the girl. Do not fail us.”

  Darius bowed, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Inside him, grief twisted into something harder, sharper. Garran’s death had left a void.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  While the Sanctum bound him tighter in chains of duty, beyond the mountains another path opened.

  The wilderness swallowed the path to Alleve’s Hallow. Trees thick with moss leaned close, their roots swallowing stone, but down the forest’s heart ran a strange path of pavement — straight as a blade, leading to gates that should not have existed.

  They rose from the mountain face like a fortress carved by gods: impossibly tall, impossibly solid. Veins of black stone and pale silver crisscrossed their surface. Every inch was etched with carvings — dragons coiled in endless knots, serpents biting their own tails, wolves devouring the moon, orcs roaring into battle, angels and demons locked in endless war.

  The gates were barely open given their size, but the small gap was large enough for a small army to pass through. In front of them stood two Titan Orcs, each twice the height of a man and built like walking siege engines. Axes as long as wagons rested across their shoulders, though their stillness made them seem statuesque.

  At the gates’ base stretched a line of travelers, carts, and beasts of burden waiting for inspection. Beside the line, in a crooked booth that looked older than its occupant, sat a grizzled werewolf. His wild hair was peppered with silver, his wolven ears torn. One by one, he waved folk forward, sniffed, questioned, and checked for contraband before granting entry.

  The line shuffled. The air was tense with the weight of waiting.

  And then Selene skipped past it.

  She hummed under her breath, hands swinging at her sides as if she hadn’t walked out of blood and ruin hours before. Her golden eyes shone in the daylight, catching glances and whispers. Some muttered curses. Others looked away, fearful. No one stopped her.

  The werewolf was on his feet before she even reached him. His claws clicked against the booth’s frame as he stepped forward, a fanged grin stretched across his scarred face. “You always do love an entrance,” he growled, voice rough as gravel.

  Selene tilted her head, her smile bright. “And you always look older. One of these days, I’ll come back and you’ll be all white.”

  He barked a laugh, low and fond, then sobered when she reached into the air beside her and pulled reality open like a curtain. From nothing, she produced the crystal.

  The Dragon’s Heart pulsed once, a slow, heavy throb of light that turned the werewolf’s grin into a snarl of awe. The gem was not merely red but alive.

  Selene let it drop to the ground with a weighty thud. The earth trembled beneath it. “I’ll need some help carrying this inside.”

  The werewolf didn’t hesitate. He lifted his head and howled.

  Two Titan Orcs appeared in the sky above. They didn’t bother with the gate. They leapt over it. Each cleared the wall in a single bound, landing with the impact of boulders dropped from cliffs. Dust shook loose from the carvings above as the two giants stepped forward. Selene waved the dust away from her face with feigned impatience. Without a word, one bent his back beneath the crystal, the other bracing it into place.

  The orc who bore its weight staggered. Muscles bulged, the gem dragged his shoulders down. The Heart was heavier than it looked, for it carried not just flesh and blood but centuries of draconic memory. Even among Dragon Hearts, this one was monstrous. Dragon Hearts were extremely rare because they must be created. This dragon must have been ancient beyond imagining. Something this size could form only one way. The Dragon Heart was created by the Dragon itself, before taking its own life.

  The two orcs heaved the crystal onto their shoulders and turned toward the gate. Selene fell into step behind them, humming again.

  As they crossed the threshold, the air shimmered. A barrier rippled, unseen yet absolute. All illusion and storage magics were stripped away after crossing the border into Alleve's Hallow.

  Selene’s staff was forcefully expelled from her pocket space and appeared in her hand with a soft crack of displaced air — long and pale brown, the wood twined with dark roots and etched with runes. She twirled it once, then let it rest against her shoulder.

  And then Alleve’s Hallow revealed itself.

  The gates opened onto a city of wonder and defiance.

  Alleve’s Hallow sprawled in a perfect circle, divided into twelve districts like the face of a clock. Streets radiated outward from the towering center, where the crystalline Clock Hand Tower pierced the sky. The tower’s light refracted across the city, scattering rainbow hues through the haze of spellcraft that hung in the air.

  The first districts teemed with life. To the east, the orc-run barracks and arenas — banners snapping above a vast colosseum where steel clashed all year round, feeding the mercenary guilds that made the city rich. To the west, the werewolf wards, their streets lined with butcher stalls and fur traders, pelts strung like banners while smoke from cookfires curled into the air.

  Children darted between stalls, some human, some not, all laughing. Spellfire crackled in gutters, harmless sparks from apprentices still learning to control their Gifts. Shops glowed with glyph-light. Monsters that would be hunted down beyond the mountains walked openly here, their fangs and claws bared without fear.

  Selene smiled faintly as she walked, the orcs and the Dragon’s Heart drawing stares from every corner. The weight of eyes on her back did not bother her. In the Hallow, she was not a trespasser, a blasphemer, or a fugitive. Here, she was home.

  And above it all, the Clock Hand Tower loomed, crystalline spires twisting upward into the clouds. That was where Morgan LeFaye waited.

  Her grandmother. Her queen.

  The orcs bore the Dragon’s Heart up the crystal steps, grunting beneath its impossible weight. Selene followed, her staff tapping softly against the glass-like stone. Above her, the Clock Hand Tower spiraled into the heavens.

  The orcs delivered their burden into the tower’s great hall and left without a word. Silence lingered, broken only by the pulse of the Heart and the soft tread of approaching feet.

  Morgan LeFaye entered as if she had always been there.

  Her hair was silver shot with black, falling in waves over shoulders wrapped in dark velvet. Age had not diminished her beauty; it had sharpened it into something fierce. Her golden eyes—mirrored Selene’s

  “Child,” Morgan said, and in that word was both affection and command. She embraced Selene, holding her close. But when she stepped back, her gaze was hard. “You come waltzing home with a relic that could topple kingdoms, humming as though it were a trinket from a market stall. You are too much like your father. Free spirit, reckless heart. It burned bright in him, and it burned him hollow. I've heard the name Selene on one too many Inquisitors in the past few years.”

  Selene tilted her head, lips quirking. “You’ve always told me names carry power.”

  Morgan studied her in silence.

  “And so,” Selene continued, golden eyes gleaming, “I’ve given the church my true one a hundred times over, along with a hundred others. Selene. A name they curse, a name they chase, a name they never believe. I hide it in plain sight, Grandmother. That way, it never matters whether I lie or not.”

  Morgan’s mouth curved in something like approval, though her voice was stern. “Calculating as ever. Playful as ever. Too much like your father.”

  Selene’s smile thinned. She glanced toward the Dragon’s Heart, its crimson glow bleeding across the crystal floor. “And that’s why I did it. Why I spent four years following whispers and ruins. Why I bled through the past to find this. Power for its own sake means nothing to me. ”

  Morgan’s expression hardened, though shadows of grief lingered in her eyes. “You speak of chains best left buried. Some locks were never meant to be opened.”

  Selene stepped closer, her voice low, her resolve unshaken. “There is no such lock when you have the right key. This Heart is a piece of that key, Grandmother—and I intend to use it. So help me. Take me to see them. Take me to see my parents.”

  The Dragon’s Heart pulsed, heavy as a heartbeat, as silence thickened in the crystalline hall.

  Far from the Hallow, in the Sanctum’s inner chambers, Darius sat with his hands and head bound in thorns of silver. Priests circled him, whispering prayers as they tested for corruption.

  Pain seared through him, but the thorns found nothing. At last, the priests withdrew, muttering grudging approval. He was clean.

  Darius exhaled, the tension leaving his chest in a slow rush. He rose to his feet, the weight of Garran’s memory heavy on his shoulders.

  The words came unbidden, a creed older than himself, older than Garran, etched into every Inquisitor’s bones:

  “Crown our brows in thorns,

  Seal our hearts in flame,

  By blood and vow we hunt,

  By death we cleanse the name.”

  He spoke it low, almost like a prayer, forcing Selene’s voice from his mind—the golden eyes, the calm certainty, the whisper of dragons in saintly blood. Lies. They had to be lies. The chant steadied him, wrapping his doubt in thorns and fire.

  And still, somewhere deep beneath the words, unease lingered.