Tap… Tap… Tap…
Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she walked through the aisle. A statue of a man in a cloak holding a scepter crowned with a sun—Ra, the god of light—stood at the altar before her.
She narrowed her eyes at the sun god.
I wonder what it's like to be a god.
"It's not good to think such thoughts, Crimson."
The voice startled her, yanking her from her thoughts. She turned sharply, instinctively reaching for the blade at her hip—only to relax when she saw him. A weary old priest stood at the sanctuary's entrance, leaning on his cane like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
"Do you always have to use your abilities on visitors?" Crimson sighed, lowering her hand.
The priest gave a faint smile. "How do you think I've stayed alive all these years?"
She didn't answer.
He moved slowly down the aisle, then settled into one of the pews with a soft groan. His bones seemed to complain with every movement.
Crimson remained standing for a moment, then finally sat beside him, though she kept her posture stiff.
"You look tired," the priest said quietly.
"I'm always tired," she replied. "People don't rest when they're being hunted."
"You're not being hunted anymore. Not here."
"That's what you said the last time."
He chuckled, a dry sound. "Fair enough."
They sat in silence for a while. The soft flicker of the sanctuary torches cast golden shadows along the polished stone walls. Dust floated through beams of light, undisturbed by wind or time.
Crimson finally asked, "Is it true… that Ra used to walk among men?"
The priest didn't answer right away. He looked ahead, toward the statue.
"Some say he did," he murmured. "But the gods don't walk. They watch. They whisper. They wait."
Crimson frowned. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have," he said, folding his hands over his cane. "Faith is made of questions. Answers are dangerous things."
She looked back toward the altar, toward Ra's stony gaze. "If I had the power of a god, I wouldn't watch."
The priest studied her profile carefully. "No. You'd burn everything down."
She smiled faintly. "That's why I'd be a better god."
The priest exhaled deeply. "Power doesn't change who we are, Crimson. It just exposes it."
"I know."
The words hung in the air like something too old to deny.
The priest glanced at her again, then tapped his cane once against the marble, as if trying to stir himself from a deeper thought.
"You're supposed to be somewhere, aren't you?" he asked casually.
Crimson raised an eyebrow. "Am I?"
He gave her a sideways look. "Your family is having their little gathering tonight. The usual shadowed faces, the veiled insults, the wine that tastes like dust."
Crimson looked away. "I'm not interested in their politics."
"Politics or not," the priest said softly, "you're still blood."
"Blood doesn't mean loyalty," she said sharply. "They made that clear years ago."
He didn't argue.
Instead, he let out a slow sigh, looking up at the high ceiling where cracks had begun to spread like spiderwebs over time.
"I just thought you might want to know. They expected you."
Crimson's jaw tightened. "Of course they did."
"Your father still sits at the head of the table," the priest added. "And your brother made a point of leaving your seat empty."
Crimson closed her eyes for a moment.
So they still remembered.
Still pretended she belonged.
She stood again, turning back to the statue of Ra. The god's expression hadn't changed—but somehow, she felt more exposed under his stone gaze.
"Let them talk," she muttered. "I've got bigger things to deal with."
The priest didn't move. "And if they're talking about you?"
Crimson smirked, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Then they should've invited a god."
She turned on her heel and walked out, the sound of her footsteps echoing again—
Tap… Tap… Tap…
The doors closed behind her with a whisper of finality.
And the sanctuary returned to silence.
****
"You brought me all the way to the cliffs for this?" Raphael's voice echoed through the stone corridor as he followed a servant down the long, torch-lit hall.
The Leywin estate was as cold as he remembered—walls of polished obsidian, portraits of dead-eyed ancestors watching from their gold-trimmed frames. No warmth. No color. Only shadows.
The servant didn't answer. No one in this house ever did.
Raphael stopped at the heavy double doors.
"They're already inside," the servant said, bowing without meeting his eyes.
Raphael muttered something under his breath and pushed open the door.
The Leywin council chamber was as imposing as ever—an oval-shaped room with a high, domed ceiling that swallowed echoes. At its center, a long black table reflected the light from the central chandelier like still water. The flames flickered, but the room never felt warm.
"Raphael," came a voice as smooth as ice.
He turned.
Velia Leywin, eldest daughter of the house, stood near the far end of the table, swirling a glass of crimson wine in her hand. Her dark coat was embroidered with the family crest—a sun pierced through the heart by a blade—and her eyes, sharp as ever, studied him with the fondness of a dissecting scalpel.
"You're late," she said.
"I wasn't told why I was coming," Raphael replied, stepping forward. "And I don't enjoy being summoned like a stray dog."
"You are a stray," she said sweetly, "but you're still a Leywin. So sit."
At the head of the table sat Lord Alaric Leywin, as still and unmoving as the statues carved in his honor. His hands rested atop a cane he never used. His pale eyes didn't blink.
Raphael sat slowly.
"What's this about?" he asked.
Velia set her glass down. "A request. From someone outside the family. Someone who still remembers the weight of our name."
Alaric spoke, his voice deep and quiet. "Sir Failure has sent word. He requests one of ours."
Raphael blinked. "Sir... who?"
"That's what he's called," Velia said. "The head of the Lunaris Council. Old world. He doesn't make public requests unless it matters."
"Requests for what?"
"To assign a Leywin to aid a detective under his employ," Alaric said. "Nathan Black."
Raphael frowned. "Why us?"
"Because he knows the other families are compromised," Velia said, taking her seat across from him. "And because we have fewer enemies than friends now."
"I wasn't told about this," Raphael said.
"You were never meant to be," Alaric replied. "Until now."
Raphael leaned forward, voice sharp. "So you volunteered me without asking?"
"We offered," Velia said, lips curling. "You haven't proven yourself useful in months."
"I wasn't aware I needed to prove anything."
"Every Leywin does," Alaric said. "Even me."
Silence followed, deep and charged.
Then the doors creaked open behind them.
Boots clicked softly against the marble floor.
Raphael turned.
Velia smirked.
Alaric finally blinked.
Crimson Leywin entered the room like a storm in human form—long coat dusted with ash, shoulders squared, chin high. Her eyes swept the table, unreadable.
"Looks like I'm just in time," she said.
Velia raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought you'd sworn never to come back."
Crimson shrugged. "Turns out the world doesn't care what I swear."
Alaric's voice cut through the tension. "You're still blood."
"That's not why I'm here," Crimson said. "I heard someone was giving away seats at the table."
Her gaze landed on Raphael.
He met it, confused. "Crimson—?"
She sat at the empty chair near the end.
"I want in."
Velia laughed softly. "This should be fun."