The door swung open, and Ren’s whole world narrowed to a single face.
Him.
She knew that jaw.
That cold, carved mouth.
Those violet eyes that had watched her from the judge’s dais without a flicker of anything human in them while the priest read out her crimes.
She’d stared up at that same face with a rope already looped around her neck, and it hadn’t so much as blinked.
Her stomach dropped straight through the floor.
“Lady Caelia.” He didn’t bow.
Didn’t blink now either.
“You kept me waiting.”
Say something.
Say anything.
Don’t let him see it.
“Forgive me, Grand Inquisitor.” The words came out soft, demure — everything a fainting saint should sound like, while inside her a voice screamed *that’s him, that’s the man who killed you, smile, smile or he’ll know.* “I wasn’t dressed to receive you.”
“You’re dressed enough.” His gaze dragged down, slow, deliberate, then back to her face.
“Or you sent the maid to answer instead of coming yourself. Which was it?”
“Does it matter?”
“Everything matters.” He stepped through the doorway without invitation, filling the room with a cold that had nothing to do with the weather.
“Especially with you.”
Ren held her ground, though every instinct she owned screamed to run.
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.” His eyes flicked past her to Mira, still frozen against the wall.
“Leave us.”
“Y-yes, Grand Inquisitor.” Mira fled so fast the tea tray clattered against the doorframe on her way out, and then the door shut, and Ren was alone with the man who’d sentenced her to hang.
“Should she really go?” Ren kept her voice light.
“I was told this rite requires witnesses.”
“The public rite does. This isn’t that.” Lucan circled her slowly, the way a wolf circled something it hadn’t decided was prey yet.
“This is the part no one talks about. The part that tells me whether you’re actually what you claim to be.”
“And what do I claim to be?”
“Pure.” He stopped behind her.
She felt him there before she heard him, felt the temperature drop another degree at her back.
“Untouched. Divine.”
“I fainted during a religious rite three days ago. I’d hardly call that impressive divinity.”
Something that might have been amusement passed through his voice.
“No. It wasn’t impressive. It was violent. Your mana nearly tore the chapel apart before it tore you apart. That’s not weakness, Lady Caelia. That’s power no one bothered training.” A pause.
“Or power hiding something it shouldn’t.”
Ren’s pulse spiked.
“Are you accusing me of something, Grand Inquisitor?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” His voice dropped lower, closer, and she felt rather than saw him lean down behind her.
“That’s what I’m here to find out.”
“By standing behind me and being cryptic?”
“By doing this.”
His breath ghosted against the side of her neck, and Ren went rigid as he leaned in and *scented her* — slow, deliberate, like she was something he needed to catalogue by smell alone.
“What are you doing?” Her voice cracked despite herself.
“Every soul carries a scent beneath the skin.” His voice was quiet now, low enough it might have almost sounded intimate, if it hadn’t been terrifying.
“Divine ones smell like incense. Like snow on stone. Clean things.”
“And?”
“And you smell like divinity, Lady Caelia.” He inhaled again, closer this time, and she felt him go very still.
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“There’s something underneath it.” His hand came up — not rough, not yet, just two fingers skimming the line of her jaw, tilting her head to the side to bare more of her throat.
“Something bitter. Something old.”
Ren’s heart slammed against her ribs so hard she was certain he could hear it.
“Perhaps I’m simply unwell. I did faint three days ago.”
“This isn’t sickness.” His fingers stilled against her pulse point, and for one horrible second she was certain he could feel exactly how fast her borrowed heart was racing.
“I’ve smelled sickness on a hundred dying heretics. This isn’t that.”
“Then what is it?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it.” He straightened slightly, though his hand didn’t leave her jaw.
“You should be terrified right now. Every candidate is, the first time I do this. Shaking. Crying. Praying to gods who never answer.”
“Would that please you? If I cried?”
“No.” Something flickered behind his eyes, sharp and considering.
“It would bore me. You’re not doing either. Why?”
“Maybe I trust the church.”
“No one trusts the church, Lady Caelia. Not even the priests who run it.” His thumb traced the edge of her jaw, slow, almost thoughtful.
“So try again. Why aren’t you shaking?”
Because I already died once, and you were the one who signed the order.
“Perhaps,” she said instead, keeping her voice steady through sheer force of will, “I simply have faith in my own innocence.”
“Innocence.” He said the word like it tasted strange in his mouth.
“I’ve heard that word from a great many people right before I proved them wrong.”
“And did you enjoy it? Proving them wrong?”
Something dark passed behind his violet eyes.
“Careful.”
“You’re the one with your hand on my face, Grand Inquisitor. I think I’m allowed a question or two.”
His grip tightened — not painful, but absolute, fingers curling firm around her chin until she couldn’t have turned away if she’d tried.
“You have a sharp tongue for a Saintess candidate.”
“Is that against the rules?”
“It’s unusual.” His eyes searched her face, hunting for something she was terrified he’d find.
“Saintess candidates are raised soft. Sheltered. Obedient. You argue like someone who’s used to fighting for the last word.”
Ren forced a small, serene smile, burying the panic clawing up her throat.
“Perhaps I simply don’t like being handled without permission.”
“Perhaps.” He didn’t let go.
If anything, his grip firmed, tilting her face further into the light spilling through the tall windows, studying her like a forger studying a coin for the seam that would give it away.
“Or perhaps that bitter scent under your skin has a name. And I intend to find it.”
“You’re welcome to keep searching,” Ren said, voice steadier than she had any right to feel.
“I doubt you’ll find anything you’re looking for.”
“I usually do.” His thumb pressed lightly against her jaw, right beneath her ear, exactly where a pulse would betray a lie.
“I have a talent for finding things people would rather keep buried.”
“How reassuring.”
“It should be terrifying.” His voice dropped to something almost soft, almost intimate, and infinitely more dangerous for it.
“Most people find out too late.”
Ren held his gaze and said nothing, because silence was the only weapon she had left in this body, in this room, against this man.
Lucan tilted her chin up another inch, close enough now that she could see every fleck of violet in his eyes, cold as frostbite, hunting.
“Your soul,” he said quietly, “smells like a freshly dug grave, Lady Caelia.”
Ren’s blood turned to ice.
“I intend to find out why.”