Dean Aldrich's office felt smaller with the Archbishop in it. Not physically—the man was built like a scholar, soft around the edges with that grandfatherly smile. But his presence filled the space like water rising, drowning out everything else until all that remained was calculated faith and patient threat.

The air tasted of parchment and prayer oil, that cloying sweetness the Church used in their incense. Underneath it, something sharper—like iron left in rain. The Archbishop carried the smell of old cathedrals and older power, the kind that sank into stone and never quite left.

The Dean hadn't offered tea this time.

"Your Grace," Aldrich said, fingers steepled on his crystal desk. "We need to discuss contingencies."

"Of course." Caldris settled into his chair with the ease of someone who'd never been uncomfortable anywhere in his life. "Though I must say, the Academy's handling of this situation has been... adequate."

Adequate. Like praising a child for not burning down the house.

The Dean's jaw tightened fractionally. His fingers pressed harder against each other, knuckles going white beneath age-spotted skin. Two hundred years of dealing with power-hungry priests, and this one still managed to make his teeth ache.

"The articles have stopped," the Dean continued, ignoring the condescension. Voice steady even as his molars ground together. "Truth's Witness hasn't published in five days. If she's been silenced—or if she simply ran out of material—what then?"

The Archbishop's smile widened fractionally. "A theoretical question, of course. Since we have no idea who Truth's Witness might be."

"Of course." Aldrich matched his tone. "Purely theoretical."

They stared at each other, two old predators circling. The silence stretched until the Dean could hear the Archbishop's breathing—measured, controlled, the rhythm of someone who'd learned patience over centuries of practice. His own pulse thudded in his ears, steady but insistent.

"But if she were to stop," the Dean pressed, "the Church's justification for increased presence at the Academy would diminish considerably. Your knights, your patrols, your... protective observations. All based on containing a threat that no longer exists."

"Would it?" Caldris tilted his head, still smiling. "Or would it simply prove that our intervention was successful? That the heresy was contained before it could spread further?"

Aldrich's fingers tapped once against the desk. Sharp. Precise. The sound echoed like a judge's gavel.

"Your Grace, let's dispense with the theater. You and I both know the Church benefits from these articles continuing. They justify your presence, legitimize your authority, give you grounds to expand control." He leaned forward. "What happens if no more articles get published?"

The Archbishop was quiet for a long moment. Then he laughed—soft, genuine, almost fond. The sound had texture to it, like silk dragged over broken glass.

"Dean Aldrich, you've run this Academy for what, a hundred and fifty years? Two hundred? I lose track with mages of your caliber."

He stood, robes whispering against the floor, and moved to the window that overlooked the grounds. Students moved between buildings below, oblivious to the storm forming above their heads. "You think I'd let something as minor as reality interrupt a useful narrative?"

The Dean went very still. Not the stillness of calm, but of calculation. His hand curled beneath the desk—just a finger's breadth—ancient power gathering at his fingertips, ready but unspent. This was a threat to his Academy, and he would burn the world before letting it fall.

"If Truth's Witness stops publishing," Caldris continued, voice pleasant as discussing weather, "then I'm afraid the Church will have no choice but to continue her work. Can't let such important revelations go unfinished, after all. The faithful deserve to know the full extent of the conspiracy."

"You'd publish articles under her name." The words came out flat, but the Dean's other hand had found the edge of his desk, gripping hard enough to make the crystal groan.

"We'd ensure the truth continues to emerge." He turned from the window, and the light caught his face wrong—for just a moment, his shadow stretched too long, reaching toward the Dean like grasping fingers. "Carefully curated truth, naturally. The kind that proves the Church was right to be concerned. The kind that justifies whatever measures we deem necessary." His smile never wavered. "After all, if she's gone silent, who's to say what she would have published next? Perhaps she discovered even darker heresies. Perhaps she found evidence of demonic influence in the Academy itself."

"That's—"

"Necessary." The Archbishop's voice hardened for just a moment, iron beneath velvet, and the temperature in the room dropped enough that Aldrich's breath misted. "This Academy has been a thorn in the Church's side for centuries, Dean. Your 'independence.' Your refusal to let us properly inspect your libraries, your research, your students. We've tolerated it because you serve a purpose. But tolerance has limits."

Aldrich's hand moved slightly under his desk. Mana coiled beneath his skin, ready to erupt if needed. The crystal surface beneath his fingers had gone cold enough to sting. "You threaten this institution at your peril, Your Grace."

"Do I?" Caldris returned to his chair, settling in like he had all the time in the world. "The Emperor is old. The Council is split. The noble houses would gladly see the Academy's power broken and redistributed among themselves." He adjusted his robes with precise movements. "And the Saintess herself has taken an interest in these developments."

The Dean's expression cracked for the first time. Just a hairline fracture, but it was there—his eye twitched, and his fingers spasmed against the desk hard enough that tiny fissures spread through the crystal like frost. The Saintess. Involving herself meant this had escalated beyond politics. "The Saintess?"

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"Indeed. She asked me quite specifically about the situation here." He paused, letting that sink in. The silence felt heavy enough to crush. "As did His Holiness."

This time Aldrich couldn't hide his shock. The color drained from his face, centuries-old composure shattering like glass. "The Pope?"

"Don't look so surprised. Even the highest servants of the divine occasionally concern themselves with mortal affairs."

"The current Pope doesn't meddle in anything." The Dean's voice was flat. "He's barely left the Grand Cathedral in thirty years. Why would he—"

"Why indeed." Caldris's smile took on an amused quality, like watching a student finally grasp a concept. "Perhaps because the Saintess requested his attention. And when she asks, well... even the Pope listens."

"The Saintess only involves herself in divine matters." Aldrich's fingers pressed hard against his desk, knuckles white, tendons standing out like rope beneath paper-thin skin. "Threats to the gods themselves. Demonic incursions. Nothing political."

"Yes, that is her reputation, isn't it?"

The silence stretched. It had weight now, pressing down on the Dean's shoulders like hands. His ears rang with it.

"You can't be saying—" Aldrich stopped himself. His throat worked. Three hundred years of protecting this institution, and now divine forces were taking interest. "There's no way the gods are looking into this. These are historical articles, church politics, nothing that would warrant divine attention."

"Isn't there?" The Archbishop stood again, this time moving toward the door. His footsteps were soft but they seemed to echo, like walking through a cathedral instead of an office. "Dean Aldrich, you're an intelligent man. Brilliantly so. But intelligence has limits when confronting faith." He paused at the threshold, one hand resting on the doorframe. The wood darkened slightly beneath his touch, as if age accelerated wherever he lingered. "The gods act on whims. They always have. A falling leaf catches their eye, and suddenly mortals burn. A child asks the wrong question, and dynasties end. Who are we to understand their attention?"

"That's not an answer." The Dean's voice had gone hoarse.

"No. It's a warning." Caldris smiled his warmest smile yet, and it didn't reach his eyes at all—they were cold, ancient, holding depths that suggested he'd seen empires rise and fall and had thoughts about both. "Continue managing your Academy as you see fit, Dean. But understand that forces beyond mortal authority are watching now. And they're curious about what they see."

"What do they see?"

"Patterns." The Archbishop's hand rested on the door. "Old ones, reemerging after centuries of silence. Coincidences that strain credibility. A boy with divine chains that refuse to complete—a boy currently enrolled as your student. A historian whose truths threaten the foundations of faith itself, hiding in your city." He glanced back, and for just a moment, his pupils reflected light wrong—like looking into a well with something at the bottom looking back. "And at the center of it all, a fifteen-year-old Veritas who hasn't yet graduated. Everything else—your Academy, the articles, the chaos—it all orbits around him."

"We're scholars. Research sometimes produces unexpected results." The words came out steady, but the Dean's hands were trembling now, pressed flat against the desk to hide it. His palms were slick with sweat, sliding slightly against the cracked crystal.

"Yes. Research." Caldris opened the door, and the air pressure in the room shifted, like something had been holding its breath and finally exhaled. "Tell me, when your researchers stumble upon truths that would shatter the world, what do you do? Publish them? Share them freely? Or do you bury them in your restricted archives and hope nobody notices?"

The Dean said nothing. His jaw worked, teeth grinding audible in the sudden quiet.

"We're not so different, you and I," the Archbishop continued. "We both guard dangerous knowledge. We both lie for the greater good. The only difference is that I'm honest about it." He stepped through the door, then paused one final time. The hallway behind him seemed darker than it should be, shadows pooling like spilled ink. "Oh, and Dean? Do give my regards to Lord Veritas when he returns. I look forward to our next conversation. Assuming he survives whatever foolishness he's currently engaged in, of course."

The door closed with a soft click that somehow sounded like a coffin lid.

Aldrich sat alone in his office, ancient fingers curling into fists on his desk. The crystal surface bore hairline fractures where he'd gripped too hard, spiderwebbing out like ice about to shatter. The smell of prayer oil lingered, cloying and sweet. The Saintess. The Pope. Divine attention on his Academy.

He stood slowly, knees protesting, and moved to a hidden panel behind one of his bookcases. The mechanism was old, older than the Academy, and it clicked with the sound of ancient things reluctantly yielding. Inside lay records that predated the Academy itself, journals from the founding members, warnings written by hands long since turned to dust. The parchment smelled of age and fear—that particular scent of old paper mixed with whatever desperate emotion had soaked into it centuries ago.

Beware the attention of gods, one entry read, the handwriting shaky as if written by candlelight during an earthquake. They are children playing with fire, and we are the ants beneath their feet. When they notice us, even their love is burning.

Another, in different handwriting—more controlled but with ink blots that suggested the writer had paused often, perhaps to steady their hand: The last time the divine turned their full gaze upon mortal matters, the Demon War began. Coincidence? Perhaps. But I fear what truth might lie beneath that answer.

And finally, the one that made him grip the parchment hard enough to crease it: If Potestas ever returns, even the gods will remember fear.

Potestas. The Forbidden Name. The god cast down so long ago that most records had been destroyed, most stories forgotten. The God of Power who'd challenged the pantheon itself and lost everything. Just reading the name felt like standing at the edge of an abyss, staring at forces that could swallow his Academy whole.

Dean Aldrich looked out at his Academy, at students moving between classes, oblivious to the storm gathering. His reflection in the window looked older than it had this morning—new lines around the eyes, new hollows in the cheeks. Somewhere out there, Avian Veritas carried chains that refused to break. Somewhere, Truth's Witness prepared her next revelation. And above it all, the gods watched with the cruel curiosity of immortals who'd grown bored with eternity.

"Fuck," he said quietly, with feeling.

Then he returned to his desk and began writing contingency plans that probably wouldn't matter if things went truly wrong. His hand cramped after the first page, fingers stiff and aching, but he kept going. Ink stained his fingertips. His neck developed a crick from hunching over parchment. The candles burned lower, wax pooling on his desk in pale lakes.

But a man did what he could, even when the gods started playing their games again.

Even when the patterns suggested something impossible was stirring beneath the surface of the world.

Even when every instinct screamed that five hundred years of carefully maintained peace was about to shatter like glass under divine attention.

He wrote until the sun set, until his hand cramped so badly he could barely hold the quill, until he'd exhausted every possibility he could imagine. His eyes burned. His back ached. The words on the parchment started to blur together.

It wouldn't be enough. He knew that. Had always known it.

But he'd be damned if he didn't try anyway.

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