Strahn spoke.

Not ceremonially. Not gently. He spoke the way a man did when there was no longer any point in shaping the truth for mercy. His voice was steady, but the steadiness cost him. Vire could hear it in the way the words came a fraction slower than speech required, as if each one had to be lifted before it could be set down.

The first reaction was not understanding. It was rejection.

Vire’s mind pushed back at once, assembling objections faster than Strahn could finish a sentence. Error. Misinterpretation. Category failure. Doctrine rose instinctively—verses, commentaries, axioms snapping into place like braces meant to hold the world together.

They did not fit.

The shock came not from what Strahn was saying, but from how quickly Vire realized that his counterarguments were… incomplete. Not wrong—insufficient. They answered questions that were no longer the ones being asked.

His breath caught, just once. Strahn did not pause.

The words continued, measured and relentless. Vire felt something in his chest tighten—not fear, not grief, but the sensation of load-bearing structures being stressed beyond tolerance. He became acutely aware of his own stillness: hands rigid against his knees, spine locked upright by force of will rather than habit.

This cannot be true.

And beneath it, quieter and far more dangerous: It explains too much.

When Strahn finally stopped speaking, the silence did not feel like relief. It felt like exposure.

Vire swallowed. His mouth was dry, though he could not remember breathing differently. He reached for prayer—not for comfort, but for orientation. The opening words came easily. They always did.

The ending did not. The thought simply failed to arrive, as if the path it normally traveled had been folded back on itself.

Anger came then. Sharp, and unmistakable. How could they? How could the Light—

He looked at Strahn. “How long,” he asked very carefully, “have you known this?”

Strahn met his gaze without flinching. “Since I was raised to the cardinalate. All cardinals and the heads of every nation are initiated into the Mystery of Walshing. ”

The answer landed harder than any evasion could have.

Vire drew a slow breath through his nose. “So this—” He stopped, forced the words back into order. “The end of the world. The First Age.” His voice tightened despite himself. “That wasn’t ignorance. It wasn’t myth. It was managed.”

Strahn remained still.

“And the Church,” Vire continued, the words coming faster now, discipline slipping under pressure, “has carried that lie for generations.” He shook his head once, sharp and disbelieving. Anger filled his voice, “Who gave us the right?”

For the first time, Strahn hesitated. Then he said quietly, “The angels did.”

The word seemed to alter the air between them without explaining itself.

“It is their restriction,” Strahn went on, his voice controlled, stripped of any softness. “We enforce it. Because we were shown what happens if we do not.”

Silence settled again, heavier than before.

Vire felt doctrine rise once more, slower this time, warped by what it could no longer exclude. Scripture did not shatter in his mind. But it misaligned. Verses no longer sitting flush against one another. The offense of it burned hotter than disbelief: the realization that he had spent his life seeking truth, and that truth had been rationed without his knowledge or consent.

Then the memories came. Orders signed without hesitation. Doors opened and never revisited. Names reduced to charges, charges reduced to outcomes. Outcomes including physical threats and even executions. Innovators and explorers silenced not because they were dangerous, but because they had pressed too early against boundaries that could not be allowed to bend.

He had believed—truly believed—that he was protecting humanity.

Now he saw that many of those deaths should never have been required at all. They had not been mistakes, but they had not been just. The distinction lodged in his chest without heat or release, a settled weight rather than a wound. There was no absolution in the recognition. Only accounting.

The silence stretched.

Vire understood, with a clarity that did not comfort him, that he could never unknow what knowledge had been placed inside him. In that, at least, the cardinal had not deceived him. The scales had fallen from his eyes. What remained was truth without refuge—and the end of innocence about who had commanded his obedience.

He also understood that he had not yet been told what must be done with it.

Strahn did not raise his voice. He did not lean on authority. He spoke as a man who had learned that the most dangerous truths did not need emphasis.

“What you were given,” he said, “was not freedom. When the leaf’s effect fades you will find that you can not speak of this. To anyone.”

Vire’s jaw tightened. “It feels like a sentence.”

Strahn inclined his head, conceding the point without surrender. “There is an absolute rule,” he continued. “Speaking of the Mystery, if you can even do so, is an automatic death sentence. Not as punishment. As containment.”

“That’s barbarism,” Vire said.

“No,” Strahn replied. “It’s triage.”

He gestured toward the table, the empty cups. “The leaf is not symbolic. It is not sacramental theater. It activates a biological lock. While it is active, articulation becomes impossible. Speech fails. Writing collapses. Even structured thought meant for transmission will not hold.”

Vire felt the familiar resistance again as his mind brushed the boundary. Smooth. Impersonal. Unyielding.

“That isn’t theology,” he said.

“No,” Strahn agreed. “It is mechanism. Enforced by a leaf.”

He let that sit before adding, quietly, “Without it, the Mystery cannot be revealed or even discussed.”

“And so,” Vire said, “the Church survives by lies.”

Strahn met his gaze steadily. “Without the Mystery,” he said, “humanity does not survive at all.”

He straightened, the weariness in him tightening into resolve. “There are factions straining at the leash. The Purity faction believes obedience itself is salvation — that limits exist to be enforced without question, without context. They confuse the angels with the Light. They would turn the Church into a blade and swing it until something answers them.”

“And the technologists,” Vire said.

“Yes. The Technology faction believes the past was cowardice. That if we break the restrictions fast enough, we can outrun the consequences and become who the Light designed us to be.” His mouth thinned. “If either faction breaks free, the result will not be reform. It will be the end of humanity.”

Vire stared at him. “You’re asking me to accept that the world is balanced on secrecy and poison leaves,” he said. “On faith in a story only the Church is allowed to tell.” His voice hardened. “How do I know you aren’t inventing this out of whole cloth?”

Strahn did not answer immediately. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts. Then, he nodded once, as if acknowledging the question as overdue. “Because this truth has outlived me,” he said. “And it will outlive you.”

“There are still elves alive,” Strahn went on, “who remember the end of the First Age. Not as myth. As memory.” He tapped the arm of his chair once. “In Kaebec’s deepest archives, there are records. Transcripts. Mechanical images that move, frame by frame, showing rocks falling from the heavens, cities failing, people trying and failing to stop it.”

“You’ve confirmed this,” Vire said.

“Over centuries,” Strahn replied. “Reluctantly. Repeatedly. No one accepts this blindly. When time permits, I’ll send you to confirm these things for yourself. The Holy Father has already asked when to expect you.”

Silence pressed in again, heavier now for being crowded with proof.

“Sebastian, I am truly sorry I have done this to you. I am. But I cannot do this alone anymore,” Strahn said at last. The admission was bare, almost painful in its simplicity. “And the need has never been greater.”

He leaned forward, eyes locked on Vire’s. “You told me that if God called, you would answer. I tell you now that the Light is calling. He is asking you to help save His children.”

He did not command. He asked. And Vire noticed the weight on the man’s frame, a weight that, while still present, seemed to have lightened now that he was no longer carrying it alone.

“How will you respond, Sebastian? Will you answer His call?”

For a long moment after the question, neither man spoke.

“Did it shatter your faith?” Vire asked.

Strahn did not answer immediately.

“No,” the cardinal answered. “It wounded it. It stripped it of comfort. But it didn’t break it. And you, my son?”

Vire’s jaw tightened. “Mine is… unsteady. I won’t pretend otherwise. But the Light has not changed.” He looked directly at Strahn now. “And I am still His man.”

They continued to sit in silence, until Vire looked up at the man he had served for over twenty years.

“We cannot do this alone,” Vire said. “This is too much for two men alone.” His fingers rested on the edge of the table, steady, deliberate. “But if we bring others, they must understand the stakes. Fully.”

Strahn looked at him sharply. “You mean they must know.”

“Yes,” Vire said.

“Knowing has a cost.” He held Vire’s gaze. “Would you do to them what I have just done to you?”

The question was not rhetorical.

Vire felt the heat rise again, sharp and unfiltered. Not guilt or doubt. Anger. Cleaner now, focused outward instead of inward. Unable to speak, he nodded.

Strahn studied him for a long second, then nodded once in reply.

“Then name them,” he said.

Vire did not hesitate.

“Inez Martinez,” he said.

The name landed in the room with more force than volume ever could.

Strahn’s head lifted at once. Not confusion. Recognition. His eyes narrowed, not in suspicion but in calculation, as if a file had opened in his mind without being summoned.

“The tunnels beneath the Atlantis Reclamation Project,” he said slowly. “The one who fired the sidearm.”

“Yes,” Vire replied.

Silence stretched.

“She used a proscribed First Age weapon,” Strahn continued, his tone controlled but tight. “An armory site was compromised. Destroyed. A Thorn cell neutralized. Probably connected to the Technologists.”

“She survived,” Vire said.

Strahn’s mouth twitched, not quite disbelief, not quite accusation. “And somehow,” he said, “we let her live. The Curia is typically more efficient than that at covering up embarrassment.”

Vire paused before answering.

“She acted to prevent a larger disaster,” he said. “She understood what she was doing, certainly. She did not pretend otherwise.” He paused. “When judgment came, she submitted to it. Fully. She accepted permanent consequences for her actions. But Eminence, she is wasted where she is. We need her talents.”

Strahn studied him closely now.

“She does not lie to herself,” Vire added. “She does not confuse obedience with goodness.”

That, finally, drew a reaction. Strahn leaned back slightly, the implications aligning.

“That makes her dangerous,” he said.

“Yes,” Vire agreed. “And necessary.”

Strahn exhaled once through his nose, the sound almost a laugh and nothing like one. “Very well,” he said. “Who else?”

“Dorrin Ybarra.”

This time Strahn did not need details. The name carried its own weight.

“A paladin who asks inconvenient questions,” he said. “Faithful. And unyielding. The sort who follows rot to its root, not its shelter.”

“He will not lie,” Vire said. “Not to us. Not to himself. If anything, his faith is stronger than mine, and we need people of faith to succeed in this task.”

Strahn nodded once. Something shifted then. Not relief, but recognition. This was not the selection of instruments. It was choosing who would hold the line when it mattered.

“We will need them here,” Strahn said, already moving. “In Durleigh. As soon as possible.”

“They are in the field,” Vire replied, matching the tempo. “Operating in the Dunhavens. I cannot reach them directly.”

Strahn did not slow. “Then how?”

“I will contact the paladins stationed at Rimshaven,” Vire said. “Capital of the Dunhavens. Issue a priority summons. It will reach them.”

“Do it,” Strahn said at once.

He turned toward his desk, already pulling paper free. “I will send a dispatch to Kaebec. The Holy Father will have to authorize it—and send more of the leaf.” His voice hardened. “The leaf you ingested is the most precious holy relic the Church possesses. Without it, the Mystery cannot be revealed.”

There were no qualifiers. None were needed. They both understood what had changed.

The Purity faction was already tightening its grip, mistaking enforcement for faith. The Technology faction was already probing boundaries, convinced speed could substitute for wisdom. Silence had bought time, nothing more. But time was fleeing.

This was no longer preparation. Events had already begun to move, and response was overdue.

Vire inclined his head. “I will see it done.”

For a moment, Strahn did not speak. Then he stepped closer and placed two fingers briefly against Vire’s brow with the practiced familiarity of a man who had done this too many times and never lightly.

“Go in the Light, with His blessing,” Strahn said. “Carry what you must. May God give you strength enough to endure it, if He wills.” It was not reassurance. It was permission to endure.

Strahn turned away then, not in dismissal, but because there was nothing left to add.

The corridor outside felt narrower than it had before. Sebastian Vire’s mind was already turning, not toward fear, but toward triage. Guilt and remorse would have to wait. They were luxuries, and the world was running out of time.

Investigations left unfinished would have to be closed — quietly, decisively. Informants protected or burned before the wrong questions reached them. Threads that could not be pulled without drawing attention severed entirely. At the same time, new avenues would need opening: questions once deferred now unavoidable, patterns once dismissed now suspect.

There was no time to be thorough. Only time to be correct enough.

Messages were drafted in his head before his feet reached the stairs. Priorities reordered. Jurisdictions reassigned. The shape of his work shifted under him, not gradually, but all at once.

By the time he reached the outer doors, the Church was already beginning to turn — slowly, imperfectly, and far too late.

Sebastian Vire did not pause. Because he loved the Light. That was the beginning and end of it. It had cost him the luxury of innocence.

It had also made him very, very good at what he did. If it was not already too late.