The doors of the New Order Church shut behind Ryle with a sound that echoed like a tomb sealing. The world outside vanished in that instant—no sunlight, no birds, no allies.
Only darkness. Cold stone. And watchful eyes.
He was led through narrow hallways lit with flame-shaped crystals, their dim light flickering like dying embers. Murals of divine judgment and prophecy covered the walls—gods casting down demons, angels wielding sunfire. Ryle kept his eyes forward.
He was being watched. Not just by the robed guides.
By something else. Something deeper.
At last, he was brought to a chamber ringed with silver altars and tall mirrors that didn't reflect his image. At the far end, on a raised platform beneath a golden sun-shaped sigil, sat the High Preacher of the New Order.
He wore robes so white they seemed to glow, and a mask of gold that covered everything except his thin, cracked lips.
"Ryle Astoria," the preacher said, voice carrying both warmth and weight. "The World's Strongest Journalist. Dragon's Son. Exposer of vampires. Slayer of corruption."
Ryle didn't answer.
"You entered holy ground with suspicion in your heart," the preacher continued. "Yet we welcome you."
"I came for truth," Ryle said, arms crossed.
"Then truth you shall receive," the preacher said with a crooked smile.
For the next hour, Ryle was bombarded with questions. His memories, his thoughts on Wraiths, his allegiances, even his dreams. The preacher's words had weight behind them—some kind of pressure, spiritual or magical. But Ryle endured it all.
Until finally, the preacher leaned forward.
"Truth Magic. That is what you seek."
Ryle's expression didn't change, but his heart sped up.
"We've known of the Wraiths far longer than the nobles," the preacher said. "Myths, to them. But to us? Ancient enemies. The curse of the first shadow."
"And how do we reveal them?" Ryle asked.
The preacher raised a hand, and one of the masked attendants placed a crystal orb in his palm.
"When exposed to high-level Truth Magic," the preacher said, "a Wraith's mimicry collapses. The illusion breaks. The soul recoils from purity."
Ryle's brow furrowed. "Then why not tell the world?"
The preacher chuckled. "Because the world doesn't listen to prophets. Only disasters."
Ryle stepped forward. "Give me the spell."
"Oh, Ryle…" The preacher's smile turned solemn. "I can give you more than that. Join us. You have seen the world's rot. You fight it. But imagine if you didn't have to fight alone. You could wield divine justice."
"I already do," Ryle said coldly. "It's called a pen."
The preacher laughed. "Then write this truth down. But remember—without faith, magic is but fire without fuel."
Ryle turned his back.
He walked out of the church, out of the shadows, and into the daylight where his friends waited.
The return to Elden was immediate.
The moment their boots hit the cobbled courtyard of Seraphina's castle, Ryle felt it—wrongness.
The guards were too still. The air too silent.
Kessia's ears twitched violently. "Something's off."
"She's not here," Thea said. "I don't hear her."
Tobin scanned the balconies. "She always greets us."
Ryle raised a hand. "Kessia. Track her. Now."
The beastkin girl closed her eyes, inhaled sharply. Then she moved—fast.
They followed her through the castle, down twisting halls, past armories and libraries, until Kessia came to a stop beside a tapestry.
"She's behind this wall."
Ryle felt along the edge—clicked something.
The tapestry slid aside, revealing a stone door. They forced it open and descended into darkness.
Torches lined the walls, but most had been extinguished. The silence was suffocating.
And then—
"There!" Thea shouted.
Seraphina was tied to a chair in the center of a dark chamber, eyes wide with fear. Ten of her elite bodyguards stood around her, faces cold, emotionless.
"Get away from her!" Tobin shouted, already forming a fire spell.
"Wait," Ryle said, stepping forward. "Who are you?"
The guards didn't speak.
Then, with the sound of tearing cloth and cracking bones, their forms shifted.
Wraiths. All of them.
Black mist poured from their eyes and mouths as they hissed in unison.
Ryle didn't hesitate. "Burn them!"
Tobin raised his arm, fire erupting from his palm. Golden flame, surged across the room. The Wraiths shrieked as the fire touched them, disintegrating their smoky bodies in flashes of light.
In seconds, it was over.
Seraphina gasped for breath, and Thea cut her ropes.
"Thank the gods you came," Seraphina whispered. "They—they took my guards days ago. I didn't know who to trust."
"You can't," Ryle said. "Not anymore."
He turned to the group. "We're not waiting for another infiltration."
He pulled the scroll from his coat—the one the preacher had reluctantly given him.
"We're performing a citywide Truth Ritual."
Seraphina's eyes widened. "That would affect… everyone."
"Good," Ryle said. "It's time we find out how many liars are still breathing."
By sundown, Elden's churches were packed.
Priests whispered prayers, copying runes across marble altars. Crystal lenses were aligned to magnify the spell. Couriers ran between towers with silver mirrors and flame-glyphs. Soldiers prepared to block exits.
In the plaza, citizens gathered. Tense. Uneasy. Some scoffed. Some trembled.
Seraphina stood atop the central balcony, face pale but firm.
Behind her stood Ryle, Kessia, Thea, and Tobin.
Ryle looked over the city.
"We're not just finding Wraiths," he said.
"We're about to see who this city really is."
The priests raised their hands.
Light began to gather.
The Truth Ritual had begun.