CHAPTER 794: WHEN THE CRYSTALS SCREAMED WHITE (3)

"We draft a charter," she said. "Officially, the Silver Current is hired to ’assist in containment of a dangerous anomaly, for the safety of neutral trade.’ They will present this to any who ask. It will look very noble."

"And unofficially?"

"Unofficially," Miren said, "they will secure anything portable that can command a price. Relics. Cores. Maps. Agreements. And if Silvarion or the League manages to put a leash on that dungeon, our people will be there at the start to demand a share in whatever ’containment mechanism’ is built around it."

She thought of the prince-consort then, though she had only seen his face in sketches and reports.

A man who loved insects and anime, if her spy’s confused note was to be believed. A man who joked like a student but spoke of mana flows like a veteran scholar. A man who made a queen of a forest kingdom look at him like he was both trouble and home.

"Anyone who can stand between a forest queen and a League of machines without being crushed," Miren murmured, mostly to herself, "is someone we should not make an enemy."

She turned back to the council.

"Tell the captain," she said. "Avoid direct fights with Silvarion if possible. Do not underestimate Kharadorn. Do not let the League put chains on them. Make friends where they can. Corpses only where they must."

When the meeting broke, and the charter was signed, a sleek skyship waited in the rain above the Concordat’s private dock. Its hull shone with layered wards. Its sails shimmered between solid fabric and light.

On the deck, the captain of the Silver Current lifted a glass of sea-wine as his crew finished lashing down crates.

"To the dungeon," he said, grinning at the dark horizon. "May it be lethal enough that only we walk out richer."

Far inland, where the sea was only a memory told by traders, the Holy Radiant See of Valtis gleamed under a blue sky.

White towers rose from the city like fingers reaching for heaven, gold inlays catching the sun. Below, the streets were full of pilgrims and market stalls. The air smelled of incense and hot stone.

Deep beneath the main cathedral, where no pilgrim would ever walk, a door of black iron opened on a quiet hiss.

Cardinal Inquisitor Seran stepped into the secret chamber. Light followed him, kindling in wall sconces as he passed. Chains and relics hung in neat rows. Sealed grimoires rested behind locked glass.

On the central plinth lay a single sheet of parchment.

He picked it up. The words were short.

ASHEN RIVER DUNGEON FOREST QUEEN’S CONSORT ATTEMPTED DEEP ENTRY REJECTED / SURVIVED UNSTABLE MANA READINGS

Below that, in a different hand, someone had written a line of scripture.

"’A river of ash shall birth a door to unclean gods,’" Seran read softly. "Page nineteen. I remember."

Another priest, younger, hovered near the door.

"High prelates are already discussing a public response," he said. "Some say we must call this what it is—a sign. They speak of a Holy Crusade. I... I thought you should see the report first."

Seran folded the parchment once, precisely.

"A Crusade," he repeated. "To what end? To throw banners and loud prayers at a dungeon wall while the League laughs and Silvarion digs?"

The young priest flinched.

"It would show the world we will not tolerate such... such an open wound," he tried.

"It would show the world we have forgotten how to be subtle," Seran said. "If we declare a war, all we do is warn the heretics we are coming. They will put aside their quarrels long enough to unite against us. I have no interest in helping them remember they can work together."

He placed the parchment back on the plinth.

"Dungeons are wounds," he said. "Yes. Some can be bound and turned into altars. Some must be burned clean. But if we are to judge Ashen River, we must first reach its heart alive."

The young priest swallowed.

"What do you suggest, Cardinal?"

"A silent crusade," Seran said.

He walked along the wall, fingers drifting over the hanging relics until they rested on a sword in a plain sheath. It hummed faintly at his touch.

"We send no banners," he said. "No declarations. We send an unbadged cell. Spellbreakers. Miracle-workers. One Saint-Relic that can cut spirit from flesh."

He drew the sword a thumb’s width. The air in the room tightened.

"Their mission is simple," he said. "They go to Ashen River. They look past the noise and the politics. They find the source. They decide if it is demonic, divine, or something else. If it can be claimed for the Light without corrupting it, they begin the work. If not..."

He let the sword slide back into its sheath.

"...they do not let anyone else build a throne on it."

The priest hesitated.

"And the prince-consort?" he asked. "He is... unusual. There are rumours."

Seran’s mouth curved, something like a smile but without warmth.

"Rumours are the smoke," he said. "We will look for the fire."

Later, when the cell gathered in the hidden courtyard behind the cathedral, he blessed them quietly. No crowds watched. No bells rang.

Their faces were calm. One carried a staff that glowed faintly at the tip. Another wore armour without emblem, her hands wrapped in cloth that had seen battle.

Seran looked at each in turn.

"If you find the prince-consort there," he said at last, "test his soul. If it leans toward corruption, you know what must be done."

They did not ask questions. In Valtis, obedience was its own kind of faith.

They left through a back gate, cloaks plain, blending into the stream of merchants and travellers.

Up in the bright cathedral, the high priests debated banners and speeches. Down here, the true decision had already been made.

The continent moved.

Under mana-storms in the League’s northern territories, Black Sigil operatives marched with their faces hidden and their armour alive with shifting symbols.

Across a frozen pass, Kharadorn skirmishers in demon-steel armour trudged through snow that hissed where their boots touched, leaving faint scorch marks in their wake.

High above broken hills, the Silver Current Company’s skyship sliced through grey clouds, crew checking instruments that flickered whenever they pointed toward Ashen River.

On nameless back roads, the Inquisition cell from Valtis walked by night, their relics wrapped in cloth. The Saint-Relic sword shivered softly whenever they faced the right direction.

None of them travelled completely unnoticed.

Technomancer scouts, hidden in plain clothes in border villages, felt the prickle of unfamiliar mana as Kharadorn passed nearby. They reported strange heat signatures and armour that drank light.

Kharadorn advance riders found a burned-out camp on a hill—bandits, from the look of it—but the cuts on the corpses were too clean, too precise. One of the war-veterans spat.

"Concordat style," he said. "Those pretty sky-merchants brought knives."

The Valtis cell’s relics flickered not only when they turned toward Ashen River, but also when they passed places where Kharadorn had tested demon-bound weapons.

"Heresy breeds heresy," one muttered.

In one forgotten valley, a small Technomancer recon team and a Kharadorn scouting unit crossed paths.

It did not become a war.

Both sides wanted it quiet. Both sides killed fast.

Lightning arcs from palm-sized devices met demon-boosted leaps. Metal constructs clashed with heavy blades that cut through enchantments. The whole fight lasted less than five minutes.

When it was over, twisted constructs lay smoking in the frost. Three Kharadorn warriors bled out onto the snow, steam rising from their wounds. The survivors dragged away anything that could be recognised.

No one left a banner. No one left a witness alive.

But the land remembered. Mana soaked into stone and air.

We are not alone, each faction thought, in their own way.

They just did not yet know how many others walked the same road.

High in the sky, the Silver Current’s scout glider drifted under cover of cloud. The scout peered down through a crystal lens.

"There," he whispered, seeing the faint gleam of Technomancer devices in one hollow.

He adjusted the lens and caught another camp further along the same ridge—dark banners folded away, but the shapes of Kharadorn war tents unmistakable.

He swallowed.

"We are walking into a crowd that wants to pretend it’s alone," he said when he returned to the deck.

The captain only grinned wider.

"Then we just have to be better liars," he said.

In Serewyn, Ryline’s office felt even smaller.

Reports lay open on her desk, each marked with a different sigil. Kharadorn movement near the Ashen River region. Sightings of an unidentified skyship flying Concordat colours. Traces of holy-flavoured mana on a corpse in a border town—the smuggler had tried to steal a relic and paid for it with his life.

Ryline rubbed at the bridge of her nose.

"The leak worked," Halsen said from the doorway.

She did not look up.

"Remind me," she said, "which leak you mean. You have so many."

"The one that let certain powers know Ashen River is... available," Halsen said, unbothered. "You wanted other hands in the game. Now they are here."

Ryline stared at the map on her wall.

Around the bright point of Ashen River, three new marks glowed: a raven for Kharadorn, a coin for the Concordat, a sunburst for Valtis.

"The more hands, the more knives," she said.

"And the more people who can bleed in our place," Halsen replied.

He left her alone then, which she appreciated more than words.

She turned back to her own thoughts.

She could, in theory, call for a summit. Bring Silvarion, Kharadorn, the Concordat, even Valtis to a table and pretend they were reasonable people who could share a wound in the world like adults.

She almost laughed again at the idea.

Or, she thought, we can let them do what they do best.

"Weaponise the chaos," she murmured.

She stood and walked to the map.

Her finger traced a circle around Ashen River.

Black Sigil operatives would go in first, moving quiet, watching. Their orders were already on their way: avoid large fights unless forced. If they could nudge Kharadorn toward Valtis, they would. If they could slip forged notes into Concordat hands to suggest Silvarion had hired them as secret allies, they would.

Let them all mistrust each other more than us, she thought.

Her long game unfolded in her mind like a mechanical puzzle.

Let Kharadorn throw their shadows into the dark. Let the Concordat send charming thieves. Let Valtis bring their silent knives of faith. Let them all scrape their knees on the dungeon’s teeth.

Then, when the worst pieces had been knocked off the board, the League would send in a larger force. An official "stabilisation" unit, full of healers and engineers, with very good speeches about safety and cooperation.

By then, she intended to have enough data from all their failures to walk straighter.

And the prince-consort...

She thought of his file. The strange mixture of silly notes and hard numbers. His habit of cracking jokes about bugs and cartoons. The way, under that, his writing turned sharp when he talked about mana systems and structural weakness.

He is a tool, she told herself. A unique one, yes. A dangerous wildcard, yes. But still a tool.

With more nations arriving, he also became something else.

A bargaining chip. A story.

If he survived the converging wolves, if he walked out of Ashen River again with that mocking smile and some new mad idea, perhaps he would be worth treating as a partner.

If he did not...

She sat and picked up a stylus. On a fresh slate, she wrote a single line.

If the prince-consort dies in the coming conflict, we lost a valuable resource, but we gain a martyr whose failure can be framed as the source of the instability.

She did not sign the note. She slid it into a drawer instead.

"The story writes itself,"