"Sit him down," I said.

William guided the man into the chair across from me. Guided was generous. The dean nearly tripped over his own feet and landed with a graceless thud.

Abi looked at him with open curiosity.

The dean saw Abi and went rigid.

Interesting.

It was not fear of a stranger. But it was recognition of something that was beyond human.

I smiled.

"Remove the gag."

Bernard did so.

The dean gasped, coughed, then immediately bowed his head so low his chin nearly touched his chest.

"Your Excellency, there must be some misunderstanding. I am but a humble servant of charitable work. If there has been an offense, I assure you, it was never my intention to displease House Konstantin."

His voice trembled, but his words were polished.

Practiced.

I had always disliked people who prepared apologies before being accused. It suggested habit.

"A misunderstanding," I repeated.

"Yes, Your Excellency. Children can be confused. Especially those from unfortunate circumstances. They invent things and misremember details. It is a sad effect of neglect before they come into our care."

The temperature in the room dropped.

William did not move.

Bernard’s fingers twitched once.

Abi smiled.

I did not.

That was how I knew I was truly angry.

"You should choose your next words with care," I said mildly. "A child under my protection remembered names. He remembered marks. He remembered children being sent away. He remembered enough for me to become curious."

The dean swallowed.

Curiosity was a gentle word.

In Sonomi, curiosity had excavated ruins, mapped deserts, dismantled smuggling routes, and occasionally removed heads from shoulders when questions became lively.

"I do not know what the boy told you," the dean said. "But many children pass through the House of Gentle Mercy. Some are adopted or sponsored. Others are transferred for better opportunities."

"Sponsored permanently?"

The dean froze.

Ah.

There it was.

Not enough to be guilt. Not yet.

I leaned back in my chair. "Ansel."

His lips parted.

"Neria."

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

"Bell. Or perhaps Bellen. The record is unclear."

"I handle many names, Your Excellency."

"Then you must be very organized."

"I try to be."

"Excellent. I appreciate organized criminals."

He flinched.

"There are no criminals here," he whispered.

"Not yet," I said. "At the moment, there are only questions."

Abi chuckled softly.

The dean looked toward him again and quickly looked away.

"You know him?" I asked.

"No."

"You recognized something."

"No, Your Excellency."

"Lie better."

The words left my mouth gently.

That seemed to frighten him more.

"I swear on the mercy of the temple, I do not know that gentleman."

Abi’s smile sharpened. "Gentleman. How generous."

I ignored him. "Do not swear on mercy in front of me. It seems your institution has already spent that word beyond its means."

The dean’s hands trembled against the aura-thread.

William placed a folder on the table. "We found this among his belongings."

I opened it.

Inside were travel documents, a registry token, and three folded sheets marked with coded initials. Bernard had already placed small annotations beside the columns.

Age.

Sex.

Bloodline traits.

Mana response.

Aura tolerance.

Temperament.

Obedience.

My gaze settled on the last column.

Choir suitability.

I felt something inside me go very quiet.

Not calm. Quiet. There was a difference.

Abi’s violet eyes darkened.

Bernard spoke through clenched teeth. "The same mark appears at the bottom of each sheet."

He pointed.

A tiny red bell drawn in glassy ink.

The dean started shaking.

"That is not mine," he said quickly. "I only received them. I did not make the lists."

"From whom?"

"I don’t know."

I looked at him. He wilted further.

"I don’t know their true names," he amended. "They used intermediaries. Temple men sometimes. Noble agents other times. We were told which children qualified. And then we prepare them."

"Prepared them how?"

He closed his mouth.

William stepped forward.

The dean looked at him and lost what little color remained in his face.

It was almost funny. William had not drawn a weapon. He had not spoken. He merely stood there, old, immaculate, and composed.

Proper butlers were truly frightening creatures.

"Prepared them how?" I asked again.

"Clean clothes," the dean said hoarsely. "Basic letters. Hymns. Silence. They had to learn silence."

Silence.

Spiro’s words returned.

If we were quiet, we could stay.

I placed the paper down with great care.

"Marks?"

The dean breathed shallowly. "Some were marked after assessment."

"Where were they taken?"

"I don’t know all the places."

"Then tell me the ones you know."

His lips trembled.

"If I speak, they will know."

"If you do not speak, I will know."

He stared at me.

Perhaps something in my expression finally convinced him that the former was the kinder threat.

"There was a chapel," he whispered. "Old Saint Orison’s. Beneath the western district. Not the public sanctuary. The lower one. Children chosen for the choir were taken there first."

Bernard stiffened.

William’s eyes narrowed.

Abi’s gaze slid to me.

Old Saint Orison’s.

A chapel.

Incense and rot.

A mouth beneath the Capital.

How wonderful.

The filth had roots after all.

"What is the choir?" I asked.

The dean began to cry.

I found this deeply offensive.

Tears should be reserved for victims, grieving families, and people forced to attend particularly dull banquets. Not men who taught children silence so others could carve them into rituals.

"I don’t know," he sobbed. "I swear I don’t know everything. They said the children were blessed. They said their voices would help maintain peace. They said the empire needed them."

There it was.

The empire needed them.

How many atrocities had entered the world wearing that sentence like formal attire?

"They came back sometimes," the dean continued, words spilling faster now. "Not all. Some. They were colder after. Quieter. Some heard music or forgot their names. Others became ill. Those ones were sent away."

"Where?"

"I don’t know."

"Dean."

He jerked.

I smiled.

He shook harder.

"Where?"

"The catacomb route," he whispered. "Through the old aqueduct. There are carts at night. The papers say temple supplies."

Temple supplies.

Of course.

Children, bones, incense, preservation salts, old ward stones. All tucked into the same darkness under the Capital.

"Who signs the transfers?"

"A solicitor. I never saw his face clearly. He wore grey gloves. He carried a red glass bell, but he never rang it. Not in front of us."

"Name."

"I don’t know."

I looked at Bernard.

Bernard understood immediately. "Halwen Grey?"

The dean’s eyes widened.

Good.

Fate’s information, it seems, was quite reliable.

"Yes," the dean rasped. "That was one of the names. Maybe not his true one. But yes. Halwen Grey."

Abi made a thoughtful sound. "A man carrying a bell he does not ring. Interesting."

"What happens if it rings?" I asked.

The dean looked at him, then at me.

"I don’t know," he whispered. "But the children were told never to answer if they heard one."

My fingers curled.

"Why?"

"Because if they answered, they had been chosen."

The room became very still.

Somewhere beyond the library, the estate clock ticked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

I thought of Spiro sleeping upstairs, his fingers curled around a handkerchief. I thought of Ansel teaching smaller children to count. I thought of Neria, Bell, names written in uneven lines by a child who believed remembering late was a sin.

A red glass bell.

A choir beneath a chapel.

A prince whose seventh-year rite had seven auxiliary children.

A mouth beneath the city that knew how to imitate my son’s voice.

I smiled.

The dean began to sob harder.

How noisy.

"William."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Have him moved to the lower room."

The dean jerked his head up. "Your Excellency, I have told you everything I know!"

"No," I said pleasantly. "You have told me everything you are frightened enough to say at present. There is a difference."

"I swear, I swear on the temple, on mercy, on the gods—"

"Do not."

The word cut through the room.

Even Abi looked at me.

I rose from my chair.

The dean shrank back.

"You do not get to borrow the gods after selling children to monsters beneath a chapel."

His mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

I adjusted my cuff.

"Make him comfortable enough to remain alive and uncomfortable enough to remain honest."

William bowed. "Understood."

Bernard took the dean by the arm. The man nearly collapsed, babbling apologies and prayers that sounded more like bargaining than repentance.

As they dragged him out, his voice cracked.

"It was not only the prince!"

I lifted one hand.

William stopped.

The dean panted, eyes wild.

"There were other rites. Other children. Other houses. The Crown Prince was only the first hymn."

Abi’s expression vanished.

I slowly turned.

The dean looked as if he regretted speaking. Wise. Unfortunately, wisdom had arrived late and poorly dressed.

"What did you say?"

His lips trembled.

"The first hymn," he whispered. "That is what they called it. The rite for His Highness. The first hymn of the sealed dawn."

Sealed dawn.

The words pressed against the air with the weight of something unknown.

For one absurd moment, I heard nothing.

Not the clock or the dean’s ragged breathing.

Not even Abi’s silence.

Only a faint ringing that was not ringing at all.

A bell without sound.

Far away, somewhere beneath stone and prayer, something seemed to be listening.

Then the sensation vanished.

I lowered my hand.

"Take him away."

This time, William did not pause.

When the door closed, I remained standing.

Abi watched me.

"You heard it," he said.

"I heard nothing."

"Brother."

"I said I heard nothing."

He stared at me for a long moment.

Then, quietly, "As you wish."

How annoying. Those three words should not have sounded familiar.

I turned toward the window. Night had settled over the Capital, soft and jeweled and full of hidden mouths. In less than a few hours, I would meet Fate beneath the east bridge. Before that, I now had a chapel, a solicitor, a bell, a choir, and a phrase that had no business crawling out of an orphanage dean’s mouth.

The first hymn of the sealed dawn.

I truly disliked religious poetry.

It always meant work.

Abi stepped beside me, unusually silent.

"Are you still going to the bridge?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And Saint Orison’s?"

"After."

"And the dean?"

"When he has remembered how to be useful again."

Abi’s mouth curved faintly. "You are collecting quite a list."

"I am a diligent man."

"A diligent villain lord?"

"Naturally."

He looked amused again, but there was something beneath it.

"And what does a diligent villain lord do when he finds a choir beneath a chapel?"

I looked down at the names on the table.

Ansel.

Neria.

Bell.

Spiro’s careful strokes.

Children arranged around a prince like offerings around a candle.

My smile returned.

Beautiful.

Polite.

Perfectly carved.

"He corrects the music," I said.