The spiral stone stairs leading to the top of the bell tower were dark and long.
Time and weather had gnawed the stone walls rough and uneven. Candlelight flickered in the drafts, stretching shadows into long, twisted shapes.
Selton Calvin climbed the stairs, his expensive boots striking the stone with a steady "tap, tap" that echoed through the narrow passage.
Even after thousands of steps, his breathing remained steady.
It was not merely his knightly physique. The adrenaline surging through him drowned out all fatigue and discomfort.
The stone stairs wound upward, level after level.
With every step, Selton distinctly felt a strange psychological dislocation spreading from the soles of his feet, as though he were slowly being lifted away from the ground.
Away from the old nobility's indecision, his father's hesitation, and all those obsolete notions of dignity and promises still held up as ideals.
The scene in the square replayed uncontrollably in his mind.
Flames rose. Golden supernatural fire devoured the execution scaffold, while his father remained silent two streets away.
That silence was more glaring than any plea.
The old man known as the Fox of the Southeast now dragged even his tail through the dust, left with nothing but sluggish, futile caution.
It proved that the decision Selton had made two years ago had been right.
Selton sneered inwardly.
That outdated noble dignity would only drag the entire family into the flames.
What the Southeast Province needed now was someone who understood calculation, someone who could rebuild upon the ruins.
It needed a new master.
He did not believe he was bowing to the Holy See. Quite the opposite: to him, this was a partnership whose costs and returns had long since been calculated.
Divine authority was ultimately insubstantial.
Taxes, grain, ports, warehouses, ledgers-these were what