It was not his place to speak first, yet the silence weighed heavier than any order he had sworn to. The Damselette sat upon the cathedral’s broken arch, her figure framed by the cold light that bore her name.

Every tale, every prayer whispered in the Lightkeepers’ halls had spoken of her grace. But grace, Flins realized, was a distant thing. Beautiful. Unreachable.

“Lady Columbina,” he said, bowing his head as the lantern in his hand dimmed. “This place is unsafe. Permit me to escort you elsewhere.”