The cathedral was cold when Leximus arrived.
Not the cold of the Void—the cold of disuse, of spaces that had been left alone too long. The void-altar pulsed in the darkness, its rhythm slow and patient. Eugene stood before it, his back to Leximus, his hands clasped behind him.
"You've been gone for days," Eugene said.
"I've been watching."
"Watching what?"
"The Justicar. Joel Williams."
Eugene turned. His face was calm, untroubled, but his eyes were sharp.
"That's dangerous."
"I know."
"Then why?"
Leximus stepped into the chamber. The cold inside him stirred, responding to the altar's pulse.
"Because he's wrong. There's something wrong with him. The way he moves. The way he doesn't blink. The way he spends hours behind a door that won't open."
Eugene was quiet for a long moment.
"Williams has been the Justicar for ten years," he said. "Before that, no one knew him. He appeared from nowhere, appointed by the King himself. Some say he's not human. Some say he's not even alive."
"What do you say?"
Eugene shook his head. "I say he's dangerous. And you should stay away from him."
Leximus didn't argue. He had come for something else.
"My Tide-Mark," he said. "It's spreading."
Eugene led him to the side chamber, the one with the cot and the silver mirror. Leximus sat on the edge of the cot and unbuttoned his collar. The black lines had crept higher—past his collarbone, up his neck, curling around his jaw like roots searching for soil.
Eugene examined him in silence, his fingers pressing gently against the skin, his eyes tracing the pattern of the corruption.
"How long?" Leximus asked.
"At this rate? Months. Maybe less." Eugene stepped back. "The heist accelerated it. Using your power to un-write the seals— it costed you."
Leximus looked at his hands. The black lines had reached his knuckles, threading between his fingers.
"The integration," he said. "When can we do it?"
"Not yet. You're too weak." Eugene's voice was firm. "In a week, we'll begin."
"A week?"
"A week. The corruption won't kill you in a week. But going into the integration exhausted will."
Leximus wanted to argue. But the cold inside him was flickering again, and his legs felt unsteady.
He lay back on the cot.
Eugene sat on the bench across from him, his hands folded in his lap.
"The cult speaks of the Fourfold Lie," Eugene said. "Do you know what that means?"
Leximus was quiet. He had heard the phrase often—in the cathedral, during the services, murmured by the worshippers and others with ties to the cult. The Fourfold Lie. The cage of the Sources. He had nodded along, as if he understood, because everyone else seemed to.
But he didn't.
"The Church teaches that there are four Sources," Eugene said. "Fire. Water. Earth. Air. They teach that these are the only powers in the world, the only paths to divinity. They teach that Light is a myth, that Shadow is heresy, that the Veil is a fairy tale."
"And that's a lie?"
"That's the lie." Eugene's voice was soft. "There are seven Sources. Light. Shadow. Spatial. The four the Church acknowledges are real, but they're not the whole truth. They're just the parts the Church wants people to see."
Leximus stared at the ceiling.
"Why would the Church hide the truth?"
"Because the truth is dangerous. Light reveals what the Church wants to keep hidden. Shadow questions what the Church wants to be certain. Spatial connects what the Church wants to keep separate." Eugene paused. "The Fourfold Lie is a cage. And the Church is the jailer."
Leximus thought of the void-altar. The congregation. The way they had looked at him like he was an answer.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you're going to hear it again. From the cult. From the people who believe you're the Unwritten." Eugene met his eyes. "I wanted you to hear it from me first. So you understand."
"I understand that you're all keeping secrets."
"We're all keeping secrets." Eugene stood.
He walked out of the chamber, his footsteps fading into the darkness.
Leximus lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling.
The Fourfold Lie.
He still didn't understand. But he was tired of pretending he did.