Not counting Vega, the Heretic Inquisitor snapped awake first, like a blade catching light.

He raised a hand and seized the flustered Divine Healer’s shoulder, twisting mid-air toward Catherine’s bed like a hunting hawk.

But someone moved even faster, like lightning outrunning thunder.

Gloria burst through the gap between Vega and Stini, hit the doorframe like a struck bell, rolled to break the fall, sprang to the opposite wall, and slammed down like a cannonball.

She chased the Heretic Inquisitor, accelerated a third time, leapt, seized his wrist, and threw him in an over-the-shoulder arc that hit the floor like a falling mountain.

Throughout, the Heretic Inquisitor shifted less than half a meter, pinned like a nail.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” someone snapped, voice sparking like steel on stone.

Then, a beat late like cops to a brawl, Raven, Stini, and Elina rushed in, boots drumming like rainsticks.

The impact punched the air from the Inquisitor’s lungs; he writhed and coughed on the tiles until his eyes cleared, like fog burning off in sun.

Before he could answer, Gloria cut in, her words thin and sharp like knives under moonlight.

“This,” she said, cool as frost.

She flipped her wrist, plucked the item from his fist like pulling a thorn, and tossed it to Stini with a flick like ash.

“What is this?” Stini asked, eyes arrow-sharp.

“It’s a… Relic Silver Spike,” Vega said, her voice silver-cold. “Against Demonfolk, ‘one-hit kill’ doesn’t even cover it. It’s built to murder regenerators. The temples forge no more than thirty a year, and half go to sealing the Demon King.”

“I’ll only ask once! What were you going to do with that?” Stini’s breath shook like a snare.

“Is it necessary to ask?” the reply came, flat as slate.

“Gloria, you—”

“Stini. You. Know. Heretic Inquisition. Wants. Catherine. Dead,” Gloria said, the breaks like stones laid in a path. “So. Now. Decide.” She tapped her temple theatrically, like a puppet pausing mid-act. “Fast.”

Record as follows, Vega thought, her smile a thin veil like gauze. In future plans, note Gloria’s nature—bold, gutsy, decisive; not human; allegiance unclear; don’t judge by common sense; list her as first-priority subject, like a red mark on a ledger.

“But… why…” Stini’s voice fluttered like a moth.

“He’s only the first. After…” Gloria froze, a statue in a gust, the room holding its breath like a pond under ice. Then she rebooted with a glitch of snow. “New components. More errors. I am error. Apologies.”

She nodded, light as a reed in wind, and continued.

“Stini. Only you. You decide. Don’t force. Think,” she said, words dropping like pebbles. “Abandon. Approve. Persist. Confirm. Hesitate till regret. You decide. As Andor said.”

Stini opened her mouth and panted quick, like a bellows; the breath smoothed like a lake, and she seemed to choose.

“Wait!” The Heretic Inquisitor cut across, voice cracking like a whip.

“What are you doing, Hero? What drama are you playing at? You think I came to kill her?” He clawed his way up, face storm-dark, and shot Gloria a glance like a thrown knife.

“We need to confirm that Catherine is still a hero of humankind,” he said, drawing a line in the sand like a blade edge.

“So you brought a Relic Silver Spike to confirm?” Stini’s words glittered like ice.

“Is that wrong?” His jaw ground—whether gums or steel talons, the grit clicked like beetles.

“…”

Silence pooled like ink.

Think it through—it tracked, chalk marks on a slate.

When Holy Knights hunt Demonfolk, lack of sanctified gear is about poverty, not principle; they don’t haul Relic Silver Spikes, but blessed plate, sanctified hammers, and mythril lances are standard, like a storm of iron.

Facing a suspected fallen hero, the Heretic Inquisition reallocating personnel and issuing a Relic Silver Spike is… acceptable, like cold bureaucracy ticking boxes.

It passes, like water through a sieve.

Only barely, like a thread on the verge of snapping.

“Then why did you charge Catherine the moment you saw us?” Raven’s question prowled like a cornered beast.

“So I could kill Catherine at any instant before my test concluded,” he said, a safety latch dressed as a guillotine. “That’s necessary protection.”

“I’m asking you—”

“Ridiculous,” he hissed. “From your stance just now, I’m proven right. You—Heroes—your Hero Squad won’t let me kill Catherine.” His finger jabbed like a spear. “I’ll ask you instead. Catherine’s nature isn’t proven yet. If her soul’s unpolluted, fine, you had foresight. But if she truly betrayed humanity, do you understand what your actions mean?” His words hammered like mallets on a drum.

“I… I know. But we believe! We believe in Catherine!” Stini’s voice held up a lantern like a firefly.

“Belief? What’s belief worth?” He laughed, empty as a drum.

“Hey! Quit hounding Stini,” Raven snapped, sparks jumping like flint. “You were clearly trying to kill Catherine, not ‘verify’ anything!”

“…”

The scene jammed again, stones grinding in a mill.

After her explosive display, Gloria turned unreadable and slipped into silence, leaving the ward and sitting in the corridor like a cat in shadow.

Elina stood in a corner of the room, negotiating with elder Divine Healers; both sides wore paper masks, each guilty of something. The priests had clearly known of the Inquisitor’s arrival, and Elina wasn’t confident in Catherine’s condition—words skated on the surface like leaves.

Raven and Stini argued with the Heretic Inquisitor, blades of speech sparring like foils; as before, nobody could cut through.

The difference: they drifted around Catherine’s bed, quiet as wolves, building a wall of bodies. When a Hero and a Maker get serious, few things breach that rampart, like a cliff face against waves.

The Inquisitor saw the formation and stepped back, shadowing himself like a retreating tide. He kept pinning errors on the Hero Squad in the Catherine affair, but never mentioned Stini returning the Relic Silver Spike, a silence coiled like rope.

Shams and half-truths—everyone lied, like actors under stage paint.

Elina had no firm stance. To back her own temple was to back the Truth Seekers Assembly; to back Catherine was to back her first real friend; her heart split like a fork in a stream.

Raven and Stini were buying time, candles of hope trembling in the wind. Maybe Catherine would wake and prove herself. Maybe Andor would return. Maybe some miracle, unnamed, would bloom like a late flower.

The Heretic Inquisitor had a clear aim, a spear pointed at dusk. His first assassination failing told him his chance was gone. So he waited for one man—the Heretic Inquisition’s Chair, the mad dog, Maki, a storm shouldering toward town.

From start to finish, nobody asked the sharpest question: if Catherine proved fallen, how would the Hero, and the Hero Squad, choose? The stone lay unturned, moss growing in its shade.

Vega smiled and ghosted out of the ward, closing the door behind her like a drawn curtain.

“Vega.” The call lighted behind her like a lantern.

“What is it, Lady Gloria?” Vega’s reply flowed like silk.

“Vega. Andor. Said. What?” Gloria’s words dropped like beads.

“Forgive me, Your Highness. I still don’t know my master’s whereabouts, much less his stance on Miss Catherine,” Vega said, hands folded like leaves. “After all, I’m only a maid.”

“Vega.” The name rang like a chime.

“Is there a question, Lady Gloria?” Her tone was cool water.

“I saw Andor,” Gloria said, eyes closing like doors. “Holding Catherine. Saying, ‘Struggle to live.’” The memory burned like a coal.

“Is that so? I’m sorry, I know nothing,” Vega answered, a porcelain mask reflecting light. “When did my master say that, Your Highness?”

Gloria didn’t answer. She shook her head like a willow, then called Vega again, lips parting like a dawn slit, wanting to ask.

“What is it, Lady Gloria?” Vega’s voice hovered like mist.

“…Forget it. Not important,” Gloria said, the curtain falling again. “Andor will arrange. Good.” The words felt like pebbles dropped in a well.

“What are you even saying!” Vega’s protest snapped like a twig.

“Vega.” The name again, soft as snow.

“Yes, Lady Gloria.” Vega tilted her head, a bird on a branch.

“You’re smiling,” Gloria said, the remark brushing like a moth’s wing.

“No, no, I’m not. I’m troubled too,” Vega answered, the smile fixed like lacquer. “I’m used to this businesslike face. My master prefers it.”

“No. Vega. You are smiling,” Gloria said, not looking with eyes alone, a hand on the wind’s grain. “I don’t know. Maybe… that’s not good.”

“Please allow me to leave first, Lady Gloria,” Vega said, footsteps gathering like rain. “I have much to handle.”

“…”

Vega resisted the urge to slip into Shadow, like a fish returning to deep water, and quick-stepped out of the Sanctuary of Life.

Even without resonating the Shadow’s domain, without calling extra sightlines, she knew Gloria watched her go, eyes steady like twin moons.

She walked a long while, until the resonance-permit field thrice confirmed no observation hit her, and the feeling like insects crawling under the skin slowly faded, a bad itch ebbing like tide.

Vega clenched her teeth and sent a ripple into Shadow again, like a stone dropped in dark water.

[Victor, how’s your side?]—a whisper racing through Shadow like smoke.

[Sis, not feeling great?]—his tone breezed in like a teasing wind.

[My master left a mess, so I’ll vent at you. Tell me your operation failed, so I have a reason to act,] she sent, heat shimmering like spilled oil.

[Whoa, whoa, Sis, no need to misplace the blame that hard. Things went off-script, huh?] His laugh fluttered like sparrows.

[Hard to say. Their stance doesn’t look like they’ll break things. That’s no reason for us to relax. How’s your side?] Her thought pressed like a storm nose.

[No problem, Sis! Trust a former top assassin. Maki’s chased me more than once. Killing me? Near impossible. Stalling him? Easy—wait, how’d you get in here?! Am I running fake alarm magic?!] His shout cracked like a paper door in wind.

[…]

[…Dammit! Dammit!] he spat, words stumbling like stones. [Since I met Hattie, I even forgot how to curse! Ah, Sis, you still there? Your little brother’s fine, minus a broken hand like a snapped twig. I can stall him two more days.]

[No need. Today’s the sixth day of the trip. It ends the morning after tomorrow. Stall a day and a half,] she answered, hourglass sand trickling in thought.

[So, stall till the Hero Squad’s trip ends? Boss is so considerate of them. Even trouble waits till the picnic’s over…] His grin felt like a cat’s tail.

[If the work’s fine, shut up. There’s a reason for ending with the trip. Come back then. We’ve got a performance,] Vega said, the word “show” glittering like a curtain edge.

[No problem! Sis—oh, one more thing I wanted—] His voice raised a hand like a sparrow about to flit.

Vega cut the Shadow link clean, scissors through a black thread.

“Lady Gloria… do try to read the room,” she murmured, her whisper a stage light fading. “You’re not the protagonist of this story.”