The days after the integration blurred together.
Leximus spent them in the cathedral, resting, recovering, learning the contours of his new ability. Echo-Walk was not like Shade-Stride. Shade-Stride was escape—a way to move from one place to another without crossing the space between. Echo-Walk was intrusion. A way to step into the past, to touch memories that were not his own, to witness things that had been buried for centuries.
Each use cost him.
The first time, he had seen the woman by the spring—the first Avatar, the one who had drunk from the Void's well. The vision had lasted three seconds. When he opened his eyes, his nose was bleeding.
The second time, he had seen the First Avatars fleeing the Church's purge, shedding their identities, becoming invisible. The vision had lasted five seconds. When he opened his eyes, his head was pounding, and the Tide-Mark had crept another fraction of an inch up his neck.
The third time, he had tried to see something specific. The construction of the cathedral, perhaps. The moment when the void-altar was carved. But the vision was fragmented, unclear, as if the stone itself had forgotten what he was trying to find.
When he opened his eyes, he collapsed.
Eugene caught him before he hit the floor.
"That's enough," Eugene said, lowering him to the cot. "You're pushing too hard."
"I need to understand."
"You need to survive." Eugene's voice was firm. "Echo-Walk is not a tool. It's a wound. Every time you use it, you're tearing it open again. If you keep pushing, the wound won't heal."
Leximus lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling. The cold inside him was quiet now—but the quiet of exhaustion.
"How long until the banquet?" he asked.
"Three weeks."
"Then I have three weeks to learn."
"Three weeks to prepare," Eugene corrected. "Learning implies you know what you're doing. You don't."
Leximus closed his eyes.
The Church of the Eternal Flames was not the only church in the capital.
Leximus had learned this during his time at the Ministry, reading files, listening to clerks, piecing together the shape of the city's faith. The Church of the Eternal Flames was the largest, the most powerful, the one with the closest ties to the Crown, the followed Ignis. But it was not the only one.
The Church of the Endless Sea, for those who followed Thalassa. Smaller, quieter, its temple built on the banks of the river where the first Water Avatars had performed their baptisms. The Church of the Unmoving Mountain, for Tellus, a massive structure carved into the bedrock beneath the industrial quarter, its foundations older than the capital itself. The Church of the Perfect Sky, for Aetherius, a spire that rose above the merchant district, its windows always open to the sky, its halls echoing with the sound of wind through stone.
Each Church worshipped its Source. Each Church had its own priests, its own rituals, its own holy days. And each Church believed—truly believed—that its Source was the truest path to understanding.
"People pray to the Sources," Eugene said one afternoon, sitting on the bench across from Leximus. "They light candles in the temples. They speak the honorific prayers—the True Name, the Domain, the Supplication. And sometimes, the Sources answer."
"Answer how?"
"In small ways. An Emberkin's flame burns brighter after a prayer to Ignis. A Tideborn's memory sharpens after a prayer to Thalassa. The Sources don't speak. They don't appear. But they listen. And sometimes, they respond."
Leximus thought of the void-altar. The way it pulsed when he looked at it. The way the cold inside him responded.
"Does the Void listen?"
"The Void is not a Source. Not in the way the others are." Eugene's voice was soft. "The Void is potential. Possibility. It doesn't listen because it doesn't need to. It already knows every prayer you could ever speak, every thought you could ever think, every choice you could ever make."
"Then why do the cult members pray to it?"
"Because they need something to believe in." Eugene paused. "The same reason anyone prays."
"The King," he said. "Does he pray?"
"Every day," Eugene said. "To Ignis, mostly. The Fire Source. The Church of the Eternal Flames is his favorite. He lights a candle in the grand temple every morning before he holds court."
"And the Sources answer?"
"They listen. Whether they answer..." Eugene shrugged. "The King is still alive. The Crown still stands. Perhaps that's answer enough."
Leximus thought of Hespera Brindle's execution. The copper chair. The way the crowd had cheered.
"The King used the Church to justify the execution," he said. "The charges. The trial. The sentence. All of it was presented as the Crown's justice."
"The King uses the Church," Eugene said, "but he does not control it. No one controls the Sources. They are older than the Crown. Older than the capital. Older than humanity itself. The King can light candles and speak prayers until his voice gives out, but Ignis will not burn brighter just because he asks."
"Then why does the Church allow it?"
"Because the Church needs the Crown. The temples need coin. The priests need protection. The King provides both." Eugene's voice was flat. "It's a marriage of convenience. The Crown gets legitimacy. The Church gets resources. And the people get to believe that someone is in charge."
Leximus was quiet for a long moment.
"You said the Crown dissolved the Churches fifty years ago. Consolidated power."
"The Crown tried." Eugene shook his head. "The Churches pushed back. The Sources pushed back. Fires went unlit. Waters went unpurified. Stones crumbled. Winds went raveged. The King's father learned that you cannot command the Sources. You can only ask. And sometimes, they refuse."
"What happened?"
"A compromise. The Churches kept their temples. The Crown kept its authority. And both sides pretended that nothing had changed." Eugene stood. "But everything had changed. The King learned to fear the Sources. And the Sources learned to ignore the King."
That night, Leximus dreamed of Sheila.
She was standing in a garden—a larger garden, more formal, with hedges trimmed into shapes he didn't recognize. She was wearing a white dress, the kind of dress that nobility wore to banquets, and her hair was pinned up in a style that made her look older than she was.
She was standing before a small altar, a candle in her hands. The flame flickered in the darkness, casting shadows across her face.
"Ignis," she whispered. "Source of Change. Hear my prayer."
The flame grew brighter. Taller. Warmer.
"I don't know if you're listening," she continued. "I don't know if you care. But I need help. My brother is gone. My parents are dead. And I'm alone."
The flame flickered.
"Please," she said. "Please help me."
The dream ended.
Leximus woke with the cold inside him pulsing, faster than before, as if trying to tell him something.
Sheila was praying. Praying to a Source that might not answer. Praying for help that might never come.
Three weeks, he thought. Three weeks until the banquet.
He lay back down and closed his eyes. But sleep didn't come easy that night