The cathedral was dark when Leximus returned.
The void-altar pulsed in the distance, its rhythm slow and patient. The candles were unlit. The grey-robed worshippers were gone. Only Eugene stood at the altar, his back to Leximus, his hands clasped behind him.
He didn't turn when Leximus entered. He didn't speak. He simply stood there, still as a statue, as if he had been waiting for this moment for a long time.
Leximus walked to the center of the chamber. His footsteps echoed off the stone walls, sharp and deliberate. The cold inside him was no longer quiet—it was surging, pulsing, reaching toward Eugene like a hand trying to close around a throat.
"I saw the warehouses," Leximus said.
Eugene didn't move. "I know."
"I saw you. In the vision. Talking to a woman in a dark coat. Talking about the King. About the capacitors. About me."
Eugene turned. His face was calm, untroubled, but his eyes were different. Colder. Harder. The mask had slipped, just a little, and beneath it was something Leximus had never seen before.
"You used Echo-Walk," Eugene said. "You pushed yourself too hard. You're bleeding."
Leximus touched his lip. His fingers came away red. He hadn't noticed.
"The route through the slums," Leximus said. "The capacitors. The extraction. You're not helping me save her. You're making sure we both die."
Eugene was quiet for a long moment.
He then stepped closer. His voice was soft, almost gentle. "The King uses the Church. The Church uses the Audit. The Audit uses the cult. The cult uses you. And you—you use all of us to save your sister."
"That's not the same."
"Isn't it?" Eugene tilted his head. "You came to me for help. You took my resources, my people, my artifacts. You let me plan your extraction, map your route, guide your steps. You used me, Leximus. Just as I used you."
Leximus felt the cold inside him surge.
"I didn't come to you you brought yourself to me, remember?"
"And for each of your plans to whom did you come to huh? Me or my people, right?"
"I didn't know you were planning to kill her."
"I'm not planning to kill her. I'm planning to use her. There's a difference."
"Not to her."
"No." Eugene's voice was soft. "Not to her."
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
Leximus stood at the center of the chamber, the void-altar pulsing behind him, Eugene facing him across the stone floor. The cold inside him was no longer surging—it was still, waiting, patient.
"The route is changed," Leximus said. "The extraction is in three days. I'm going through with it."
Eugene's eyes widened. Just a fraction. Just enough for Leximus to notice.
"Even knowing what I've told you?"
"Especially knowing what you've told me." Leximus stepped closer. "You think I'm going to die in the slums. You think the capacitors will detonate and I'll be at the epicenter and Sheila will be collateral and the narrative will write itself."
He stopped a few feet from Eugene.
"You're wrong."
"I'm rarely wrong."
"There's a first time for everything."
Eugene studied him for a long moment. His face was calm, but his eyes were sharp, assessing, calculating.
"What are you going to do?"
"Save my sister. Get her out of the capital. Disappear."
"And the cult?"
"The cult can burn."
Eugene smiled. It was not a warm smile.
"The cult has been waiting for the Unwritten for generations," he said. "We've sacrificed resources, people, decades of work. We're not going to let you walk away."
"Then stop me."
Leximus turned and walked toward the stairs.
"Leximus."
He stopped.
"After you get her out," Eugene said, "after you disappear—what then?"
Leximus didn't turn around.
"Then I come back for you."
He walked up the stairs, through the cemetery, into the fog.
The tannery was silent when Leximus returned.
Griggs had gone home hours ago. The workers had left. The only sound was the drip of water from the ceiling and the distant rumble of the city settling into sleep. Leximus climbed the narrow staircase to his room, his footsteps heavy on the worn boards, the cold inside him steady and patient.
The room was as he had left it. The cot in the corner. The cracked mirror on the wall. The water stains on the ceiling that looked like maps of places he would never see.
He sat on the edge of the cot and stared at the opposite wall.
Three days, he thought. Three days until the Public Showing.
Three days until I see her again.
Three days until I save her or die trying.
He reached into his coat and pulled out the Pen. The golden tip gleamed in the dim light, warm against his fingers. The Coin was in his other pocket, cool and smooth.
Five minutes, he thought. Five minutes to rewrite reality.
I need to make sure I succeed, failure isn't an option
He lay back on the cot and stared at the ceiling.
The water stains were still there—the same shapes, the same patterns. He had traced them so many times that he knew every curve, every branch, every place where the water had pooled and dried. They looked like maps. Maps of places he had never been.
He closed his eyes.
He didn't dream. It was just darkness.