The Impostor's Trial

The incense smoke curled in the candlelight like something alive, and you were grateful for the way it stung your eyes—it gave you a reason to blink, to look away from Brother Malachi's gaze. He stood at the head of the stone circle, his robe whispering against the flagstones, and his voice carried the cadence of a man who had rehearsed this moment a thousand times.

"You have been chosen," he said. "The map ends where the worthy begin."

You felt the weight of the folded parchment in your palm—the one with the missing section, the one your handler's coded message had warned you about. A trap, the message had said. But a trap for whom?

Sister Elara stood at the edge of the circle, her eyes lowered, her fingers tracing the beads of her rosary. She looked up, just for a breath, and you caught something in her expression—not suspicion, but concern. A flicker of doubt that mirrored your own.

Malachi stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the oil on his skin. "The trial begins at dawn," he said. "And you will lead us into the dark."

The fire hissed. Somewhere beyond the walls, the Veil hummed with secrets.