Liora wasn't sure what was more disturbing: the content of the mysterious letter… or the way Morian was looking at her while she read it.
That look.
Intense violet eyes, like those of an oracle who knew all her sins — the old ones, the new ones, and the ones committed with way too much sugar. It was the kind of look that made anyone forget their train of thought. And their own name.
"You're staring at me," she said, eyes still on the letter. "Again."
"I'm simply observing your reaction to a potentially dangerous message," he replied — way too fast. Suspiciously fast.
She turned the letter over slowly, like she was flipping a magical trap.
"It says: 'The veil falls where the light shines too brightly. The inverted rose shall bloom in blood.' Seriously, why does every cult write like they're trying to win a brooding poetry contest?"
"Because it works," Morian said, pouring more tea with almost theatrical elegance. "Drama distracts. And for cultists, it hides the complete lack of any practical plan."
"Hm. So we're dealing with poets without logistics. Awful. They're the worst kind."
She leaned back in her chair, swinging one leg idly while staring at the ceiling. A dangerous thought crossed her mind.
"Do you think they're targeting me?"
Morian didn't answer right away. Instead, he gave her that look again. That one.
As if she were an unsolvable riddle, a rare chess piece… and a memory he wasn't sure he wanted to keep or erase.
"You attract chaos as easily as you breathe," he said at last, eyes never leaving her. "Of course they're targeting you."
Liora blinked.
"...Was that an insult, a compliment, or a diagnosis?"
"Yes."
She grabbed a slice of cake and stared at him like she was holding a weapon loaded with whipped cream.
"One day, Morian, one day you're going to say something straightforward. And on that day, the world will tremble."
He raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Don't hold your breath.
Before she could fire back another sarcastic gem, a sound echoed from upstairs. A soft clink of metal. Quiet, but clear. Like someone — or something — wanted to be heard without being seen.
They stood up at the same time. Morian moved ahead, like always in tense moments. And Liora, like always, let him.
Old habits die hard, she thought, watching his back. He still moved like a king — a ruler of the underworld. Shoulders straight, steps calculated, ready to attack or defend — or, in Morian's case, both at once, with infuriating grace.
They climbed the stairs carefully, their footsteps whispering between stone columns. When they reached the Hall of Relics, they found a window slightly open and a book on the floor, its pages fluttering in the breeze.
Nothing else.
Liora approached cautiously.
"It's a journal," she murmured. "And it has the High Mother's seal… But why would it be here?"
"Because someone wants us to find it. Or to think it was accidental."
Morian stood a few steps away, scanning the room like a hunter analyzing a trap. But for just a second, his eyes returned to Liora.
And she felt it. Not saw — felt.
That look. As if he saw her in a way no one else did. Not as a saint. Not as a former demon general. But as... something in between. Something he understood.
"Stop looking at me like that," she said suddenly, before she could stop herself.
He didn't even pretend to be confused.
"Like what?"
She narrowed her eyes.
"Like I'm still your subordinate."
"Ah," he said, with a small smile. "That's just because you still act like one."
She was about to snap back — something sharp, probably with profanity mentally censored by cathedral protocol — when the journal in her hand gave a soft glow.
A protection spell.
"Bingo," she muttered. "This thing's enchanted. Might hold clues about the Order of the Shadowed Veil."
"Or it's a trap," Morian said, already raising a hand to trace a protective sigil in the air.
"Obviously it's a trap. If I avoided traps, I wouldn't be here with you."
He chuckled.
"Fair point."
Liora looked down at the book. The enchantment pulsed with a sweet, dark energy — like poison disguised as perfume.
Outside, the sky was darkening. The wind brought the scent of an oncoming storm.
She sighed.
"All I wanted today was a dessert, a hot cup of tea, and maybe a nap. Instead, I got cult poetry, a near-trap, and you."
Morian raised his cup, still half full.
"The tea's still warm. And I am delightful company — modesty aside."
She rolled her eyes.
"You're a nightmare with a nice voice."
"And you're my favorite nightmare."
For a moment, silence settled around them. Except for the distant rumble of thunder, and the spell's steady pulse.
Liora tightened her grip on the book.
"Let's find out what's inside before the next threat starts reciting sonnets."
Morian nodded.
"After that, you might even get your nap."
"Only if you promise to shut up for thirty minutes."
He smiled.
"Promise? Never. But I can try."
And together — former infernal boss and reluctant saint — they opened the enchanted journal, ready to dive into the next chapter of secrets, chaos… and looks that should absolutely not be allowed in holy places.