When the first boot crashed against the door, Stanwick Tassiter dropped the candle. The flame caught the folios he had been reading, and the scholar was caught between the horror of the unexpected intrusion and the sight of his precious scriptures burning. As he batted at the pages, a blade appeared through a rent in the wood panelling of the door. He looked up, dismayed to see the design on the weapon. He now knew exactly who had come for him, and he wasn’t at all surprised; the texts he had been poring over were high on the Final Faith’s list of prohibited works. Stanwick had thought himself well guarded. Was it possible that Tremayne and Finch had given him away? They had always been amongst the most weak-willed of his acolytes.

Whatever. Stanwick had known the risks when he had taken up his studies, and so had made sure to create copies of his most important tomes. Those, the Faith would never find.

The door finally gave way and four heavily-armoured members of the Order of the Swords of Dawn burst into the subterranean archive. One of them rushed across the room and pressed a sword to his throat, while another forced Stanwick’s arms so far up his back that he let out a high-pitched squeal.

The commander — judging by the intricate designs on her breastplate — riffled through the charred pages on the desk and grunted with satisfaction.

“These will make a fine addition to the archive of forbidden literature at Scholten cathedral. Thank you for your help in taking such dangerous works out of circulation, Stanwick.”

Stanwick chose not to respond. He knew what awaited him now. He would spend a short amount of time in the depths of Scholten, at Katherine Makennon’s pleasure, before being sent to the gibbet. There would be no trial. Makennon probably wouldn’t even be aware of his passing.