“That’s one way to knock,” Cyrus said, and he followed Arn inside. Unlike the first visit to the Twin Sanctuary, where he’d been nervous and leading a stealthy assassination attempt on the sleeping magistrate, now Cyrus walked in feeling surprisingly nostalgic. He gazed at the painted windows, basic color patterns that once depicted stories of Lycaena and Endarius. The crimson carpet was soft beneath his feet. He walked between rows of benches with goose feather pillows. Looming over it all was a golden statue of God-Incarnate Lucavi. He seemed less of a man and more an idealized version of one, his chest bare and covered with more muscles than seemed humanly possible. His hair was long, his smile patronizing, his legs so thick, they made his rather normal feet seem comically tiny. Even his groin bulged as if the thin loincloth was overstuffed, an obscene image in a place so holy.

“One day,” he whispered, imagining the statue of the God-Incarnate replaced with the proper monument from his childhood, that of Lycaena placing a loving hand upon Endarius’s head, the two gods in repose atop a thatched reed raft.

One of his earliest memories was sitting on his grandmother’s lap a year before she passed away, attending what would be one of many Calm Tide services in his life. The holiday marked the end of the War of Tides, the appointment of the Lythan family as chosen rulers of Thanet, and the declaration of unity and cooperation between Lycaena and Endarius for the hearts and minds of her people. Given the importance, he attended each one dressed up in his finest, cramped into pews to hear speeches of togetherness and sing the same songs that had been sung for centuries. It took place during what was often the hottest stretch of summer, and he remembered impatiently fidgeting on his grandmother’s lap, sweating profusely, while she sang hymns at the top of her lungs. He’d mouthed along, too young for the words and promises to mean anything to him. Those songs now made him ache.

Arn walked the aisle, his head rotating left to right as he scanned the dimly lit ground for whatever it was that he’d lost on their original assassination.

“What is it we’re looking for?” Cyrus asked, not bothering to whisper as he followed. They’d made enough noise to alert the entire church, assuming anyone else remained to be alerted.

“Vagrant, you ask that one more time, I’m going to give you a fat lip.”

“It’s personal, I get that, and I assume something dear to you, but you mustn’t be rude about it.”

“I’m not being rude,” Arn said as he lifted a bench to look underneath it, using as much effort as he might to pick up a mouse. “I’m stating a simple fact so you may act accordingly. Also, it’s not here. Let’s check the magistrate’s room.”