“The Mark of the Sacred Flame,” Giedrius repeated, his voice a low, strangled rasp. The metallic glint of the seal in his fingers was stark against the dissolving gray of the thrall’s head. “They’re working together. The Radiant sunburst and the Umbral Hand. This is… unprecedented.” I nudged the cleaver against the remaining pulp. “Unprecedented, or just unexposed? Those holy men love to preach about purity while their fingers are sticky with other people’s gold. No wonder they’re so keen on finding a ‘divine vessel.’ Saves them the trouble of getting their own hands dirty.” I glanced at Ignas, who sat rigid in the oversized tub, his blind eyes fixed on the general direction of the dissolving thrall. He hadn’t flinched when the head came off, but the subsequent revelation seemed to have burrowed under his skin, leaving him tense and utterly silent. “Well, Giedrius, this alliance changes the menu entirely. We can’t have the main course turning into a side dish before we’ve even started cooking. This calls for a reconnaissance mission. Ignas,” I said, turning to him, my voice softening to a honeyed lilt. “You’ve eaten well, little shadow. Time for a nap. I’ll be back before your broth cools.” He tensed, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “No. Where do you go?” “Just a little expedition, to find out what kind of rot has infested our lovely Sunken Cloister. You, however, need to digest that magnificent meal. You want to grow big and strong, don’t you? So you can be my perfect, obedient pet?” His molars ground together, but his shoulders relaxed fractionally. He hated the pet moniker, but it was the only way to get him to yield. “Good boy. Now, off to bed.” I led him, still dripping, to the small, sparse bedchamber attached to the kitchen. His new quarters. Giedrius, meanwhile, had already begun cleaning up the gory mess, efficiently scrubbing the tiles with lye and a grimace. I made Ignas lie down, pulling a thick woolen blanket over his lean frame. “Stay put. No sneaking, no brooding. Just… sleep. Your stomach needs it.” “Don’t leave me,” he mumbled, his voice uncharacteristically small. It was the closest he’d come to a plea. “Never, little shadow. I’ll be back before you can say ‘seconds.’” I waited until his breathing evened out, then slipped out, closing the heavy oak door behind me. “Right, Giedrius. Old records. And no looking guilty. You’re with the Fake Saintess, remember? We own this place.” The subterranean scriptorium was a labyrinth of dusty scrolls and brittle parchment, illuminated by the soft glow of enchanted crystal globes. Rows of shelves stretched into the dim distance, smelling of ancient paper and the faint, sweet decay of forgotten ink. We navigated the winding corridors, Giedrius’s knowledge of the compound's inner workings guiding us past patrolling acolytes. We were deep within the records vault, Giedrius carefully sifting through a ledger of procurement orders for ‘sacred oils’ and ‘purification salts’ that seemed suspiciously high, when a familiar, smooth voice echoed from the shadowed archway. “My dear Vakarė. I was just about to send for you.” High Priest Valdas stepped into the light, his robes a pristine white against the sepia tones of the scrolls. Behind him stood Brother Osvaldas, the prelate's stern-faced lieutenant, clutching a heavy tome. A small, polished table appeared as if from nowhere, laden with a delicate porcelain tea set. “Your Eminence,” I said, offering a bright, utterly insincere smile. “What a pleasure. Are you enjoying the Cloister’s hospitality? I find their tea blend a touch… pedestrian, but the biscuits are surprisingly robust.” The cleric chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. “Always so discerning, my dear. I’ve had a special brew prepared, just for you. A restorative, after your… arduous journey.” He gestured to the tea. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer radiated from the amber liquid in one of the cups. “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” I purred, my gaze narrowing on the shimmering cup. Truth serum. Holy light variety. Designed to make heretics confess. The hierarch was playing a dangerous game. “But I insist,” the prelate said, pushing the glowing cup subtly towards me. “A simple refreshment between… colleagues.” I picked up the cup, my fingers brushing the warm ceramic. “Such graciousness. But you know, High Priest, I find myself craving a bit of… variety.” With a theatrical flourish, I spun the cup in my hand, my thumb finding the rough edge of a hairline crack I’d noticed. As I brought the cup to my lips, I feigned a sudden, delicate cough, turning my head. In that split second, my other hand, trained for years in the lightning-fast precision of a chef’s knife, executed a seamless switch. The shimmering cup, now empty, was swiftly replaced by the identical, non-glowing one from my left hand. I made sure to take a sip, a tiny, performative one. “Ah, much better,” I declared, setting *my* cup down. “Now, Brother, you look rather parched. Won’t you join us?” I subtly pushed the cup *with* the serum toward the junior monk. The subordinate, caught off guard, glanced at his superior, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod. The lieutenant, perhaps eager to appear obliging, reached for the offered tea. He took a deep, gulping draught. The effect was almost immediate. The monk's pupils flared wide, a strange, glassy sheen spreading over them. He gasped, dropping the cup with a clatter. “I… I can’t… the accounts! The tithes! I took it! Ten thousand gold marks, for my sister’s dowry! And the sacred relics… I sold them to the black market, to the Skaldos cartel! For pleasure barges and spiced wine, not for the temple! I am a sinner! A terrible, wretched sinner!” His voice rose to a shriek, echoing through the silent hall. The prelate's face, usually a mask of serene piety, twisted in a snarl of pure fury. His eyes, fixed on the babbling monk, were slits of molten gold. Giedrius, beside me, was pale, his mouth hanging slack. “Silence, idiot!” the priest hissed, but the subordinate was beyond reason, spilling every sordid detail of his corruption. Suddenly, the distant clang of metal on stone, followed by a guttural roar, ripped through the aisles. The hushed stillness shattered. Another crash, closer this time, and then the distinct, wet sound of a heavy blade finding flesh. Panic flared in Valdas’s eyes. “What in the hallowed blazes…?” Valdas muttered, just as a dark, frantic blur burst into the main hall. Ignas. His sightless stare was fixed straight ahead, but his chin tilted sharply, searching. A heavy, temple-issue spear was clutched in one hand, dripping crimson. Two headless guards crumpled behind him, their blood staining the ancient scrolls. “Vakarė!” His voice was a raw, desperate bellow. He had followed the scent of my spices, the unique aroma that clung to me. He was a whirlwind of panicked violence, cutting down another guard who dared to step between him and me. “Ignas!” I snapped, my voice sharp, cutting through the chaos. “What did I tell you about ruining your digestion? And look at this mess! You’ll scare away all the good spirits!” He froze, mid-swing, the dripping spear held aloft. His head tilted, listening to my voice, and then the manic fury in his stance slowly deflated. The rigid tension in his shoulders eased, and he lowered the spear, its tip striking the flagstones with a soft thud. His chest heaved, but his blind gaze was fixed on me, now utterly obedient. The high priest, recovering from the shock, ascended a nearby spiral staircase, reaching a small, ornate balcony overlooking the scene. He looked down at the blood-soaked floor, at the petrified Giedrius, at the now-docile Ignas, and finally, at my calmly smiling face. A slow, chilling smirk spread across his lips, devoid of his usual piety. He leaned over the railing, whispering to a guard who had just arrived, trembling. “The heresy is confirmed. Prepare the solstice pyre logs.”

The Truth Serum Switch