"Come with us."

  Two guards, armed and grim-faced, stepped from the alley like they'd been waiting for him. Their voices didn’t raise, but the tone was unmistakably firm.

  Swift scratched his head, his mind still fogged from fatigue, his body sore from hours of carving and etching.

  “Why?”

  The first guard took a step closer. “Not a request.”

  Swift gave a tired sigh. He could overpower both of them. Easily. One sweep of Excalibur, one well-placed strike, and he’d vanish into the rooftops before they even reached for their whistles.

  But becoming a fugitive would complicate everything. Once the Church declared someone an enemy, there was no clearing your name.

  So instead, Swift gave a weary shrug. “Alright. Lead the way.”

  They walked in silence and with every step, Swift’s pulse climbed.

  Did Morrow give me up?

  Was someone else listening at the Gray Barrel?

  Was Lee safe?

  Inara—?

  His thoughts spiraled into tight, dark circles.

  The white stone of the Church loomed ahead, dark and pristine. Guards led him through the side entrance, down a silent corridor, and finally into a dimly lit chamber.

  The room was built like an interrogation vault—elegant but cold. One half of the room glowed bright, polished tiles gleaming under candlelight. The other side was so dark he could barely make out figures standing in the shadows.

  Three of them, maybe.

  Then a voice emerged, low and emotionless.

  “Strip.”

  Swift's blood cooled, but his face remained neutral.

  He furrowed his brow. “Excuse me?”

  “Again—strip,” the voice repeated.

  Swift’s jaw tightened, but he complied. One boot at a time. Then the tunic. The belt. Until he stood in his undershorts.

  “All the way.”

  He exhaled slowly through his nose and finished. Cold air wrapped around his bare skin as he stood naked under divine scrutiny.

  A rustle. A glint of metal.

  Three priests—or Church agents—emerged from the shadows and began inspecting every item he had carried. Each thread of fabric, every seam. One ran their fingers across the inner linings of his shirt, another checked the soles of his boots.

  They found nothing.

  “Thank you. You may dress.”

  Swift did so slowly, thankful he had left the gloves at Lee’s.

  As he laced his boots, the darkness of the room seemed to recede like a stage curtain. A table and chair appeared—not materialized, just revealed—along with a single figure seated across from where Swift now stood.

  A young priest. Clean robes. Short brown hair. Thin-framed glasses. He looked more like an academic than an inquisitor.

  “Have a seat,” the priest said.

  Swift did.

  “Do you know why you are here?” the priest asked, tone polite.

  Take a breath then answer.

  “…No idea,” Swift replied, feigning confusion.

  The priest folded his hands. “We value transparency, so let me be clear. You were overheard discussing blessings with another gunfighter—Inara—at a tavern. Is that true?”

  Swift’s fingers curled slightly beneath the table.

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  No point lying now. If they brought me here, they already had enough to pull me in.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for your honesty,” the priest said. “We have already spoken with Inara.”

  Swift’s eyes narrowed, just briefly, a flash of emotion breaking through the facade. His mind pictured Inara stripped down just as he had been.

  The priest caught the look. “Don’t worry. Our inspection teams are appropriately assigned. All-female, in her case.”

  That’s not the point.

  Swift yawned—long and exaggerated.

  The priest raised an eyebrow. “Tired?”

  “It’s late. And I’ve had a long day,” Swift replied flatly.

  The questioning continued—not harsh, not loud, but methodical. The priest adjusted his glasses with quiet precision, the light above them casting faint reflections across his lenses.

  “I should introduce myself,” the priest said. “I am Brother Cozbin. One of the appointed inspectors for matters involving doctrinal irregularities.”

  More like inquisitor.

  Swift kept his face impassive. Cozbin spoke too softly to match the weight of his position, but Swift had met men like this before—dangerous not with fists or fury, but with patience and quiet authority.

  “Let me be clear,” Cozbin continued, “this isn’t a formal charge. It’s an inquiry. We simply want clarity.”

  Swift yawned again. “Then ask.”

  Cozbin didn’t flinch at the attitude.

  “Where did you first hear the term blessing as it pertains to firearms or equipment?”

  Swift gave a vague shrug. “People talk. Recruits speculate. I heard it from someone in passing. Sounded like superstition.”

  Cozbin scribbled something on the parchment in front of him.

  “What do you believe a blessing does?”

  “I don’t know,” Swift replied. “Didn’t think it was real until you dragged me in here.”

  Another note.

  “Do you know how a blessing is applied?”

  Swift held his expression. “Is that a trick question?”

  Cozbin’s smile was faint. “No. Just clarity.”

  Swift offered a half-smirk. “You’re the one with answers. Seems strange you’re asking me.”

  He tilted his head. “We have records. But those are not always reflective of what circulates among the ranks. And the Church prefers to monitor misinformation at the source.”

  “And if someone does know more than they should?” Swift asked lightly.

  Cozbin’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “They’re corrected.”

  Swift leaned back in the chair, letting silence hang for a moment before breaking it. “Let me ask you something then—so I don’t end up here again.”

  Cozbin raised a brow.

  “What is the official stance? You obviously don’t want people talking about blessings. So what does the Church actually say?”

  The question was a calculated risk.

  To his surprise, Cozbin didn’t shut him down. He nodded slowly, almost approvingly.

  “I was told you were smart,” Cozbin murmured. “Fine. A bit of education may be beneficial if it stops you from chasing this further.”

  He set his quill down and folded his hands, posture poised like a teacher about to deliver a lecture.

  “Blessings,” Cozbin began, “are divine miracles. They are not tools to be studied or replicated. They are granted only by the will of the Church, by God’s command through sanctified ceremony.”

  Swift gave the slightest nod as if taking the words seriously.

  “They cannot be created by individuals,” Cozbin continued. “Only church-sanctioned rites—conducted in sacred spaces by ordained Hands of God—can properly imbue an item with divine function.”

  Swift’s jaw remained slack, eyes slightly wide, just enough to mimic an impressionable young Marksman taking it all in.

  Cozbin went on.

  “Contrary to the nonsense circulating among recruits, blessings are not ‘drawn,’ not carved, and certainly not ‘activated’ by anyone outside the clergy. To suggest otherwise is blasphemy. The marks you may have heard of—the symbols? They are purely ceremonial. Without an ordained ritual, they are meaningless scratches.”

  Swift offered a slow, deliberate nod. “I’ve definitely heard the other version…”

  Cozbin smiled—thin, like a knife held under fabric.

  “Of course you have. Misinformation spreads like Corrosion. That is why we monitor. That is why we intervene.”

  “And if someone tries anyway?” Swift asked, voice calm, measured.

  “They fail,” Cozbin said flatly. “Your weapon may cease to function. We've seen rifles that refuse to fire. Guns that explode. And more than one soul driven mad from a simple mark carved in the wrong place. Hallucinations as well. Divine retribution does not always come in flames, Gunfighter Swift.”

  “That’s… more than I expected to hear.”

  Cozbin leaned back. “Then let this be the end of it. You were overheard asking questions. Now you have your answers. If you are ever found experimenting, carving, or tampering with divine matters, the Church will respond with less patience.”

  The investigator stood slowly.

  “You are dismissed. For now.”

  Swift rose with a subtle bow of his head.

  “Thank you for the guidance, Brother Cozbin. It won’t happen again.”

  Cozbin extended his hand. “May your next five weeks be peaceful.”

  Swift shook it calmly, respectfully.

  On the outside, he looked like a man corrected.

  But inside?

  He had never been more certain.

  The night was colder than before, the chill pressing into Swift’s jacket as he walked the quiet streets of Crescent City. Each footstep echoed slightly off the stone, but it was the heavier weight in his chest. The Church hadn’t accused him outright, but it was clear now—he was being watched. They might not have found any proof, but Brother Cozbin’s words and expression were unmistakable.

  The message was sent: back off.

  As he walked, Swift replayed every word from the conversation, parsing not just what was said, but what had been carefully avoided. The Church was lying. Whether out of fear, control, or both, their explanation of blessings had been a fabrication—swift, polished, and deliberately misleading. They wanted people ignorant, dependent, and afraid to seek truth on their own.

  Which meant Swift couldn’t stay.

  Even if he finished his helmet, even if he perfected his gear, there was no way to use it freely inside Crescent City without risking inspection—without giving them reason to dig deeper. He would not give them a reason for himself, and not for Lee. He’d need to complete everything in secret… and then get out. Quietly, without warning.

  The capital, maybe?

  His mind drifted to Inara. He hoped she was okay. No doubt they’d interrogated her, just as they had him. Picturing her annoyed, probably more irritated at being woken up than intimidated by the priests made Swift smirk, just a little, before the weight of it settled again.

  I owe her.

  Swift lay down on the stiff mattress, his muscles aching, his eyes heavy, and his mind restless. Plans and symbols danced in his head, threads of knowledge just beginning to knot together. He had work to do, more than ever before.

  What should I do?