Chapter 12: A Razors Edge


    At the side of the giant iron doors, a smaller door sat tucked away for easier access. That’s where Edmond was headed. He paused at the latch, his hand hovering over the worn metal.


    His face, lined with age and dusted with old regrets, seemed even more weathered in the midday light.


    With a slow breath, he firmed his grip and pushed it open, taking off his hat.


    Heat rushed, thick and heavy, rolling over him like the exhaust of a steam engine. The scent followed close—incense and hot metal, like prayers and machinery had mingled so long they’d become one.


    Edmond’s nose twitched, the old familiarity of it hitting him harder than he liked.


    The main hall stretched wide before him, rows of pews lined beneath vaulted ceilings of black iron and gold. Even without a service, the place had life—soft murmurs of prayer drifting from scattered parishioners, the quiet steps of nuns moving through the haze of candlelight.


    At the far end, framed by the great stained-glass window, stood the towering statue of Saint Oswin the Unyielding. Carved from dark stone and inlaid with veins of polished brass, he towered over the altar, his massive shield resting at his feet, his hammer gripped tight. Steam hissed from hidden vents at the base, keeping the metal warm, making it seem like the saint was breathing, watching all who stepped inside.


    Edmond exhaled slow, clenching his fists. Monday meant no sermons—just a few faithful kneeling before the altar, whispering to a God they hoped was listening. And somewhere in all this was the one he’d come for.


    Spotting a nun he recognized, Edmond stepped forward, ready to speak—but a familiar voice stopped him cold.


    "Lieutenant Thatcher. A rare pleasure. You’ll forgive me, of course, if I note how seldom you grace these halls. It is, after all, a place of refuge… for those who seek it.”


    ''Just my luck.''


    He swallowed the sigh before it could show, his face settling into something respectful, unreadable. Turning slow, he dipped his head just enough to be polite, holding his hat to his chest.


    "Bishop Fletcher."


    Edmond took in the man before him, every inch of him as precise and polished as the cathedral he lorded over. The man didn’t just wear authority—he was it.


    Tall, lean, and untouched by the Red River sun, Fletcher’s pale skin looked like it belonged in a monastery, not the frontier. His jet-black hair, streaked with gray at the temples, was slicked back neat, not a strand out of place. That face—sharp as a razor, all high cheekbones and a thin, unsmiling mouth—had the kind of look that made a man second-guess himself even when he knew he was right. And those eyes—cold, piercing blue—weren’t the eyes of a man who ever doubted his own righteousness.


    His robes were just as pristine as the man himself. Black and gold, embroidered with the sigils of the Church—crosses, gears, and the hammer and shield of Saint Oswin.


    The polished silver cross embedded in the back of his left hand caught Edmond’s eye. It wasn’t just decoration. Edmond had seen that hand at work, fixing augments with the same precision it could take a life with. Healing and killing, wrapped up in one symbol.


    Five years. That’s how long Fletcher had been in Denton. Five years of pressing his influence further into the town, into the hearts of its people. Five years of trying to sink his claws into his orphanage.


    Edmond had held firm. The church had its hands in damn near everything else, but not his home. Not his kids.


    And Fletcher? He didn’t much care for things he couldn’t control.


    "Pardon me for not catching up, but I’ve got business."


    Edmond gave a curt nod and turned to leave.


    "Would you spare just a moment? I would be ever so grateful, Lieutenant."


    Knowing he couldn’t push it without risking offense, he sighed through his nose and stopped.


    "I can spare it."


    "I know we’ve not seen eye to eye since my arrival, and I do admit that is largely due to my persistence. But I’d like to remedy that, if you’ll allow it. I wish to extend a new offer—one I believe we can both agree on."


    "No need, Bishop. My mind’s set. No sense wasting words on it."


    "I assure you, Edmond, my words are never wasted."


    The calmness in his voice set Edmond’s hackles up. Just for a moment, his fingers wished for his sabers. The feeling passed as quick as it came, but the weight of it lingered.


    "I simply have the children''s best interests in mind. And surely, ensuring they remain close to the Lord is paramount, is it not?"


    "They attend every service."


    "Of course they do. It’s not their faith that concerns me."


    Heat crawled up the back of Edmond’s neck, but he kept his face unreadable. His patience, however, was wearing thin.


    "I won’t keep you long, so I’ll be plain."


    Fletcher folded his hands, watching Edmond like a man who already knew the answer to his own question.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "I wish to offer the full financial support of the Church, while still allowing you authority over Iron Haven. We would provide complete renovations, expand the grounds to your liking—all at no cost to you."


    Sounded too good. Edmond waited for the catch.


    "All I ask in return is a modest addition—a small residence on-site for a few sisters to stay."


    ''Like hell.''


    The words sat heavy on his tongue, but he swallowed them. Instead, he kept his voice steady.


    "Like I said, Bishop, my mind’s set. Now, if you’ll ex—"


    "I would urge you to reconsider, Edmond. This offer is for the good of the children. You wouldn’t want to put pride before their well-being, would you?"


    There it was. That measured pressure. Like a boot pressed just firm enough against his chest to remind him it was there.


    Edmond turned, meeting Fletcher’s eyes, hard and cold.


    "Pride ain''t the issue, Cornelius."


    Without another word, he spun on his heel and strode off, cursing Moira under his breath as he searched for that nun from earlier.


    Watching Edmond leave, the Bishop didn’t let a single emotion show, but his grip on his robes tightened, the tension in his fingers betraying him.


    "Men like him think their strength alone will see them through. But the only shield a man can depend on is the embrace of the Church."


    "What would you have me do?"


    The voice came from the shadows, smooth and reverent. Stepping forward into the dim light, a young man revealed himself—mid twenties, bowl-cut golden-hair, face carved like a statue of an angel. Beautiful, at least until you looked him in the eyes. Clouded gray, splotched with sickly brown, like rot had set in somewhere deep behind them.


    The Bishop turned to him, his smile warm, almost fatherly, as he reached out and laid a hand on his head.


    "Sweet Michael, not every battle is fought with action."


    His fingers curled slightly, a gesture more claiming than comforting.


    "I already know they won’t make it through winter without help. The Lord himself will guide him down the right path. We need not interfere."


    "Yes, Your Grace."


    Michael bowed deep, but his gaze lingered. Watching Edmond as he spoke with one of the sisters, his lips pressed together in something just shy of a smirk.


    Edmond felt it before he saw it—that prickle at the back of his neck, like unseen eyes were dragging over him. His shoulders tensed, every instinct telling him to turn, but he fought it down.


    "Thank you, Sister. I appreciate the kindness."


    "Just wait here. And if you truly wish to thank me, Edmond, you could stay for service next time."


    He gave a slow nod but said nothing. Instead, he turned, acting like he was admiring a painting.


    ''Need a drink.''


    As he stood there, his thoughts drifted to Levi and Rufus, a fresh wave of impatience settling in his chest.


    ''Shouldn’t have left those two. Not that I could’ve brought them.''


    Cursing his circumstances and picturing the worst waiting for him back home, he forced himself to sit before the itch to pace got the better of him.


    Edmond sat there, eyes fixed on the statue of Saint Oswin, doing his best to ignore the hushed whispers floating around the cathedral. Gossip about him was nothing new. Long as folks kept their words soft and their distance wide, he didn’t much care.


    Didn’t take long for the other thing to happen, though. Never did.


    "Mr. Lieutenant Thatcher? Can you sign my sword?"


    A small voice piped up beside him. He glanced down—young boy, maybe eight, holding a wooden sword like a family heirloom.


    "I don’t do that, kid. Get back to your folks."


    "Please, oh please! When we play, me an’ my friends always fight over who gets to be you. If I had your autograph, I’d get dibs! My father always tells me stories of the Fanged Reaper—you’re our hero! Plea—"


    "I said no."


    Edmond’s voice dropped, sharp as a whetted blade. He leaned in close, his eyes cold and cutting.


    "Do I need to have words with your pa, boy?"


    The kid froze, eyes going wide before welling up with tears. He turned and bolted without another word.


    Exhaling slow, Edmond settled back against the pew with a dark weight pressing on his chest.


    "I''m no one’s hero."


    He was just about to stand and leave when he heard hurried steps. Turning, he caught a flash of bright green eyes. Sharp and furious.


    Sister Moira.


    And she looked fit to kill.


    ''What’s her problem?''


    Edmond straightened up fast, fixing his shirt as Sister Moira stormed toward him, her green eyes burning hot. His brow softened as he bowed his head.


    "Sister Moira, that kid was just—"


    SMACK!


    His barely moved, but his eyes flashed with shock. Wasn''t long before the slow-burning anger as he pointed his hat at her.


    "What in the damn hell was—!"


    "You''re a scoundrel, Mr. Thatcher!"


    Moira’s voice rang through the cathedral, sharp as a switch.


    "Nerves of steel ya have, showin'' your face here after the stunt ya pulled!"


    Then, in a breath, her tone dropped low—quiet enough only for him.


    "Say nothin'' and play along."


    His mouth opened, but she cut him off, voice lifting back up for the crowd.


    "I''m a sister of the faith! I''ll not be treated like some prized catch!"


    Then, another whisper.


    "I’ll come by tonight."


    SMACK!


    ''Son of a—!''


    "Leave at once! Only return when you''re ready to repent!"


    Her finger jabbed toward the exit, but he caught the softest whisper slip through.


    "Sorry."


    Standing there a second, Edmond felt like he’d been led into a blind canyon with a loaded bolter at his back. He turned slow, walking toward the exit, his face set like stone.


    That’s when his eyes locked with Michael''s.


    The bastard had been watching him the whole time, those clouded, rotten eyes taking in every damn thing.


    ''So that’s what that was.''


    As he passed, he murmured just loud enough for only Michael to hear.


    "Might want to blink, that look''s showing your hand."


    Michael just smiled, tilting his head slightly before bowing deep, keeping his silence.


    As Edmond stepped outside, he put on his hat, feeling a weight peel off his back the second the sun hit him. He rolled his jaw, flexing the heat from his cheek, still wondering what in the hell had just happened.


    ''This thing''s getting messy.''


    Walking down the steps, he pressed the cold steel of his hand to his cheek, sighing as the sting lingered.


    "Didn''t figure on getting slapped today."


    Back inside, Sister Moira moved with purpose, her heart hammering in her chest. But she barely had left the great hall before her path was blocked.


    Michael stood before her, his face the picture of innocence—if innocence had eyes like spoiled milk.


    "What was that about, Sister? Violence in a house of God?"


    "Out of my way, Brother Michael. It was a personal matter between Mr. Thatcher and me. One that I have seen to and do not wish to speak on further."


    She moved to push past him, but as her shoulder brushed his, a chill ran down her spine— unnatural, unwelcome.


    Michael lingered, tilting his head slightly, his gaze dragging over her like a brand.


    "The furnace must purge the weak steel, lest its imperfections taint the whole."


    His lips barely moved as he spoke, quoting scripture with the ease of breath.


    Moira didn’t respond. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.


    Swallowing her unease, she kept walking, quickening her pace as she turned the corner. Out of sight, she leaned against the steel-plated wall, letting the warmth seep into her back.


    ''I hate talkin'' to that man. I’ve never met a thing that made me feel such dread, like I''m talking to somethin'' hollow.''


    Her fingers curled against her habit as she exhaled slow, steadying herself.


    ''Why couldn’t Edmond have waited? Now I have to be careful tonight. If they start to notice me, they’ll notice them. I have to tell him now, before I leave…''


    She shook her head, biting back a tired smile.


    "Stupid man. You bring me problems, then make ‘em worse."


    Pushing off the wall, she straightened her posture, smoothing her skirts before continuing down the hall, her steps light but her mind heavy.