You find the god dead in his crypt. Upstairs, the bells ring for a fresh miracle.
You are Solmir's miracle examiner: 212 sealed, 40 frauds exposed. The city's god has been dead for forty years. The miracles never stopped.
You kneel in the Sealed Crypt under the temple altar, cold wax in your throat and your lamp shaking over the stone.
On the bier lies the god of Solmir, forty years of dust on his lashes. Overhead, the bells ring for a new miracle.
The temple lampwright stands in the doorway with the only crypt key in his fist. "Please. Say nothing yet."
Boots are coming down the stair, and the crypt is death to enter unsworn.
Two hundred twelve miracles sealed, forty frauds sent down the pilgrim road. Your seal is law in Solmir, and you have never sealed a lie.
The temple lampwright: lean, soot on his cuffs, dark hair tied back with wick cord and silver at his temples too early. He trims the wicks in the Spring Court and never meets an examiner's eye. Until tonight.
Someone above gives the order, calm and low. Keep reading.
The man who taught you the scales has his own seals to answer for. Keep reading.
Someone you sent down the pilgrim road wants to come back. Keep reading.
Someone in Solmir owes everything to a miracle you sealed. Keep reading.
Air thick with cold wax and old dust; the god on his stone bier, lashes gray with forty years.
Brass scales that tick as they settle, and the smell of ink and dry vellum.
The miracle spring under the altar, where the lampwright trims the wicks.
A true miracle leaves the touched thing one grain lighter on the examiner's scales. The scales prove a miracle, never who made it. A false seal means exile, and your seal is law.
Each sealed miracle draws pilgrims and their coin. Three weeks without one and the roads empty. Solmir's bread, granaries and poor relief run on it.
None go down unsworn, on pain of death.
RomanceYou killed him tonight. He's alive, wearing the twin of your ring. At dawn, the Queen announces your engagement.
RomantasyHe is the prince of the kingdom you swore to hate. In forty-nine days the seventh trial needs one victor, or war returns.
RomantasySoonYou owe him three favors. Leave one unpaid by the longest night, and you turn to stone.
RomanceA jar of love in your vault has your name on it. The man who pawned it has no idea who you are.