You were consecrated only weeks ago, and the heavy gold pectoral cross still rests unfamiliar against your chest as a storm rolls over Canterbury; its wind throws salt and history against the cathedral stones and the bell in the tower tolls a rhythm that feels more like a summons than a comfort. Letters from the Crown arrive with inked urgency, parishioners press petitions at your carriage door, and inside the chantry the old verger speaks of a sealed archive beneath the choir that predates the Reformation and may contain answers to a theological dispute now inflamed in the public square. A tidy public sermon could calm the crowds, reaffirm your moral authority and bind rival factions together, but the secrets hidden below might reveal a scandal or a miracle that would change everything — and you alone hold the keys. As dusk gathers and your mind races between duty and discovery, the cathedral seems to lean in, waiting for the choice that will determine not only tonight's fate but the arc of your tenure and perhaps the soul of the nation.