Notre-Dame hid a coffer beneath its altar, sealed by men dead for centuries in service of a cause they believed greater than God himself.
Arno knew that better than most, he'd forced that very lock with his own hands.
So when a priest in Skingrad mentioned, between two glasses, that the crypt beneath the Great Chapel of Julianos had stayed walled off for generations "for the safety of the faithful," Arno heard only one thing: someone is lying, and has been for a long time.
He forced the gate open one rainy evening, once the last priests had finished their prayers. Below, the stone bore no symbol of Julianos, no triangle, no scale, only worn glyphs no one in the chapel above could have read, carved there long before that god of logic ever had a single follower on this soil.
The Chapel's own records half-admit it: before Julianos, another cult held this ground, a Daedric Prince whose exact name no scholar has ever recovered. Arno ran his hand over the cold glyphs, and for the first time since Paris, he didn't try to unravel one more mystery.
He simply closed the gate behind him, thinking that some truths stay buried for good reason, and that he, of all people, should have remembered that before he started digging.