Garath loomed over Yorrin’s body, the corpse sprawled across the floor like a discarded husk. His gaze snapped to Isabelle, pinning her in the far corner, a purple crystal trembling in her grip.

  Her breath seized. Cold prickled down her spine, spreading through her veins like ice. She had seen him leave, watched him with her own eyes. And yet here he was, as if the world itself had twisted to drag him back.

  She blinked hard. Nothing changed. That glare still cut through the air, heavy with judgment.

  How could she possibly explain it? Her being here, the body at her feet, the crystal clutched in her hand, none of it had an answer that would save her.

  “Garath…” The name slipped out, unsteady. “What… why have you returned?” The words felt hollow, a desperate scrap of reason in a room already tainted by fresh blood.

  Garath’s jaw tightened. He seemed almost as shaken as she was. His voice came low and clipped, each word deliberate. “I thought I recognized your voice earlier, outside. Couldn’t place it. So I came back to be sure. I listened at the door, but there was only silence. The door wasn’t locked, so I entered.”

  Isabelle forced down the dryness in her throat. A steady front was all that stood between her and suspicion. “I see.” Her gaze flicked to poor Yorrin. “He was already like this when I arrived.”

  Garath’s brow furrowed. “Then you’re saying you didn’t…”

  The Warden lifted a brow, her tone calm but edged with steel. “Slay an innocent in the very heart of the city I swore before Orbisar to protect with my life? What do you think?”

  His eyes swept over her, sharp and methodical. For a moment, silence pressed between them. Then his shoulders eased. “Yorrin’s throat was slit. You’re in a white tunic, and there isn’t a drop of blood on you.”

  Isabelle exhaled, the tension loosening in her chest. Thank Orbisar—at least the inquisitor knew his trade. “Exactly,” she said firmly. “Whoever it was used a knife.”

  Garath’s eyes shifted to the purple crystal in her hand. “And that? What is it meant to be?”

  She raised it slightly, the weight of its meaning pressing down on her. If she kept it, he would assume she had killed Yorrin to steal it. She would have assumed the same. Her only chance was to let him use it as evidence. With deliberate care, she offered it to him.

  He took it, cautious fingers brushing its facets.

  She gestured toward it. “I believe Yorrin used that to record the names of his clients.”

  Garath’s brow darkened. “And why would that matter to you?”

  “Because whoever killed him likely came here the same way I did. To request his services.”

  “You suspect one of his clients?”

  She inclined her head.

  His gaze sharpened. “Then what sort of service would you have sought from Yorrin?”

  Her eyes narrowed, voice steady as a drawn blade. “I believe for the same service you came for, Inquisitor.” She slipped a hand into her pocket, drew out a coin, and sent it spinning toward him with a flick of her thumb.

  Garath caught it mid-air. His fingers closed around the weight, and when he opened his hand his eyes widened. “This coin is…?”

  She gave a grave nod. Better he knew the truth than start weighing her for Yorrin’s murder. “Yes. One of the coins dropped by the Cashnar attacker. I came to learn who it belonged to.”

  The inquisitor’s hand brushed the pouch at his belt where the other coins rested. His nod was slow, reluctant. “Seems we had the same idea. But you shouldn’t have stolen it from me. That’s official evidence.”

  Isabelle’s gaze sharpened. “I hold no jurisdiction over this case, so I resorted to… unorthodox means to gather information. That is why I came. What about you? If you intended to have the coins read by a Seer, why not use one sworn to your own Inquisition?”

  Garath’s shoulders shifted, a flicker of discomfort breaking through his rigid stance. He glanced at Yorrin’s corpse. “This isn’t the time or place for that discussion.”

  The Warden studied him, weighing the meaning in his deflection, then inclined her head. If Garath could not trust his order’s own seers, the matter was more dangerous than she had feared. “What do we do now? Neither of us should be here.”

  He stared at the body, jaw clenched. “You should leave. I’ll say I heard a suspicious noise and entered to investigate.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Truly?”

  Garath gave a short nod. “It’s clear you didn’t kill him.” He turned the crystal in his hand, light glinting off its facets. “If anything, you’ve carried out a solid preliminary inquiry. This may point us to the real killer.”

  She had always taken him for nothing more than a functionary in Uriela’s service, but here was a man still shaped by the soldier he once was. “Will you tell me what is happening in this city?”

  He motioned toward the door. “Go. Quickly. Before someone finds us standing over a corpse. Explanations will come in time.”

  That was more than she had dared to expect. Isabelle inclined her head and clasped his shoulder.

  He returned the gesture with a curt nod.

  The Warden slipped out of that house of death, the home and workshop that had once belonged to Yorrin. Once she stepped back into the street, the air seemed easier to breathe, stifling heat and all.

  Her investigation had hardly begun on the right footing. The poor seer had lost his life, and with him the trail she had been pursuing.

  Yet perhaps, amid the blood and loss, she had gained her first true ally in this investigation.

  Isabelle stopped in front of Derek’s quarters. Just an ordinary wooden door. Nothing about it suggested the lodgings of a sacred Cashnar.

  Strange, that such a figure would be housed here.

  But knowing Derek, he had likely insisted on refusing special treatment. Or perhaps not. Erasmus held the authority over room assignments, and his dislike for Derek had never been subtle.

  This might well have been his way of telling Derek to pack up and leave as soon as possible.

  Once, she might have been troubled by how the Cashnar was being treated. But now…

  She exhaled, slow and heavy. Hardly the time.

  Their last meeting had ended in discord, and she had no idea how this one would go. He had been furious that she risked both his life and Alyra’s to save him. She had tried to make him understand that saving him had meant saving all of them, but he had refused to listen.

  And now she stood at his door.

  Her jaw tightened. Duty. That was why she was here. She had sworn to see through the case that threatened to ignite a war between the Church and the jungle tribes, and to keep the Cashnar informed of every step. Whatever bitterness lingered between them had to come second to her vow.

  The Warden lifted her hand to knock, but her knuckles halted in midair.

  From inside came Derek’s voice. “What’s the hold-up? Forget how to knock? It’s simple. Loud enough to hear, not hard enough to break the door. Didn’t they cover that in Novice school?”

  She shook her head, grabbed the handle, and stepped inside.

  Two metal cylinders slid into place, blocking her path. Each extended a glowing rod, leveled at her chest like a poised spear.

  “Easy there, boys,” Derek’s voice called from within. “She’s with me. Stand down.”

  The hovering machines pulled back their weapons and lowered themselves to the floor with a low hum.

  Isabelle stared. “What are these?”

  Derek stepped out from behind them. “My Repair Bots. Remember?”

  Her eyes flicked from him to the machines. “They weren’t this large before. And why are they armed?”

  He gave a casual shrug. “Apparently they were very concerned about my safety. Upgraded themselves while waiting for NOVA to come back online.”

  “Your armor is still inoperative?”

  Derek spread his arms. “It’s in pieces. And fixing it isn’t even the hard part. The Death energy it soaked up from that damned sphere is all over the place. Strong as hell, but unstable.” He rubbed at his beard. “Ithara and Vanda are pulling double shifts trying to keep it from leaking during repairs. Messy work.”

  A chill caught in Isabelle’s chest. “Leaking? You mean… the energy of the Death sphere could escape from your armor?”

  Derek nodded. “I’m no expert, but Ithara looked more than a little spooked.”

  Her fingers tightened around her belt, breath sharp. “And well she should! If that energy were to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Derek cut her off with a weary sigh. “Kill everything and everyone, yada yada…” He flicked his hand as if swatting away a fly. “Relax. Ithara says she’s got a way to stabilize it.”

  “And you? Why aren’t you working with them instead of hiding yourself away in here?”

  His expression shadowed, the levity gone in an instant. “I’ve got other things on my plate right now.”

  Isabelle lowered her hand with deliberate calm. Something felt off. His stance, his tone, all of it. She had seen him lose his temper over NOVA before, and this silence weighed heavier than anger. “What could possibly outweigh the survival of your armor?”

  Derek turned his back on her, eyes fixed on the mess of papers scattered across his desk. “How about you just get to the point? I’m busy.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “What are you studying? Those papers… what are they?”

  He spun toward her, sharp and defensive. “Not your concern. They involve the Cashnar. Now tell me why you’re here.”

  She took a step back. Even in their worst arguments, he had never felt this cold. Every instinct urged her to turn on her heel and leave, yet duty anchored her in place. “I know what evidence they’ve found against Kato.”

  Derek said nothing, only stared, waiting.

  She cleared her throat. “A dagger. Its hilt is of tribal design.”

  His hand drifted to the scar along his side, fingers pressing against it. “I remember that dagger. Well then, that’s pretty solid evidence. Looks like your beloved Uriela will finally get her war. Do pass along my heartfelt congratulations.”

  Her jaw tightened, teeth grinding. He spoke of war as though it were a festival invitation. The Derek she knew would never have brushed it aside like this. “That’s not all. They also found coins. Church mint.”

  He flicked her a glance, more out of obligation than interest. “And?”

  “The tribes don’t use money. Someone must have given it to him.”

  He nodded once, calm, detached. “I see. Paid to kill me. And since it’s Church money…”

  Isabelle’s pulse quickened. Was this truly Derek? No anger, no urgency. His focus clung only to the papers on his desk. “Exactly. Someone connected to the Church may have ordered your assassination. If I can prove it, I could stop the war.”

  There it was. A chance to fulfill her vow. Surely that would matter to him. Surely now it would stir some reaction.

  Derek only let out a long breath and bent again over the papers.

  She stood firm, heat rising in her chest. “Well? You’ve nothing to say?”

  He flicked his gaze up as though pulled from a thought. “Hm? Oh, right. Good job.”

  Her fists clenched at her sides. “You don’t care if a war breaks out?”

  His eyes rolled skyward. “Of course I care. What you’re doing is… very noble. Hats off. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy.”

  He turned his back to her again.

  Heat rushed to her face. No. This was unacceptable. “And what exactly are you so busy with? What’s so important on those papers?”

  “These?” Derek gestured with casual ease, the motion too smooth to be sincere. “Oh, nothing. Just a map to every answer I’ve been chasing since I landed on this damned planet—apparently called Elyndra. Answers about why there are prophecies tied to me that always come true, why spheres keep falling from the sky. Little things like that.”

  The Warden’s eyes moved from the papers back to him. “That’s… extraordinary. But the war—”

  “The war,” Derek snapped, “isn’t my problem. Shut the door on your way out.”

  He turned away, shoulders rigid.

  Her breath caught. Not even a flicker in his eyes. No sarcasm, no shield of wit. Just a cold, empty void.

  Her chest tightened. How could he speak like that? Not even the jungle refugees had been ‘his problem.’ Not even Alyra had been ‘his problem.’ Yet that had never kept him from caring.

  Could that damned map truly outweigh the thousands of lives that would be lost in war?

  “No…”

  The word rumbled like stone.

  Isabelle turned.

  Tunga stood in the doorway, staff clenched tight, his brow carved into a dangerous scowl.

  Her eyes widened. “Tunga, you’re back! Wha—”

  “No!” he barked, staff cracking against the floor with a thud.

  The Warden’s brow furrowed. “What’s gotten into you?”

  The shaman leveled a finger at Derek. “Death is inside him.”

  Derek’s frown deepened. “What are you babbling about, old man? I’d ask if you’ve lost your mind, but you’d need one first.”

  Tunga strode closer, each step punctuated by the heavy strike of his staff. “I feel it. Death coils in him. That why he care nothing for war.”

  Isabelle shot Derek a look.

  He only shrugged.

  Could it be true? His coldness, his indifference… was it really his choice? Or the poison of Death bleeding from NOVA into him?

  Tunga’s voice dropped to a growl, teeth bared like a beast. “So this how it begins…”

  Isabelle swallowed hard, her heart hammering. “How what begins, Tunga? What are you talking about?”

  He never looked at her. His eyes stayed on Derek as fire crawled along his staff. “I feel it. Like snake in blood. Like rot in tree. This how man turn demon. This how you become Shaitani!”