Isabelle snorted. An entire hour trapped in Garath’s office, staring at those bare walls. What a waste.

  Derek was out there, heading into a mission with no return. Perhaps he was already gone. Every minute wasted here was another stolen from the fight to drag him back from the Death creeping through his veins. A mission Cashnar himself had ordered her to abandon, claiming she now had ‘more important matters to attend.’ She was meant to stop a war.

  Her lips twisted into a grimace.

  Just when their bond had finally steadied, he was slipping away for good. The Warden of Cashnar should have been at his side—saving him, or falling with him—not trapped in a bureaucrat’s cage.

  Yet faith had to prevail. The Prophecy of Cashnar had not yet come to pass, and until it did, Derek would not die. The clash with the Great Beast from the sky would not unfold in the Citadel’s underground halls.

  No… he could not die like this.

  She rose, hands on her hips, arching her back with a wince. How much longer?

  The inquisitor had told her to wait here and keep a low profile until he arrived. No one was supposed to see her presence as an official visit from the Warden. What he had failed to mention was how long she would be kept waiting or what was so urgent to begin with.

  The office seemed deliberately stripped of warmth, every chair stiff and unyielding, Garath’s included. Standing almost felt preferable.

  To reach the office unnoticed she had dressed plainly: a dark linen tunic belted at the waist with worn leather, a short dagger at her hip. A light cloak dulled any trace of elegance, while her blonde hair was pulled into a tight bun to complete the humble, practical disguise. At a careless glance, she could have passed for a servant come to tidy the place.

  If Derek had seen her like this, he would have teased her without mercy. The thought tugged a reluctant half-smile to her lips.

  Heavy boots scraped outside the door.

  Isabelle slipped into a shadowed corner, dagger firm in her grip.

  The door eased open. A broad-shouldered figure with hair streaked in gray slipped inside, shutting it quietly behind him as he crept forward.

  The old fool didn’t even notice her in the dark. She could have cut his throat ten times over before he realized.

  Her shoulders eased as she slid the dagger back. “Garath. Care to explain why you’re sneaking into your own office like a thief?”

  The inquisitor spun, eyes wide. “Warden! I—wasn’t certain you’d still be here. For a moment I thought I might find… someone else.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Someone else? Who could—” The words froze as the meaning struck. She stared at him. “You thought someone was here to kill you? Who would dare strike at an inquisitor inside the Citadel? And why do you look so tense?”

  He swallowed, the scar across his face twitching like a worm.

  She had never seen him this tense. A warrior before he became an inquisitor, he had faced horrors far worse than anything she had endured in her long service. What could possibly shake him this badly?

  Garath slipped out, checked both sides of the corridor with wary eyes, then stepped back in and shut the door softly. When he turned, tension sharpened every line of his face. “Things are… more complicated than I thought.”

  The Warden frowned. “Complicated how?”

  “I believe we are caught in the middle of a conspiracy,” Garath said, his face pale.

  Her throat dried at once. “Are you certain? Who is involved? What do they want?”

  His lips pressed into a thin line. “I do not know yet.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. Without answers, how could he even claim there was a conspiracy? Garath was no fool. Or at least, not to that extent. If he said such a thing, there had to be evidence behind it. She drew a steadying breath. “Very well. Show me what you have found.”

  Garath tilted his head toward the desk, and they stepped closer. “Look at it. Do you notice anything?”

  Isabelle scanned the desk. Everything was in perfect order. Even dust seemed too disciplined to settle among the neat stacks of interrogation reports, decrees, and signed confessions. In one corner lay his prized notebook—the one he always carried into interrogations, the same she had seen in his hand only days ago.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “I see nothing amiss, Garath. Your desk is, as always, immaculate.”

  He gave a stiff nod. “Exactly.”

  She blinked. “I fail to see your point.”

  He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “You know me, Isabelle. What are the odds I would be mistaken about my own notebook being out of place?”

  She frowned. “Out of place? Did you find it on the floor? Or written in by someone else?”

  He shook his head, reached out, and nudged it a few inches to the side. “Here.”

  His stare was intense.

  Her lips curled in a half-smile. “You cannot be serious. You’re saying your notebook was… what? Twenty centimeters farther to the right?”

  He held her gaze, face pale. “Eighteen.”

  Isabelle’s eyes widened. “By Orbisar, you’re not joking. You seriously think someone snuck in here just to move your notebook… eighteen centimeters.”

  Garath nodded. “Not just move it. They read the first page as well. The one where I wrote my latest notes.”

  Derek would have had a field day with that. Something like, ‘And what were those notes? A reminder of exactly how many centimeters from the edge to place the notebook?’

  A bitter smile tugged at her lips. Odds were she would never hear one of his stupid quips again. Not with Death’s magic eating him alive. Not with the suicidal mission he had set his mind on.

  She let out a slow breath. “Garath, get to the point. I doubt I am here to discuss the state of your desk.”

  “The point is, I do not have the best memory. Especially with unusual names. I tend to write them down. You never know when you will need to draft a report or file an official document. Having the exact names of everyone involved is essential for accuracy.”

  The Warden rolled her eyes. “Inquisitor, I believe my definition of what is or is not essential differs from yours.”

  “Perhaps. But the point is, there was one name I had written down… before we found the seer’s corpse.”

  Isabelle’s eyes flew wide. “Yorrin.”

  He gave a slow nod. “Exactly. And I am convinced someone slipped into my office and saw it in my notebook.”

  Her stare sharpened. “You are suggesting they slit poor Yorrin’s throat simply because his name appeared in your notebook?”

  Garath inclined his head. “Partly, yes.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

  He lowered himself into his chair with deliberate slowness, a weary sigh escaping. “You should know… I was ordered to suspend the investigation into the coins. An order that allowed no room for objection.”

  A sharp tension coiled inside her, heat rising to her face. “Who dared give such an order?”

  He raised a hand. “I cannot reveal that. Suffice it to say, the request came from very high within the hierarchy.”

  Still defending the hierarchy, even after everything. Isabelle’s voice cut sharp as a blade. “No, Garath, that does not suffice.”

  “The truth is, I turned to Yorrin so this person would not know I had ignored the order. He was outside the Church hierarchy, and I had been assured of his discretion.”

  “I see,” Isabelle said. “This person must have realized you were still investigating, found Yorrin’s name in your notebook, and understood you meant to have him analyze the coins to identify the mastermind. So they silenced him before you could meet.”

  Garath nodded. “Yes. But that is not the whole of it. Killing Yorrin may have hindered me, but I could always find another seer willing to assist. His death was not meant to stop the investigation. It was a message.”

  Isabelle’s hand tightened around her dagger hilt. “A message for you. They wanted you to know what they are willing to do if you persist.”

  “Exactly, Warden. I have no doubt that if I continue, the next throat cut open will be mine.”

  Isabelle grabbed the dagger’s hilt and tightened her grip. “And why not mine?

  The inquisitor smirked. “Uriela’s pupil, right hand, and Warden of the Cashnar is not so easy to remove without raising a storm. I am only an aging inquisitor, with more enemies than friends thanks to the prisons I have filled. If I were killed, no one would even bother asking who did it. The list of suspects is far too long.”

  She snorted through her nose like an enraged bull. The very thought was intolerable. That such a vile act could be carried out within these walls without punishment. Whoever was behind it deserved the swiftest, harshest justice.

  Isabelle slammed a fist on the desk, sending a scroll tumbling to the floor. “Tell me who ordered you to suspend the investigation. I want the name, Garath.”

  He shook his head, calmly picked up the fallen scroll, and set it back in place. “I was once like you. Burning with the sacred fire of justice. And I am certain that if I gave you that name now, you would do exactly what I would have done. You would rush at them with your sword drawn.”

  “And what would be wrong with that?”

  “You have no proof, Isabelle. You would be thrown in prison for treason before you even realized what had happened.”

  A sharp chill ran through her. Consequences like that could only be expected if the person in question stood very high indeed. “By Orbisar… that high?”

  Garath mimed locking his lips. “A name so high you might not even believe me. If you want it, bring me proof that incriminates them.”

  “How am I supposed to bring proof if I don’t even know who it is?”

  The inquisitor’s smile was cold. “Precisely because you don’t know. When you find the evidence, I will know it is genuine.”

  Her grip tightened on the dagger hilt. “You doubt my honor? You think I would fabricate evidence to frame someone?”

  Garath’s gaze drilled into hers. “To stop a war? Yes, I believe you might.”

  Isabelle straightened, jaw tight. “I would never commit such dishonor. No matter the stakes.”

  The inquisitor’s half-smile was thin as a blade. “Good for you, Warden.” His eyes narrowed. “Assuming you truly are Isabelle.”

  She scowled. “And what is that supposed to mean, now?”

  “I know the heretic spy is in Rothmere. I set detection crystals… and one of them triggered. Illusion magic.” His eyes narrowed further. “For all I know, you could be Sierelith.”

  Isabelle’s gaze swept the room until it caught on a large violet crystal perched on a shelf. It sat dark and dormant. She snatched it up, marched to Garath, and shoved it under his nose. “Here is your proof. You let me in first so this crystal would have time to detect illusion magic on me, did you not?”

  Garath nodded and took the crystal from her hand, setting it gently on the desk. “I am glad you are not the spy. Forgive me, but I no longer know whom to trust, and precautions are necessary.”

  Isabelle folded her arms. “Do you believe the spy is connected to all this?”

  The inquisitor shook his head. “I do not know what to think. I detected her presence near the Novice School, so… who can say?”

  Isabelle’s stomach clenched. “The Novice School? That madwoman Sierelith would not still be after Alyra, would she?”

  Garath spread his hands. “Honestly, I hope so. I do not know what she wants with that girl, but I would rather she chase the child than meddle in Church affairs. Or mine.”

  Isabelle shook her head. He had not changed. Still the small man, guarding only his own patch of dirt. She held out her hand, palm up. “Give me the coins you found at the site of the attack.”

  Garath frowned. “What good could they do you now that Yorrin is gone? There is no way to learn who handled them before the assassin. Unless you are foolish enough to go begging a Church seer and end up with your own throat cut.”

  “The person I will turn to is not a true seer, only someone with… a certain talent for sensing auras and powers.”

  Garath’s brow furrowed. “Someone I know?”

  Isabelle nodded.

  “And who might that be?”

  She mimed locking her lips. “I would rather not risk you scribbling their name in your notebook too.”

  The inquisitor gave her a flat look. “I know no one with the talent you describe, but I will respect your desire for discretion. What matters is that they are not tied to the Church.”

  Isabelle allowed herself a small smile. “On that, you have nothing to worry about.”

  Garath walked to the cabinet, drew a large metal key from his pocket, and turned it in the lock. The well-oiled hinges answered with a soft click. A small pouch jingled in his hands as he faced her again. He passed it over with a worried look. “I hope you know what you are doing.”

  She took it and tied it to her belt. “Once, a very wise man told me: ‘Any stupid move that works is indistinguishable from magic.’”

  Garath frowned. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  She shook her head with a faint smile. “I have no idea.”

  Then she turned and walked for the door.

  There was no need to tell him the real reason she could not reveal the name of the one she intended to have examine those coins. He would not take kindly to learning that the Warden of Narkhara planned to seek help from the heretic Sierelith herself.