Isabelle folded her arms and drew in a steady breath. Dealing with Garath always left a throb behind her temples. “Very well, Inquisitor Garath. I believe it’s time you showed me the evidence you’ve gathered against the tribes.”

  This was her first time inside his office.

  The walls stood bare except for shelves packed tight with red-sealed tomes, dossiers, and scrolls lined up like soldiers on parade. His desk disappeared beneath paperwork arranged in perfect stacks. Interrogation reports, edicts, confessions scratched in uneven ink.

  Crystals glimmered in muted colors, their faint hum like insect wings in the distance. They clung to the handles of interrogation tools, lie detectors more psychological than reliable, meant to rattle suspects into mistakes. She had used them often enough to know how effective they were.

  A warhammer rested on a rack behind his chair. She had rarely seen him wield it. For years, Garath had set aside combat to bury himself in investigations and paperwork, safe behind the Citadel walls. Yet the few times he had raised that weapon, his mastery of the chakras had been undeniable.

  The Inquisitor rose and began pacing with measured authority. “Of course, Warden. I am ready to show you everything. But before we turn to the evidence, let us reconstruct the facts, if you don’t mind.”

  She rolled her eyes. The man thrived on ceremony, and if she denied him his stage, he might keep his knowledge to himself. “As you wish.”

  “Very good. The day prior, the Cashnar had concluded his important and… colorful meeting with the Council. At that session, Uriela had publicly granted him entry into the Citadel. He wasted no time; that very day he was already on his way here for the first time.”

  Isabelle suppressed a yawn. Why begin with the day before? If she complained, he would only drag the story further back.

  Garath cleared his throat. “The Cashnar was accompanied by you, Isabelle Blackwood, and by a savage from the Nakori tribes.”

  “Tunga,” she cut in. “His full name is Tunga Nkata.”

  He nodded, stepped up to the desk, and wrote the name onto a sheet of parchment, underlining it twice with sharp strokes before continuing. “According to my records, you were crossing the bridge over the Droswyn River when the attack occurred.”

  Isabelle inclined her head. “We could have started there, don’t you think? Anyway, yes, Derek was attacked while we were on the bridge.”

  “Very good. The attack came from above, carried out by someone capable of riding a flying beast. A large raptor, from what I gather.”

  The Warden gave a single nod.

  Garath’s eyes narrowed. “Few outside the tribes would have the skill to ride a magical beast and turn it into a weapon.”

  “Yes, you’re absolutely right, Garath. Whoever planned that assault wanted everyone within hundreds of yards to see it as the work of a tribesman.”

  The inquisitor’s face hardened, shadows gathering under his brow. “What are you implying?”

  “Derek had just walked across half of Rothmere without his armor. He wandered through the market, spoke with anyone who stopped him. Killing him then would’ve been child’s play. A single blade in the crowd. That’s all it would’ve taken.”

  Isabelle shook her head. “I even scolded him for it, but that stubborn man never listens. And yet, instead of seizing the easy chance, they staged a reckless, theatrical strike from the skies. Curious choice, don’t you think?”

  Garath cleared his throat. “Well… yes, an interesting observation, Warden.” He bent over the parchment and scribbled quickly, still on his feet.

  Isabelle held his gaze. He hadn’t considered that angle, and now he was treating it with weight. Good. At least it nudged suspicion a step away from the tribes.

  “Very well,” Garath said, resuming his measured pacing. “The raptor in question seized the Cashnar and carried him aloft, all under your… vigilant watch.”

  Her jaw tightened. What was this bureaucrat suggesting? “It was a sudden aerial strike. I barely had time to register what was happening. And even if I had, how exactly would you have stopped a raptor the size of two horses, diving at full speed?”

  Garath squinted, his hand drifting almost lazily toward one of the crystals on his desk. “Of course, it was a difficult situation.” He tapped his lip with a finger. “There is another point, however, that remains unclear. Not many people knew you would be crossing that bridge at that particular moment, correct?”

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  The snake was testing her with the lie detector crystal. Fine, she had nothing to hide. “Yes. And if I recall, I was the one who first pointed out how suspicious that was.”

  He gave a slow nod. “Indeed, and for that I thank you. Because, as it happens, among the very few following the Cashnar, aside from the Warden herself, there was also a member of the tribe.”

  Isabelle’s jaw tightened, her hand closing around her sword hilt. “What are you insinuating?”

  Garath lifted a shoulder in a practiced shrug. “I merely state that the only other savage present in Rothmere, aside from the attacker, was…” His gaze dropped to the note he had just written. “Tunga Nkata. Did I pronounce that correctly?”

  Heat flared across her cheeks. “Tunga has saved Derek’s life more than once. You can’t seriously suspect him.”

  The inquisitor’s eyes narrowed. “I can suspect anyone, young Warden. Let me remind you, while your rank may be above mine, jurisdiction over internal investigations within the Citadel falls to me.”

  Isabelle’s gloved fist crashed onto the desk. Piles of parchment rattled, and a quill holder toppled with a metallic chime.

  Garath winced.

  “And I,” Isabelle said, her voice like drawn steel, “remind you that we are here to uncover the truth of that attack. The outcome of this investigation will decide the future of all Narkhara.” She stepped closer, arcs of lightning crackling between her fingers, the sharp scent of ozone filling the room. “We are speaking of war, Garath. Do you even remember what that means or have you spent too many years hiding inside these walls?”

  The inquisitor stepped back. “Naturally. I am perfectly aware of the stakes. But unlike you, I have no personal ties to either the victim or the suspects.”

  Isabelle ground her teeth. “Placing Tunga among the suspects makes no sense whatsoever.”

  Garath held her gaze, his brown eyes sharp and unblinking. “Let us speak of Tunga, since we are already on the subject. Has he ever declared an intent to harm the Cashnar? Any history of quarrels or conflict of any kind?”

  Her stomach knotted. Admit that Tunga had attacked Derek when they first met—or that more than once he had claimed the Spirit of the Beast commanded him to kill—and Tunga would be condemned on the spot. But what choice did she have? Her eyes flicked to the crystal pulsing faintly at Garath’s side.

  If she lied, he would see it. Not only because of the damned crystal. She had never lied to a Church officer. It cut against everything she believed. She needed another way out. “Why don’t we skip the useless pleasantries and get to the evidence I came here to see?”

  Garath studied her in silence.

  The crystal on the desk pulsed with a faint glow.

  His brow creased as he turned toward it.

  Isabelle held her breath.

  Of course he sensed she was holding something back. The crystal wasn’t reading her words, only the tension that gripped her chest. She forced herself to steady her breathing. This wasn’t an official interrogation. He couldn’t compel her to speak.

  The crystal flickered twice, then went dark.

  Garath hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. “Very well. Our meeting has already gone on longer than necessary. I realize I have no right to monopolize the Warden’s time.” With a shallow bow, he crossed to a wooden cabinet in the corner. From his pocket he drew a heavy, ornate key, slid it into the lock, and turned.

  The lock clicked, and the cabinet door swung open with a metallic groan. “Here are the proofs,” Garath said.

  He drew something from within and set it on the desk.

  A dagger.

  Isabelle stepped closer, her eyes flicking to him.

  He gave a curt nod.

  She lifted it. The blade was black, radiating a coldness that echoed the Sphere of Death. Fainter, but unmistakable. It had to be a dagger infused with Death energy.

  “Our Ithara confirmed that the Cashnar’s wounds match this weapon,” Garath said. “The Death energy was consuming him. If not for you, we would already be without a Messiah.”

  Isabelle turned the weapon in her hand. The grip was bone, etched with patterns that screamed tribal craft. She and Tunga had combed the battlefield more than once. How had this gone unseen? Or worse, had someone planted it after the attack to frame the tribes?

  She set the dagger back on the desk and locked eyes with Garath. “Did you have it examined by our seers?”

  His brow arched. “What do you take me for?”

  “And what did you find?”

  The inquisitor lifted the dagger with practiced care, holding it well clear of the blade, and returned it to the cabinet. “What would you expect us to find?”

  Isabelle let out a slow breath. “More proof pointing to the tribes, I suppose.”

  He peered into the cabinet. “All the proof an Inquisitor could ever want. The weapon matched the Cashnar’s wounds, the magical residue was tribal, the bone handle… well, you saw it yourself.”

  Air hissed between her teeth. “And you already reported this to Uriela, didn’t you?”

  He nodded. “She demanded a detailed report immediately. I told her there were still unclear aspects, but she refused to listen.”

  Isabelle’s eyes narrowed. “What aspects are still unclear?”

  Garath returned to the cabinet and drew out a leather pouch tied with a cord.

  Her brows lifted. Tunga owned one almost identical. Another tribal piece, plain as day.

  The inquisitor placed it on the desk. “While the dagger was lying in plain sight, this pouch was snagged high in a tree. We found it only because of the wind.”

  “The wind?”

  “A strong gust shook the branch it was hanging from and knocked it loose.”

  Isabelle’s pulse quickened. The dagger had to be planted. If it had truly been in the open, she and Tunga would have seen it. But the pouch… the pouch could be real evidence.

  Garath tossed it across the desk to her.

  She caught it, the unmistakable jingle of metal ringing out. She stared at him, incredulous. “Coins?”

  He nodded.

  The tribes didn’t use money at all. Their trade was barter. Why would a tribal warrior carry a pouch of coins? And such a heavy one?

  Isabelle tugged the cord loose and spilled the contents across the desk, already shaken from her fist a moment earlier.

  Garath grimaced.

  The coins scattered across the desk, shoving aside his precious rolls of parchment. One spun off the edge and clinked onto the floor. Swiftly, she pinned it under her boot.

  Isabelle snatched one from the desk at random and held it up. “This is Church minting!”

  “But of course,” Garath replied lightly. “It’s the only currency in circulation here. What did you expect?”

  She slammed the coin back down. “And you don’t find that strange?”

  “What? That the assassin might have robbed someone before trying to kill the Cashnar?”

  Isabelle leveled him with a flat look. “The tribes act on honor. A Nakori warrior may kill, but he wouldn’t stoop to robbing passersby like a common brigand. I’ve lived in the jungle. I know how they are.”

  To her surprise, Garath nodded. “Not only that, but no one has even reported a theft. A sum this large wouldn’t go unnoticed.”

  Her pulse eased, if only a little. Maybe he wasn’t a complete fool. There was hope yet. “So you agree something doesn’t add up?”

  He nodded again. “That is exactly why I asked Uriela for more time. Though the evidence against the tribes is more than sufficient, I agree not every aspect of the case is clear.”

  The man was meticulous, precise, orderly. What drove him wasn’t truth but the urge to tie off every thread. A single detail left dangling could keep him awake at night. “But you haven’t been ordered to halt the investigation, have you?”

  “No. And I intend to see it through.”

  For the first time, Isabelle allowed herself the faintest smile. She hadn’t expected that, not here, in this suffocating office.

  She crouched, picked up a parchment from the floor, and in the same motion slipped the coin from beneath her boot into her sleeve. That piece of evidence would be worth more than gold, and she doubted Garath would let her keep it. Rising again, she placed the parchment back on the desk with deliberate care.

  “But make no mistake,” Garath said, straightening to his full height. “I remain in charge of this investigation. And whatever you discover, you will report to me at once.”

  She could wager he would do the same with her. For now, that was enough. At least she had something to work with. She would prove to Uriela the tribes had nothing to do with the attack and stop the war.

  She extended her hand. “Agreed.”

  The inquisitor eyed it, one brow lifting. “And what exactly is this?”

  “Derek says that where he comes from, people shake hands to seal an agreement.”

  Garath hesitated, then set his hand in hers.

  Isabelle squeezed firmly. “Then let’s get to work.”