Isabelle Blackwood, Warden of Narkhara and Keeper of the Cashnar—at least for now—halted in front of seer Yorrin’s study.

  A chill breeze slid in from the north and tugged at her hood. The fabric shifted, threatening to bare her face. She caught it with one hand, steadying the cloth, then drew a slow breath and slipped the other hand into the wide pocket of her robe.

  Her fingers brushed against cold metal. The stolen coin. She curled her fist around it, grip tightening until her knuckles ached. The line she was about to cross had no return.

  She had no sanction to keep digging into this investigation alone. And putting her trust in someone as questionable as Yorrin only twisted the knife further. If anyone spotted her here—especially dressed like this—she’d have to conjure a lie sharp enough to cut through doubt.

  And lying had never been her blade.

  Her heart pounded, each beat straining against her ribs as if it meant to break free and flee this trial. Why would Orbisar test her like this?

  The coin pressed hard into her palm as she stepped toward the door.

  “Excuse me.” A man’s voice cut through the air behind her.

  She froze. The pounding stopped. Cold silence filled her chest. Someone had found her. That voice was… familiar.

  She turned, slow keeping her hood low. A subtle tilt lifted the edge just enough for a glimpse.

  Inquisitor Garath stood there, his stare sharp and searching, stripping away every shadow her hood tried to hold.

  Her throat tightened, and her pulse kicked like a spooked horse. Garath. What was he doing in this part of the city? Had he seen through her? No—stay calm. To him, she was only a robed figure. She hadn’t shown enough of her face.

  She hunched her shoulders and forced her voice low and rough, almost unrecognizable. “Yes?”

  “I see you’re heading into…” He glanced at a slip of paper. “Yorrin’s, right?”

  Typical Garath. Always scribbling down names, as if mispronouncing one were an offense.

  He had already seen her walk to Yorrin’s door; denying it would only make things worse.

  She nodded once, shut her eyes and braced herself.

  Garath cleared his throat. “So… what’s he like?”

  Her eyes flew open. “E-excuse me?”

  “Yeah, I mean… I need to talk to him about something delicate, and I wanted to know if he’s as capable and discreet as people say. I usually don’t, uh, deal with folks like him.”

  Isabelle blinked. Garath, asking her opinion of seer Yorrin, for something personal?

  Now that was unexpected. The balance had shifted. This was her chance to learn something about him instead. Better to ask a question or two. “That depends on the service you require. Is this a personal matter? Or business? An object he must analyze… or a person?”

  Garath hesitated. “Does it matter?”

  Of course it didn’t. But keeping herself from prying into the Inquisitor’s affairs was nearly impossible. It might connect to their investigation, or hint at skeletons in his closet. “Maybe.”

  From beneath her hood, all she caught were his legs, but that was enough. He shifted uneasily, started to move away, then turned back. He cleared his throat. “I need to show him some things. To find out where they came from, who might’ve handled them.”

  He looked unsettled. Not the Garath she knew. Coming here and asking advice from a stranger, he must have been desperate.

  Was he here for the same reason she was? To have Yorrin examine the coins from the attack site? But why not use the seers at the Citadel? As Inquisitor in charge, he had every right. Risky as it was, she needed to know more. “Yes, Yorrin is… very skilled with that sort of thing.”

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  “And can he be trusted?” Garath asked. “I mean, with discretion.”

  If discretion mattered so much, questioning strangers in the street was a poor start. “I’d hope so, given the kind of work he handles. Is it for a personal matter or… something else?”

  “With all due respect, that’s none of your concern.”

  She gave a small wave of her hand. “Of course. I was only curious.” Best not to press further.

  The rasp in her voice scraped at her throat. If she kept it up much longer, she’d start coughing. Better to end the conversation quickly.

  “You’re going in to see him now?”

  She nodded.

  “Good,” Garath said. “Then I’ll return when he isn’t occupied.” He started off in the opposite direction.

  She dipped her head in acknowledgment and turned toward Yorrin’s study. Blessed be Orbisar. Finally, he was leaving. She had stretched this charade long enough.

  “Hey, wait a second,” Garath called, sharper this time.

  Her heart lurched. She froze, eyes clamped shut, lungs locked tight. Damn it.

  “In case you recognized me,” Garath said, “you can’t tell anyone you saw me here. Got it?”

  A breath hissed through her teeth. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care,” she muttered, masking herself in indifference.

  Without a backward glance, she moved on toward the study, each step measured, steady, when all she wanted was to bolt. His gaze pressed against her back like heat. She’d rather face the undead than this dance of shadows. This wasn’t her kind of fight.

  Near the entrance, her pace quickened. She grabbed the handle without knocking and slipped inside.

  She closed the door behind her and she lowered her hood. No sense hiding her face from Yorrin. He was expecting her.

  She searched the room for the seer.

  The study looked almost as she had left it: scattered candles, a table buried under clutter, the same familiar scent of burnt wax. Only one thing had changed.

  Yorrin’s armchair sat empty in the corner, and the Seer was nowhere to be seen.

  Maybe he had only stepped out for a moment.

  She rolled the coin between her fingers. Whether Yorrin could truly trace its origin, she couldn’t say. But she had to start somewhere. And apparently, Garath had the same thought.

  Crystals weren’t the only vessels for magic. Metals could hold traces too, though in smaller amounts. Sometimes the residue left behind was enough to reveal who had possessed it before.

  In the hands of an experienced seer, even a whisper of magic could speak volumes.

  If only she could find him. Where had he gone? Their appointment should have already begun.

  She stepped slowly into the room. “Hey, Yorrin. May I come in?”

  Up close, the study looked more disordered than usual. A couple of candles had tipped over, wax hardened across an old rug. A vase lay on its side, colored powder scattered in a dull cloud across the floor.

  Her gaze traced the scene. Someone had moved in a hurry, rising from the armchair, brushing the vase first, then the candles.

  She lifted one shoulder in a faint shrug.

  Yorrin was eccentric. Who could guess what scheme had pulled him from his seat this time? Then again, what Seer wasn’t? Living with one eye fixed on the currents of the unseen world couldn’t make daily life easy, especially in solitude. He was the only seer she knew who lived that way.

  Excommunicated years ago for reasons she had never learned, he had built a place for himself here. And he hadn’t done badly.

  An unaffiliated seer was a rare thing. Those in need of discretion often sought him out, and his table was never bare of clients.

  One detail froze her mid-step. A streak of red along the wall, smeared as though dragged by fingers. Paint? Or—

  Her stomach clenched hard. She pressed her lips together, steadying her breath, and stepped into the adjoining room. With a sharp tug she pulled back the heavy curtain.

  Yorrin lay on his back, arms slack at his sides. His eyes stared wide, glassy, caught in a mask of surprise. And beneath his gaping mouth yawned a second, larger wound, blood seeping in slow rivulets to the floor.

  Her throat tightened. The copper stench rushed up her nose, hot and metallic, threatening to turn her stomach. She forced herself still. She had seen battlefields before, but finding him like this—here, in his home—made her knees want to give way.

  Her chest tightened with each beat as Isabelle rushed to his side, seized his wrist, and pressed two fingers to the vein.

  Nothing.

  She let his arm drop, the weight lifeless in her hand.

  Damn it. Someone had reached him first. Poor Yorrin. Was it to block her investigation? No, that made no sense. No one even knew what she had planned. Not even she had, until that morning when she decided to book the appointment.

  Unless someone had followed her and guessed her intent. But how could they know she carried one of the coins?

  No. Yorrin had always kept too many secrets. More likely one of his other clients had decided leaving him alive was too great a risk.

  She lowered herself beside him and whispered a prayer. It was all she could give him now.

  If she reported the murder, she would have to explain her presence here.

  Unfortunate as it was, the body would have to be found by someone else.

  She rose, eyes scanning the room. A bedroom, decorated with vases and candles much like his study.

  Aside from the overturned vase and spilled candles, there was no sign of a struggle. Whoever had done this had likely come in with a blade, quick and certain. Yorrin had bolted from the armchair, fleeing toward the bedroom. In his rush he had toppled the vase and candles, but his attacker had been faster.

  He must have turned just in time to see the blade cut his throat. Whatever he had felt in that instant, the frozen look on his face told the rest.

  The blow had dropped him flat on his back, and from there he hadn’t risen again.

  The killer had likely left the same way they came, closing the door behind them as if nothing had happened.

  If anyone found her here, she would be accused of the murder on the spot. She had to leave, and quickly. But there was one thing she needed to check first.

  Whoever had killed him was probably a client. Yorrin would have let them in and waited in his chair, just as he had for her days before.

  That meant their name might be recorded somewhere. Yorrin had never seemed the organized type, but surely he had some method of tracking his appointments.

  Maybe a list or a board with the day’s clients scribbled on it. Unlikely the killer had used a real name, but assassins and criminals were often more careless than people believed.

  She returned to the study and crouched beside the low table.

  Vases, candles, jars of colored powder, and glowing crystals crowded the surface, but no list of names.

  Isabelle worried her lip. What was she still doing here? If anyone found her with a corpse, the explanation would be impossible. And Yorrin’s death had nothing to do with why she had come.

  She only needed to raise her hood and leave. Quickly.

  Then a glimmer of purple caught her eye. A crystal sat on a small pedestal in the bedroom. Unlike the others scattered carelessly on the table, this one had been set apart with purpose.

  Crystals of that shade stored illusion magic, used to project images, shapes, even memories.

  “Or record information,” she murmured to the empty room.

  Of course he’d hide it in a crystal rather than scribble it on paper.

  She stepped to the shelf, took the crystal in her hands, and channeled a trickle of power into it.

  Nothing.

  Yorrin must have locked it to block access. No surprise there. A client list was one of the most sensitive records in his work.

  If she could find a way to unlock it, she might uncover the killer’s name, or at least the alias they had given when booking the appointment.

  “What are you doing here?” a startled voice cut in.

  Her blood froze.

  Garath stood in the doorway, eyes wide and locked on the corpse. “By Orbisar, what have you done?”