The corridor breathed with quiet as I snuck through it, ducking from shadow to shadow.

  The north tower hallway ended at a single door: black wood, brass handle, the sigil of the Judiciary etched faintly at its center. Judge Arken’s office.

  I waited, counting seconds. No footsteps. No guards. No sound but the ticking of some distant clock.

  Too quiet.

  I crouched, leaned an inch forward, and peered through the narrow slit of the door. Inside was a desk, wall-to-wall shelves, the faint shine of candlelight on polished marble. Empty.

  Unusually unguarded. Hopefully that means I'm just lucky, and Arken doesn't like guards invading his personal spaces.

  I opened the door slow enough that the hinges never protested.

  The room was huge - cathedral-sized by office standards. Velvet curtains drawn, moonlight filtering through narrow slits. The floor gleamed with gold filigree. Books towered on every wall - papers and scrolls were stacked like miniature citadels, arranged by hands too meticulous to be sane.

  I didn’t stop to admire it.

  Charlotte’s eyes burned faintly behind mine - a flicker of scarlet threading through the gray. The divine veil peeled back, the world tinting in layers of aura and resonance. The papers on the floor went dull, inert - but one object near the far wall hummed softly in the unseen spectrum.

  A faint, divine signature.

  A single brown-bound book.

  Subtle, but alive.

  I crossed the room, slow and silent, every step measured. The shadows stirred underfoot like restless animals, but I ignored them. When I reached the desk, the air smelled faintly of lavender and old paper.

  The book lay atop a stack of parchment, unmarked except for the gilded spine. I lifted it.

  Hollow.

  Inside the cavity sat a small, dark chest - no bigger than my hand - and above it, a folded slip of paper.

  'Just in case', huh.

  Dated three days ago as well.

  I unfolded the note with gloved fingers. Beneath it, the chest clicked open at a touch, revealing a delicate brass cylinder - a recorder. Old, but expensive.

  I pressed the switch.

  Static hissed, then two voices emerged.

  The first I recognized immediately - Arken's measured tone, calm and deliberate. The second trembled with barely controlled fear.

  "It seems the reports were correct," Arken said. "It was heretics that attacked the mansion that night, not the Republic."

  "But they claimed independence!" The other man's voice cracked. "The Eastern Republic delegation said they acted alone, but - gods, Arken, we didn't know they were working with heretics."

  "We were misled." Arken's resignation contrasted sharply with the other man's panic. "Still, ignorance doesn't absolve treason."

  "You're not going to keep working with them, are you?"

  "I may be a traitor to the Crown," Arken said coldly, "but I am no heretic. The moment they worked with such scum, I severed contact."

  Silence stretched between them - tense, uncertain.

  Finally, the other man spoke again. "Then what now?"

  "Now, silence. No one speaks of this again."

  "And if the Republic tries to expose us?"

  "They won't. They know we know too much. They'd rather kill us than risk exposure."

  "Still, we should be ready."

  "Agreed. We'll stay vigilant." A pause. "It will be at least a week before they realize we've abandoned them. We should build contingencies before then."

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

  The other man's voice had steadied now, fear giving way to resignation. "And if something happens to you?"

  "Then you'll find the evidence in the green book on the sixth shelf. Use it as leverage. Just in case."

  "Good luck, Arken."

  "We will need it, Gerald." Arken's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "We gambled... and it seems we've lost."

  The recording clicked off.

  Gerald, huh? Must be someone Arken trusts.

  But it seems they were in fact the traitors the Regent had been looking for, it's definitive now. Though it also shows they didn't know they were working with heretics.

  I almost feel sorry for them.

  For a long moment, I stared at the little brass cylinder, the faint whir of the gears fading into silence.

  There it was. Everything I needed. Proof of collusion, proof of betrayal, proof that Arken’s faction had cut ties with the Eastern Republic.

  But his words about the “green book” itched behind my skull.

  Sixth shelf.

  I turned, scanning the towering wall of ledgers. There - mid-height, green spines lined in neat rows. I glanced at my watch. Eight minutes before the next patrol shift.

  Plenty of time.

  I crossed the room quickly, counting shelves under my breath. I found it, a small green book that seemed unassuming among the countless others.

  I pulled it free.

  The scent hit instantly - lavender. Sweet, cloying.

  I opened the cover. Transactions. Republican contacts. Other collaborators - names I recognized, nobles I'd seen in Arthur's court. Everything the Regent needed.

  But the smell grew thicker, the room tilting slightly around me.

  My pulse stuttered.

  Shit.

  I dropped the book, but the damage was done.

  The air seemed to ripple. My head spun - the light dimmed at the edges. My breath hitched in my throat as the strength bled from my limbs. I staggered back, knocking into the desk.

  Was it something on the paper-

  My legs buckled.

  I forced a breath, tried to steady my lungs, but the scent clung inside me. My arms wouldn’t move. My vision fractured into shards of light.

  The shadows reacted first - twitching, rippling across the walls. The blackness beneath me seemed to melt and form repeatedly, as if trying to fight against something. The walls seemed to move, and the lights flickered under my uncertain gaze.

  Then came the whispers.

  Familiar voices. Unknown ones. Laughter, which quickly transitioned to hissing, angry, frustrated. My heartbeat thundered like war drums in my ears as I collapsed to my knees, barely able to lift my head. The divine energy that usually heeded my call seemed to have a mind of its own now, spasming and ripping violently in my body - spilling into the room.

  My limbs wouldn't move as I lay immobilized on the ground. The only action I was able to retain was moving my eyes, and even that took everything out of me.

  What the... fuck... is happening to me...?

  The door creaked open.

  Boot-steps echoed across marble.

  Through the fog of failing vision, I saw them - Arken stepping through first, maskless, his green eyes catching the light. Behind him, guards. Faction men. Armed, ready, confident. Even the Nobles carried guns, all with grim but determined expressions.

  Arken’s mouth curved into something halfway between pity and triumph.

  “Well,” he said softly, as his boots stopped inches from my head. “It seems we’ve found our hostage. Seems your information was right, Gerald”

  The shadows screamed.

  G-Gerald... what?

  My vision was half light, half noise. The air thickened around me like syrup. Hands - heavy, gloved - dug under my arms, dragging me to my feet. My legs moved, but only because the guards were hauling me like a corpse that hadn’t realised it was dead.

  Arken’s voice cut through the haze. Cold, precise, almost amused.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, turning to his men. “It seems fate smiles on us tonight. For we, in our final hour, have achieved what so little have - the unveiling of an Inquisitor.”

  A murmur rolled through the dozen men standing behind him. Their faces - previously grim - couldn't help but become curious under the proposition.

  I tried to focus, but my eyes refused to hold steady. The room swam in and out of focus - golden light, marble pillars, dark shapes moving like puppets on invisible strings.

  How the hell... is Arken here?

  It can't be... past ten-thirty.

  There was only one answer, but it wasn't one I was willing to accept yet.

  Theres no way... the Regent...

  Arken walked toward me, smiling that polished smile of his - the kind that reeked of courtroom victories and quiet executions.

  “Let’s see the face of an Inquisitor, shall we?”

  I was too out of my mind to even react, barely being able to mutter a protest.

  He reached forward and tore the mask from my face.

  The room went silent.

  For a heartbeat, Arken just stared - eyes wide, his composure fracturing like cracked porcelain. Around him, the other nobles shifted, shock rippling through the air like a drawn breath.

  And then he laughed.

  Not the calm, measured laugh of a judge - no, this was manic, raw, something between disbelief and delight.

  “Well, well,” he said between fits of laughter. “Of all the possibilities, I would never have guessed Arthur's pup would be an Inquisitor. Our hostage is sufficient indeed! We have ourselves a Veilwalker, and a young one brimming with potential at that. The Inquisition truly outdid themselves, recruiting you.”

  He straightened, still grinning, but then his amusement faltered - replaced by something sharper, colder. His eyes narrowed, as though he was trying to process something - before his eyes went wide with shock.

  “Wait,” he breathed. “No… impossible.”

  He ripped open my coat, yanking the shoulder fabric aside. A faint scar glimmered there - half-hidden, faintly present - a reminder of last nights injuries I sustained saving Arken.

  Ah... shit.

  He stepped back, voice trembling now - not with fear, but awe. “Almighty... You’re a double pathway user.”

  The words hit like a thunderclap. The entire room went rigid.

  “What?” one of the nobles whispered.

  “That- that can't be.”

  “I thought such a thing was mere myth-”

  Arken ignored them. His gaze locked on me like I was an artifact instead of a man.

  “You’ve the exact stature,” he murmured, “as the Inquisitor who saved me that night.”

  He turned to his men, snapping out of his trance. “We’re done here. Retreat to the courthouse. We hold position and await the Inquisition’s arrival.”

  Somewhere above, the courthouse bells began to toll. I could only hope it was meant for them, and not for me.