Isabelle walked slowly through the curved corridors of the Inquisition’s building. It wasn’t hard to see why so many called it the Black Spiral.

  The place felt unnaturally quiet. Most inquisitors were probably out in the plaza by now, some on duty, others simply joining the celebrations. The Lantern Festival came only once a year, and the people of Rothmere cherished it.

  Black tiles lined the floor, each one perfectly squared and polished to a mirror sheen. Her reinforced boots echoed with every step, the sound rising before fading into the vaulted ceilings. The architecture seemed built to swallow voices, to keep the screams of prisoners from reaching the world above. There might even have been a spell woven into the walls to make sure of it.

  The light of sunset filtered through windows narrow as grasping fingers. Silver armor and golden hair shimmered on the polished tiles, wrapping her in a faint, ghostlike glow.

  She passed rows of dark wooden doors carved with sacred symbols, each one closed and silent.

  In that moment, only the chambers below were still occupied in the Spiral. Somewhere beneath her feet, behind layers of stone and silence, a groan or muffled cry rose every so often. Each sound was a grim reminder of the building’s true purpose: to uphold Orbisar’s law and punish those who defied it.

  Her right hand rested on the hilt of her sword. In her left, she carried a small pouch of coins.

  Coins Theodrick Brayden, Divine Inquisitor, had touched.

  Or so Sierelith had sworn.

  The word of a spy, heretic, and kidnapper carried little weight against that of a council member. Yet if Sierelith spoke the truth, a Church-appointed seer could prove it.

  Theodrick had always stood at Uriela’s side. He had been vital to her rise as head of Rothmere’s council, and their alliance hadn’t weakened with time.

  Garath had said the order to suspend the investigation into the Cashnar attack came from someone “very high up.” Theodrick fit that description all too well.

  All she needed now was Garath’s confirmation that Theodrick had never handled the evidence during the investigation. Since he was still technically part of the Inquisition, she couldn’t rule it out. Unlikely, yes. He’d buried himself in politics for years—the small, red-haired man—but not impossible.

  She also needed an official Seer to verify the traces Sierelith claimed to have sensed. Garath could take care of that while she followed the spy’s lead and searched the jungle for proof of any contact Theodrick might have had with the tribes in recent weeks. With luck—and Orbisar’s guidance—someone might even have seen him speaking with Kato. When dealing with men as powerful as Theodrick Brayden, one could never have too much evidence.

  The sun cast blazing golden beams across the walls. Dusk was falling fast.

  Meeting Garath at this hour had become almost routine, and if anyone noticed, whispers would follow soon enough.

  She stopped before his door. It stood slightly ajar. Perhaps he was already inside, waiting. Good. For once, she wouldn’t be the one kept waiting.

  She brushed her fingertips over the cold wood and pushed gently.

  The hinges moved without a sound, revealing the office beyond.

  Empty.

  The Inquisitor wasn’t at his desk. Even his warhammer was missing. It usually hung from hooks on the wall. Strange. Perhaps he had taken it to be polished; the man was obsessive about order and precision.

  “Garath?” Her voice echoed faintly.

  Nothing.

  Her pulse quickened. Garath would never have left his door open by accident. Not during an investigation this sensitive.

  She tied the pouch to her belt and gave it a firm tug to make sure it was secure.

  “Garath, are you here?” she called again, keeping her tone casual as she silently slid her blade free of its sheath. “Because I have no intention of waiting around out here for your convenience.”

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  Whoever had entered was after the coins. The lock hadn’t been forced.

  But who else could hold the key?

  Either someone who had stolen it from Garath—or someone with access to the master keys of every chamber. Someone like Divine Inquisitor Theodrick.

  Isabelle drew a slow breath. “Orbisar, grant me strength,” she whispered.

  Her chakras stirred, flaring one after another. Power coursed through her veins and gathered around the focus of her will.

  The sword.

  Sparks crackled along the blade, racing upward like furious insects ready to strike.

  She took a measured step forward, stopping short of the threshold. Energy flowed beneath her skin, hardening it until it felt like steel.

  “Well then. If you won’t come out, I’ll come in—”

  A blow smashed into her face. White light burst behind her eyes. The impact hurled her backward; her spine hit the floor, armor scraping stone. Air left her lungs in a sharp, broken gasp.

  Her hand snapped closed on empty air. The sword… where was it? She forced herself upright, vision swimming.

  A figure stood framed in the doorway.

  She squinted through the flashing white. Blood ran down her nose and lip, warm against her skin. That hadn’t been a normal punch. Whoever it was had to be an Ascendant.

  A cold shiver ran through her. Urgency. Danger.

  Stronger than her.

  Damn it. Where was her blade? She reached blindly across the floor.

  Heavy steps moved closer.

  Her fingers closed around something just as a battering force smashed into her stomach. A rising strike lifted her off the ground. Armor buckled under the impact.

  She hit the floor hard, lungs fighting for air.

  Her fists tightened. Something was in her hand now — the sword.

  Footsteps creaked closer. She swung the blade blindly in front of her.

  The steps stopped. A raspy laugh filled the doorway. He shook his head. “What are you trying to do, young Warden? Swat flies?”

  Isabelle blinked. The image sharpened. Air finally filled her lungs. Broad shoulders. A black beard. Not Garath, definitely not Theodrick, but the voice was familiar.

  She forced a breath and pushed the words out on it. “W-what do you want? Have you lost your mind?” she rasped.

  “Give me the coins, and maybe you don’t die here,” the man croaked.

  Her vision cleared. He was a tribesman.

  Yes. But not the one she had known. A name hit her like a punch.

  “Kato!” Isabelle spat. Her heart hammered. “You… you’re dead. I saw you fall—”

  The gray-skinned savage bared his teeth. “I want my coins back. Give them now.”

  Isabelle pushed herself up, lifting her blade toward him. “How did you get in here?”

  Twin black daggers appeared in his hands. He had drawn them so fast she hadn’t seen the motion. “No questions. Coins.”

  She rose, never breaking eye contact. Her legs trembled but held.

  Kato. The same black blades that had almost killed Derek. Garath had found one just past the bridge. If she had ever doubted that someone had planted it there on purpose, that doubt was gone now.

  “Who opened the door for you?” Isabelle demanded. “Who let you in?”

  Kato didn’t answer. He lunged instead. For a heartbeat he turned into a blur, a streak of gray. Isabelle twisted aside and swung.

  Steel met steel, the clash echoing through the curved corridor before the sound was swallowed by that same heavy silence.

  She pressed forward again. Her blade hissed with power, glowing at the edge of detonation, but Kato moved like a shadow. Her strike cut only air. Sparks burst outward, brief flashes lighting the corridor.

  But never where Kato stood.

  He seemed able to dissolve and reform at will. Some mix of speed and Illusion magic, perhaps. Fighting him was like dueling smoke.

  He jumped, planted a foot on the wall and vaulted over her head.

  Isabelle barely raised her sword in time. His dagger slammed down on it with a sharp metallic crack. The second blade darted for her shoulder, but the pauldrons held.

  With a twist, Kato landed light as a cat.

  Isabelle leveled her sword. “Surrender, Kato, and we will grant you a swift death.”

  He spun his black daggers so fast the blades vanished for an instant. “Your death will be slow instead. These are blades of Death.” He smiled and dragged his tongue across his lips. “One touch is enough.”

  Isabelle swallowed. “You will not come near me with those knives, savage.”

  Kato bent his knees and raised his weapons overhead, the tips like the horns of a water buffalo. “I hear those words many times, from people now dead.”

  The Warden spat at his feet. “A war will break out against your people for what you did on the bridge, Kato.”

  He grinned. “Come into the jungle, Church soldiers. Don’t expect to go home. Jungle eats you all. Jungle people not afraid.”

  Did he really believe his people could stand against a trained army? Or was he simply raving? “Even if you claimed victory, countless lives would be lost.”

  “Death no matter. Weak die. Strong stay. Make us stronger,” Kato replied, voice flat as a blade.

  ‘Death doesn’t matter.’

  A chill ran through her. That was how the Cult spoke, and those tainted by Death’s energy. Could Kato have been in contact with them? But what would the Cult want with Theodrick and the Council? No... it had to be coincidence.

  And yet he wielded black blades infused with Death.

  Another coincidence?

  Kato vanished, only to reappear at her side, blades drawn.

  Isabelle released a burst of energy. It ricocheted off his weapons, deflecting them just enough to drive them into her armor instead of her flesh. She swung a horizontal slash at his head, but he dissolved into smoke before the blade connected.

  “You cannot strike me.” His laughter echoed from somewhere above, maybe the ceiling. “You cannot strike smoke.”

  Isabelle clenched her jaw. He was right. At this pace, she would never even graze him. More likely, he would be the one to draw blood with those cursed daggers.

  If only she could call the guards. Ironic, not finding a single one in the Black Spiral.

  Isabelle raised her sword skyward, lightning gathering through her chakras. She brought it down and hurled the bolt.

  The blinding arc struck the floor where Kato had stood an instant earlier with a deafening crack.

  Smoke curled from the point of impact.

  Gone again.

  She scanned the corridor. Nothing.

  He was toying with her, cat and mouse. But there was nowhere to hide here.

  Isabelle drove her blade into the floor. A web of lightning burst outward in every direction, flooding the corridor in eye-searing light.

  Footsteps to her left.

  She turned.

  Kato was already there, his blade descending.

  Isabelle caught it just in time, the flat of her sword taking the blow. The impact sent her stumbling backward before they both crashed to the floor, the clang of armor echoing through the hall.

  She tried to roll aside, but Kato—unburdened by armor—was fast. Monkey-fast. He pounced on her in an instant.

  Black blades scraped across her armor, probing for a weak point.

  Isabelle focused, channeling power into the chakra of her free hand. She drove her fist into Kato’s solar plexus.

  The hit sent him flying, tumbling several yards away before he twisted midair and landed on his feet, light as a cat.

  Isabelle rose far less gracefully, armor clattering, and lifted her sword once more.

  This wasn’t working.

  It was time to try something else.

  Something she had only ever practiced in training.

  She spun her blade, scattering the stored charges into a sphere around her. Crackling threads wove together into a tangled knot of light, wrapping her in a radiant cocoon.

  “What is this?” Kato sneered, tilting his head. “A dance before dying?”

  Isabelle smiled, arcs of power racing through her body. Static buzzed in her fingertips and teeth, her hair lifting as if charged with life.

  “No.” Her voice rang with the force of Orbisar. “A dance before killing.”

  With the tip of her sword, she broke the fragile balance that held the sphere together.

  The charges detonated all at once, a blinding shockwave of lightning ripping through the corridor.

  And for a moment, the Black Spiral burned as bright as day in the wrath of Orbisar.