The cocoon of lightning swirling around Isabelle burst outward, flooding the Black Spiral—the Inquisition’s headquarters—in a blaze of white light.

  A scream tore through the air above her, followed by a dull crash.

  As the glow ebbed, her blond hair floated back down, settling against her armor.

  She turned toward the sound.

  Kato lay sprawled across the floor, his limbs twitching under a web of crackling sparks. Each jolt made his muscles seize and release, a grotesque rhythm somewhere between convulsion and defiance.

  Isabelle raised her sword. He still clung to life; her aura hadn’t surged with the certainty of victory. That meant there was still work to do.

  She advanced, her boots clicking softly against the marble, steady and precise.

  He bore no resemblance to Tunga, though they came from the same tribe. The shaman was wild and erratic, yet capable of rare, quiet insight. Kato was the opposite: all iron and fury, a man carved by battle. He’d abandoned his kin in pursuit of pure strength. Killing and feeding on that power. That was his creed.

  At least, that was what Tunga had told her. And Isabelle had no reason to doubt him. Kato had been relentless, a storm given flesh. She’d survived only because he could never have guessed she’d already mastered that new technique.

  Even she hadn’t expected to use it so soon. It was the first time she had unleashed it in a real battle. Many called it Stormblast. Older names existed. Ancient, harsh, better left forgotten. A surge of lightning bursting outward in every direction, impossible to evade, especially in a confined place like this.

  If Kato had realized what she was charging, he never would have let her finish. The technique’s only flaw was its long, glaring buildup. Any fighter with a shred of sense would have struck before it was ready.

  Another reason to end Kato now. The fewer who knew its secret, the more lethal it would remain.

  She tilted her blade toward his throat.

  Stopped. Her jaw tightened.

  Why now? Why this hesitation? Countless times before, she had ended foes who lay defeated, her hand steady, her purpose clear. It was the duty of a Warden to defend the Light of Orbisar with steel and storm alike.

  But Derek…

  Derek wouldn’t kill him.

  Her grip faltered. The tip of the sword quivered, carving a shallow, red line across the fallen warrior’s throat. A bead of blood welled and slid, slow as a thought.

  Just a scratch.

  Knuckles whitened further around the hilt. The blade hovered, an accusation in steel.

  She clenched her jaw. For a single, sharp beat her shoulders lost their poise, then she drew herself back to the posture of a Warden. Shoulders squared, chin level, every motion measured. Duty was a thing you wore like armor; it settled around her again.

  “Not finish him?” a rough voice asked.

  Tunga filled the curved corridor, staff planted, eyes like flint.

  She straightened. “Tunga. I did not hear you come.”

  “That because I not want be heard.” His gaze cut to Kato and then to her. “I asked you question.”

  She eased the sword back a step. “I know he was your kin. Do you want to take care of it yourself?”

  “He no friend. He man without honor.” Tunga’s lip curled. He looked away, as if the man at his feet already lay beyond counting. “For me, he already dead.”

  Isabelle’s mouth tightened. She remembered the day on the bridge. Tunga’s tear, the way Derek had looked away for days afterward. Memory folded into the present, small and precise like a wound stitched under the skin.

  She lowered the blade again until its tip rested against the Nakori’s thick throat. The burden settled on her shoulders.

  A groan rolled from deeper in the corridor.

  Her breath caught. Who else could still be alive? The question barely formed before a name rose in her mind.

  Garath.

  Kato must have found him in his office and attacked. He could be hurt.

  “Tunga, watch Kato!” Isabelle snapped, already turning. She sprinted down the hall and burst into the open office.

  The Inquisitor’s desk was a ruin. Scrolls scattered across the floor, glowing crystals rolling in lazy arcs, his precious notebook half buried beneath the mess.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Garath was struggling to rise, one hand braced on the desk, the other pressed against his head. Blood matted his hair where a deep gash split his temple, dark streaks drying along his neck.

  Isabelle closed the distance and caught him before he fell.

  He let out a low groan, blinking as if the world refused to settle into focus.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  “What… what happened…”

  “I found your attacker, Garath. Or rather, he found me first.” Her gaze flicked to the wound. Messy but shallow, the bleeding almost stopped. “He came for the coins. Thought your office would be empty.”

  “So he survived the fall,” the Inquisitor muttered. “How do you know it’s the same man?”

  A tiny muscle jumped at the corner of Isabelle’s mouth. She had told Garath she’d never seen the warrior before. Now she could not admit she recognized him or that she knew his name. She cleared her throat. “He said he came to reclaim his coins.”

  Garath’s nod was a blade hidden in a smile. “Where is he now? Did you kill him?”

  She shook her head. “I was about to.”

  “No… don’t. A confession is the final proof. If he tells us who hired him to strike the Cashnar, we’ll have everything we need.”

  Isabelle forced a humorless smile. “You want a confession?” She let the word hang. “You don’t understand the Nakori, Inquisitor.”

  Garath’s eyes narrowed, careful and cold. “Maybe this one’s different. He killed for a pouch of coins. He might talk for a larger one.”

  Her stomach knotted. “You’d pay for a confession? You? An Inquisitor who swore justice before Divine Chancellor Luthiel Othran and Orbisar Himself?”

  “Don’t preach to me, Warden.” He spat the words like a formal reprimand. “It’s a miracle I’m still breathing. If I don’t wrap this up fast and clear my name, next time the blow won’t be so merciful.”

  She flexed her fingers into a fist. “And have you already chosen the name he must give for that purse? Or does the name depend on the price?”

  “You imply I would buy a lie? I want the truth.”

  “The truth cannot be bought, Inquisitor.”

  Garath’s gaze dipped for a fraction, then rose again, sharp and measured, like a man double-checking a ledger entry. “Everything has a price. That savage will talk, I’ll get my name, and then it becomes a problem for the jailers of the Black Spiral’s lower cells.”

  Isabelle’s voice turned to steel. “And what if the name he gives is Divine Inquisitor Theodrick Brayden?”

  Garath’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you get that name?” His voice dropped, sharp as glass. “You know something?”

  Isabelle folded her arms. “Do you?”

  He looked away, gaze sinking toward the floor. “He’s the one who ordered me to drop the coin investigation. But you’d already guessed that, hadn’t you?”

  Isabelle crossed her arms. “Then here’s what we know. Theodrick paid the savage to attack Derek on the bridge. What we don’t know is whether his goal was killing the Cashnar… or starting a war. Maybe both.”

  Garath frowned, wincing as his fingers brushed the bandage at his temple. “Ask yourself why a high-ranking Council member like Theodrick would want the Cashnar dead.”

  A faint, bitter curve tugged at her lips. “Derek would say: power. As Cashnar, he could erase the Council in a heartbeat and claim Rothmere for himself. And he hasn’t exactly hidden his contempt for them.”

  Garath stroked his chin, thoughtful. “If he toppled them from their gilded chairs, things would be simpler for everyone. Even him. Makes me wonder why he hasn’t done it yet.”

  Isabelle lifted a shoulder, her arms still crossed. “I don’t think he cares about power. At least, not that kind.”

  The Inquisitor’s gaze lingered on her, silent and weighing. Then he gave a single, deliberate nod. “I think I understand now.”

  “What?”

  “A man who doesn’t care about power… is worse.”

  Isabelle frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  “The Council runs on one thing only: power. It’s the only language they speak.” Garath’s voice darkened, eyes turning distant. “I’ve seen things in those corridors over the years. Things I’d rather forget. Every deal, every betrayal, every smile was just another step up the ladder.”

  He looked up and met her gaze. “But Derek, the Cashnar… if he truly doesn’t care about power?” He shook his head slowly. “They can’t predict him. And nothing terrifies the powerful more than a man whose next move they can’t read.”

  Isabelle’s jaw tightened. Heat flared across her cheeks. “But to him they’re not opponents at all! He doesn’t waste a single second of his life thinking about them!”

  “Well, he should. Or one day he’ll find a knife in his back and won’t even know why it’s there.”

  “Not while I’m here.” The words rang out like steel striking stone. A faint shimmer of static rippled across her skin, the air around her humming for a heartbeat.

  Garath drew in a breath to reply, but a dull thud echoed from the corridor, sharp enough to cut their argument short.

  Isabelle stiffened. Her pulse quickened before her mind caught up.

  She bolted for the door and stopped dead, as if she’d run into an invisible wall.

  Kato stood, knife pressed to Tunga’s throat. The shaman didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. His gaze rested on the Nakori warrior with a strange, unshaken calm, as if Kato were still lying unconscious instead of holding a Death-imbued blade to his neck.

  “Tunga!” Isabelle shouted.

  He raised a hand, palm outward, silently telling her to stay back.

  She tightened her grip on the sword but forced herself not to draw it. Among the tribes, honor weighed more than life. This was not for her to break.

  “Kato,” Tunga said, voice low and grave, slipping into Nakori. Isabelle had learned enough jungle speech to follow. “How could you lose yourself so?”

  Kato’s eyes narrowed. He pressed the blade harder to Tunga’s throat. “I do what Spirit tell me,” he spat.

  “The Spirit told you to sneak in like a thief? To stain your hands with Death?” Tunga shot back.

  “No. Spirit no give orders so clear.” Kato’s smile sharpened into a jagged thing. “Spirit only give signs. We must find way to please it.”

  Tunga’s brow knotted. “Please it? You think Spirit pleased with a coward’s work?”

  Kato’s grin vanished. “It will be pleased when I bring your head… and the head of the one they call Cashnar.”

  In a blur of motion, Tunga’s staff snapped upward with a sharp crack. The black dagger flew from Kato’s hand, clattering down the corridor. The sound echoed once, then died, swallowed by the strange stillness of the Spiral.

  Tunga drew a slow breath. Faint flames rippled along the staff, their glow reflected in his eyes. “The Cashnar is mine. I will bring his head to the Spirit.”

  Kato staggered back, grinning wide, teeth bared in mockery. “Then I suppose you want to bring my head too, eh?”

  Tunga spat on the floor. “Spirit no want your filthy head. I throw it to pigs, if pigs want it.”

  Kato lunged with a second knife, but Tunga’s staff moved first.

  The blow cracked across Kato’s face, snapping his head to the side and driving him back a step. He growled, rubbing at the red welt blooming on his cheek. “Think that small stick scare me?”

  Tunga slammed the staff to the ground and muttered something that wasn’t quite words, more like wind sighing through leaves. A hiss rose from the wood. The staff thickened, its surface splitting as knife-long thorns pushed out in every direction.

  He spun it once, fluid and precise, the motion effortless despite its new weight. “Better now? Or should I make bigger?”

  Kato bared his teeth. “Make it big as you want. Still just stupid stick.”

  He dropped into a low stance, Death knife in one hand, a violet Illusion sphere hovering over the other, pulsing like a heartbeat.

  Isabelle moved to the side of the corridor, Garath close behind. “We should fall back.”

  “What, we’re not arresting him?” the Inquisitor hissed. “This is our chance.”

  She shook her head. “It’s about their honor. We can’t interfere.”

  Garath muttered a curse under his breath but stayed where he was.

  Tunga straightened, chest broad and voice booming. “Death and Illusion,” he thundered. “Always your first choice, even as boy. I should have seen it, that you walk path of death, in illusion it give you what you seek. Power? Riches?” He gave a bitter smile. “Look at you now.”

  “Enough!” Kato roared. The violet sphere flared, and his form dissolved into a burst of purple smoke.

  Tunga spun his staff in a wide arc, tracing a fiery ring before him. He exhaled sharply, and the flames surged forward, twisting into a vortex that filled the corridor with light and heat.

  Kato’s scream cut through the roar of fire. He reappeared by a shattered window, clutching his scorched shoulder, teeth clenched against the pain. The flames had barely grazed him, but it was enough.

  Tunga shook his head. “Illusion never good hiding place, Kato.” He spun the staff again, forming another blazing ring. “Reality always find you.”

  With another breath, the ring exploded forward, expanding toward the warrior.

  This time, Kato dove forward, sliding beneath the expanding ring before it could close the passage.

  He drove his knife upward, but Tunga dropped low, staff intercepting the strike, and slid back with a grunt.

  Kato surged to his feet, close enough for Isabelle to see the bloodlust in his eyes. He licked his lips and grinned. “You fight well. I tell tribe… when I bring them your head.”

  Tunga’s mouth twisted. “I have no tribe. Spirit of Beast speak to me no more. You know this.”

  “That because you not kill man of iron when Spirit ask. You betray. You no shaman. You no Nakori.”

  Tunga’s face hardened, disgust flashing across it. “And you still think you are?”

  He swung the staff, one of its thorns slicing through the air so close it brushed Kato’s cheek, forcing him back.

  Kato countered in a blur, his body splitting into two mirrored forms—one darting left, the other right. Tunga spun the staff in a wide arc and leapt back.

  The knife struck wood.

  Garath cleared his throat quietly. “We should intervene. Might lose both your friend and our suspect.”

  Isabelle didn’t move. Every nerve screamed at her to step in, yet she knew Tunga would never forgive her if she did.

  “Tunga will win,” she whispered.

  And she prayed—silently, fiercely—to Orbisar that she was right.

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