The stone door groaned shut behind him.

Evander stood in the corridor for a long time, the flickering torch in his hand the only light. He could still feel her presence behind the wall. Not watching, not moving—just there.

She hadn’t spoken again.

Yet the silence followed him like perfume.

He climbed the spiral steps slowly, boots echoing up the winding path carved by time. Somewhere above, thunder rolled. The scent of old dust and wet stone gave way to torch smoke and incense as he emerged from the lower vault.

The Inquisition’s great hall greeted him with silence of a different kind.
Not peace—restraint.

A fire crackled. Robed figures stood in corners, speaking softly behind raised collars. Eyes flicked toward him as he passed.

Magister Halbrecht (curt):
“You lingered.”

Evander stopped. The elder inquisitor stood beside the map table, fingers tracing old campaign lines as though they still bled.

Evander:
“She spoke.”

Halbrecht (grim):
“They always do. Eventually.”

Evander didn’t reply. Halbrecht turned to face him fully, his expression carved from stone.

Halbrecht:
“You're playing a dangerous game, Warden. That thing below is not a woman. It's not even a prisoner. It's a mirror. Stare too long, and you’ll forget your own face.”

Evander’s jaw tightened.

Evander:
“Then perhaps it's worth asking why our faces are worth forgetting.”

The elder inquisitor stepped closer, voice lowered.

Halbrecht:
“She’s not here to be understood. She’s here to be contained. We don’t debate with fire—we drown it.”

There was a pause. A flicker of something behind Halbrecht’s eyes. Fear, maybe. Or memory.

Evander (evenly):
“She hasn’t used magic. Not once.”

Halbrecht (dark):
“Not all poison is cast through words. Some of it waits. And some of it… spreads.”

Evander turned without permission, walking toward the high windows. Rain blurred the view of the capital below—Empyria’s golden towers washed gray by storm.

He spoke without looking back.

Evander:
“Did you hear what she said about trust?”

Halbrecht (cold):
“We don’t trust, Warden. We command.”

The words hung there.

Evander’s hand tightened around the torch, the flame guttering in protest.

“Warden Evander!”

A younger voice broke through the tension—light, slightly nervous.

He turned to see Apprentice Loran, barely twenty, robes slightly too large for his frame, rushing down the hall with an awkward bundle of scrolls clutched in his arms.

Loran (panting):
“Sir! I—I wasn’t sure if I should say anything, but… you looked like you needed, um. A break?”

Evander blinked. The boy’s earnestness was like fresh air—unwelcome, but honest.

Loran (rushing):
“I mean—I know it’s not really my place. I just wanted to say, the senior wardens talk about you sometimes. Not bad, I mean! They say you’re the one who can walk through silence and come out stronger.”

Evander raised an eyebrow, unsure if that was meant to be flattery or prophecy.

Evander (dryly):
“They talk too much.”

Loran (grinning, nervous):
“Maybe. But still. I think… whatever you’re doing down there, it’s brave.”

Evander gave him a long look, then nodded once.

Evander:
“Go to bed, apprentice.”

Loran (saluting clumsily):
“Yes, Warden! Uh—rest well!”

The boy turned and nearly tripped on his robe before vanishing into the side hall. Evander allowed himself a slow exhale.

He walked the last stretch alone.

In his quarters, he undressed in silence. The rain still tapped at the windows, gentler now. A candle burned low beside his desk, the wax pooled like blood in a silver tray.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t write.

Just stood in the dark, the scent of stone and parchment familiar—but now tinged with something else.

Flowers. White. Burning.

That night, he dreamt of fire.

Not battle.
Not screams.

Just fire—consuming a field of white flowers.

And a voice whispering from somewhere beneath the smoke.

Not Hecate’s.

Something older.