Loran had not spoken since being pulled from the lower levels.

He sat quietly in Evander’s chambers, wrapped in a wool blanket, staring at the embers in the hearth. No injuries. No blood. But something in his gaze had cracked. The boy’s hands trembled slightly, cupped around a cup of untouched tea.

Evander sat nearby, not speaking either.

A knock came.

Evander didn’t rise to answer it. The door opened anyway.

Magister Varra stepped in—sharp-eyed, her crimson sash cinched tight around a frame coiled like a whip. Two lesser inquisitors followed behind her like shadows, though they lingered near the threshold.

Varra (biting):
“So. It’s true. You’re harboring the boy.”

Evander:
“I’m treating him.”

Varra laughed, once. It was a cold, humorless sound.

Varra:
“You’re not a healer, Warden. He should be isolated, examined. If this were five years ago, he’d already be ash.”

Evander (flatly):
“It’s not five years ago.”

Varra’s boots echoed sharply as she approached, stopping just short of the boy.

Varra:
“He was down there alone. Who knows what was whispered into him.”

Evander:
“He’s not possessed.”

Varra:
“No? And how would you know that, Evander? How many times have you descended to that thing, and still returned sane?”

The room tensed. Even the fire dimmed for a moment, crackling low.

Evander rose slowly, stepping between her and Loran.

Evander:
“Are you accusing me of corruption?”

Varra:
“I’m asking how long the Warden of the Inquisition thinks he can bend our laws before they break.”

Evander didn’t flinch. But his hands were clenched at his sides.

Evander:
“I answered to the law when it burned children for dreaming the wrong dreams. I remember the Witch Hunts.”

Varra (snarling):
“Then you should know what happens when mercy opens the door for monsters!”

Evander said nothing. Just looked at her. Something in his stare was colder than hers.

Behind them, Loran finally spoke. Barely audible.

Loran (whispering):
“She wasn’t alone down there…”

Varra turned sharply.

Varra:
“What did you say?”

Loran:
“Something else was watching.”

His eyes never left the fire.

Evander (firmly):
“That’s enough.”

He guided the boy gently up from the chair and toward the door opposite the hall. A quiet room, deeper within the Warden’s quarters, used for meditation and prayer. Varra made no move to follow.

When Evander returned, the others hadn’t moved.

Evander:
“I’ll make my report by dusk.”

Varra:
“You’re not untouchable, Warden.”

Evander (coolly):
“No one is.”

She held his gaze for a long time. Then turned and left, her boots rapping against the stone.

The other inquisitors lingered. One—Darin, younger, eyes full of judgment—spoke under his breath as he passed:

Darin (quiet, contemptuous):
“You should be in the cell next to her.”

He vanished into the hall.

Evander stood alone for a moment, breathing slow. The weight of the torchlight flickered across the stone walls like shadows in chains.

He looked down at his own hands.

They weren’t shaking.

Not yet.

Evander remained still long after the others had gone.

Only the fire cracked behind him. The silence of the chamber was too complete, as if even the stones were listening.

He moved eventually—slow, measured. Not weary, but deliberate. He poured out the untouched tea, washed the cup, and folded the blanket with care. Each act a ritual. A method of grounding.

And yet, the moment his hand brushed the hearth… he paused.

A single white petal lay in the ash.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t brought flowers into this room. No one had.

He stared at it, fragile and pale against the black.

Then, very gently, he brushed it into the flames. It curled, blackened, and vanished.

—

Later, in the still hours before dawn, Evander descended again.

Not to the cells. Not to her.

To the archives.

Buried below the Hall of Lanterns, past shelves of rotting vellum and half-lost records, were the oldest tomes—documents the Inquisition had no intention of remembering, yet couldn’t bear to destroy.

He lit a lantern and moved past rusted chains, unopened scroll cases, and a collapsed fresco of the Burning Era.

He found the entry he wasn’t supposed to find.

Prisoner 001.

It had no name. Just a mark in ancient ink—a spiral of thorns.

The description was brief:

Female shape.
No breath detected.
Not demon. Not spirit. Unknown category.
Voice transfixing. Avoid prolonged exposure.
Sealed in the Black Cell for observation.
Result:
Subject did not age.
Subjects who engaged her for more than five minutes experienced permanent psychological drift.
One began speaking in a language older than recorded time.
One ceased all speech.
One committed self-immolation.

Evander closed the book.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

Somewhere behind him, in the dark of the archives, a faint whisper stirred the air.

He turned.

No one.