The Archarbiter's words rang in Silas's ear like a tolling bell. They echoed back, resonant in his mind. Silas recoiled, his muscles taut, flinching away from the man. The Archarbiter straightened, peering at Stroud solemnly. His severe grey gaze betrayed nothing, unbending like steel.

  Child of Concordia, Silas thought, looking to Stroud for help, what does that mean?

  Stroud's face puckered, her cheeks sucked in like she had bitten something sour. She collected herself, clenching her jaw. Avoiding Silas's pleading expression, she stared at the Archarbiter. She hummed, the melodious note breaking the silence.

  "I appreciate your concern, Archarbiter Sorne, but I am confident I can handle this case on my own." Stroud lifted her chin, her posture radiating defiance. Her smile was jovial, but her harsh stare dared the Archarbiter to question her authority.

  The Archarbiter stood, statuesque. His squared shoulders held firm.

  "I apologize for my intrusion, Vera," Sorne said flatly. "I am familiar with your successful career, and I acknowledge how integral you are to the safety of the Empire. However, this is one case I know you will be unable to solve on your own."

  Stroud's eyes briefly narrowed into slits. They snapped back open, restoring her indifferent fa?ade.

  Sorne dropped his attention to Silas for a moment and said, "You have done a fine job thus far, as fine as anyone could have managed alone. But there are several pain points I must address."

  Sorne held out his right arm, his palm facing up. Ravelin stepped forward, dropping her notepad into the Archarbiter's waiting hand. He licked his index finger, thumbing through the pages deliberately. He lingered on those inscribed with Silas's handwriting, studying his scrawl like he was committing it to memory. Finally, he stopped, spending several prolonged moments reading Ravelin's notes.

  "Firstly, Vera, may I ask you when you were planning on addressing the civil unrest caused by the attack at the Foundry School?" Sorne's attention left the page, his head tilted quizzically at Stroud. "Your focus has been exclusively on the boy here” —Sorne gripped the back of Silas's chair— "when you should have first met the concerns of the citizenry."

  Stroud's brows knit together, the twitchy one reviving its chaotic dance. Sorne observed this coolly, satisfaction fleetingly animating his features.

  "You've spent how many hours probing the mind of one mute boy, while the victims of the attack rot in their beds or graves without justice?" Sorne flipped the page he had been reading without looking down. "Word travels, Arbiter. Whispers of carrion wolves, of Unspoken infiltrators. Already, fear spreads through Droswick like a plague, and what have you done to contain it? Nothing. You've chased shadows while the people look to us for reassurance."

  Stroud opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She snapped it shut, her teeth grinding.

  "On that note," Sorne continued, his flat voice carrying, "the nobility are unsatisfied with your performance, Vera. Baron Dannel grieves a dead son and a broken wife. He wonders what you are doing, adventuring around the city with the case's lead suspect while providing neither answers nor updates."

  "I—" Stroud began, but was cut off.

  Sorne spoke over her, his volume low, but his voice commanding, demanding full attention.

  "I am sure you do not need me to remind you of this, Vera, but the significance of the nobility cannot be overstated. They are the stakeholders that run our Empire. They are the puppeteers tugging at the strings of our marionette Emperor. Arbiter, what you are currently doing is sacrificing the stability of the Empire for the sake of one strange boy."

  Sorne slammed Ravelin's notepad shut, causing Silas to jump. Sorne held out his hand, the notepad resting on his palm. Ravelin stepped forward to reclaim it, tucking it into its usual pocket.

  Silence descended. Time stood still. Everyone froze, quiescent while Sorne's words seeped into their minds. Silas posed in his chair like a mannequin, his thoughts buzzing. Until now, Stroud was the ultimate authority. His life had been placed in her hands, and he realized that he had grown comfortable in their embrace. He had only known Stroud for a few days, but his impression of her swelled each moment they spent together. She was the first person to ground him after the attack at the Foundry School, drawing him back from the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. She stood up for him where others slung rebuke, defending him in front of Trobuk's father and demanding that Oscar treat him with respect. Her sarcasm always lightened the mood, and her teases and jokes were endearing. Silas sniffed, holding back tears. He didn't want to be separated from Stroud. He especially didn't want to be torn away from her and forced into the Archarbiter's care. The man terrified him. Silas could never tell what he was thinking. His monotonous tone and vague body language were less than human; Silas could read an Unspoken better than he could understand Malrick Sorne.

  Ravelin stood like a soldier, strong and straight. Her face—half hidden behind her usual mask—revealed nothing. Her stone-cold gaze was a mirror reflection of the Archarbiter's. But she occasionally glanced at Silas curiously, studying his reactions.

  Warden Oscar hid in the corner of the room, his attention glued to the floor. He was so silent and still that he could have been mistaken for a shadow.

  Stroud smiled with her teeth, her cheeks trembling with the effort. She breathed deeply and evenly, each exhale draining the hot rage that colored her face. She sat stiffly, waiting for her emotions to balance before speaking.

  "Thank you for your dedication to my success, Archarbiter Sorne," she began. "However, I disagree with your feedback. Silas is not a distraction. He is the thread. Pull it, and the rest of this tapestry will unravel in time. I do not chase shadows, Archarbiter—I follow their shape until the light shows what casts them."

  Stroud leaned across the table. She grasped the half-full pot of coffee and dragged it toward herself. With calculated ease, she refilled her mug. Taking a long sip, she closed her eyes to savor the lukewarm bitters.

  "Ah, that's better," she said, sighing contentedly, plopping down her mug. "Now, where was I? Oh yes, regarding the nobility and general citizenry” —Stroud rolled her wrist, waving her fingers to brush the topic away— "I chose silence until I could give them truth, not conjecture. The families deserve more than half-formed reports that will only feed fear. A premature narrative can do more damage than none at all."

  Stroud cleared her throat, flicking her attention to Ravelin. "On the topic of half-truths and conjectures, I can only calm the citizens once I am permitted to understand the scope myself. Until then, all I can offer is caution and patience." Stroud froze. The words left her mouth before she could pull them back, and she knew at once she had erred.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  For the first time, the Archarbiter reacted. His expression morphed, a victorious grin twisting his lips. Stroud blanched, a bead of sweat bubbling at her hairline. She had revealed her weakness, and the Archarbiter sprang onto it immediately.

  "In that case, Vera, I propose an arrangement. I will grant you the clearance you desire. In exchange, I will join the investigation." Sorne's grin widened. "Other Arbiters will envy you, Vera. Few have a chance to collaborate on a case with the highest-ranking Arbiter in the Empire."

  Sorne reached down, patting Silas on the head affectionately. Silas cowered, trying to draw his neck into his collar like a turtle.

  "Let's strike a deal. You can continue as you have been. What roadblocks you've stumbled into will impede you no longer once you know the scope of what you have gotten yourself into."

  Sorne ruffled Silas's hair. The boy stiffened, resisting the urge to swat his hand away.

  "I will handle the public outreach you have been neglecting. Additionally” —the Archarbiter drummed his fingers on Silas's forehead— "I would like to accompany you and Silas down your next rabbit hole. I heard from Elsbeth that Coldspire Depot is next on the bucket list."

  Sorne lifted his hand from Silas's head, resting it on his sword hilt. Silas fidgeted with his hair, combing down cowlicks with his fingers. Stroud bit her lip, chewing on it while she thought. Her hands grasped her mug, fingers interlaced together around it. Her attention flicked to Silas, who was shocked at the concern written on her face. Her worry bled into him, fueling the fire of his fear.

  "May I ask why you are interested in Coldspire, Archarbiter?" Stroud spoke quietly, her defeat deflating her ego. "Let me guess: the answer lies underneath the redacted information?"

  "Not at all," replied Sorne. "However, there is something I would like to test." Sorne looked down at Silas, a contemplative frown creasing his chin.

  Silas stared back, glaring into the Archarbiter's empty gaze with his last dregs of confidence. His heart fluttered, begging him to turn away.

  "Your words got me thinking, Vera," Sorne continued, cocking an eyebrow at Silas. He turned and began to walk, pacing back and forth several steps. "Elsbeth explained to me Silas Carrow's attraction to the Unspoken. She also provided a compelling argument, asserting that Silas appears to have a certain degree of influence over the creatures." Sorne nodded at Ravelin, who bowed her head in reverence.

  "Dr. Lutheran Veyl at the Sanctorium expressed his interest in the boy when I stopped by. I wanted to visit the lad's enigmatic grandfather before coming to Crownhold. The good physick has several… scientific hypotheses that he would like to test. I will not entertain those now, but I do have one thing in mind." Sorne stopped in the center of the room. He swiveled on his heel to face Silas, who shied away, tucking his cheek into his shoulder.

  "Vera, I do agree that Silas has an important role to play in unraveling this mystery. At Coldspire, I want to assess his usefulness to the Empire."

  Stroud scoffed. "His usefulness?" she echoed, spitting out the word like it was vile.

  "Indeed. Think of it as a field observation, a tactical assessment of his skills. Was the Unspoken's death at 47 Brimthorne Lane a fluke? An opportune coincidence? Or was it something more, something Silas caused with his own power? I think Coldspire will settle these questions and more. If the boy's presence influences the enemy, we must know. If it does not… then he is of no consequence."

  Stroud's mouth fell open, her eyebrows drawn together. "And if he is of no consequence, what happens to him then?" She looked at Silas, her lips lowering into a concerned frown.

  Something flashed behind the Archarbiter's eyes, a momentary lapse into reverie. He unfocused, drawing inward to confront his memories. When his awareness returned, he again wore a mask of indifference. Silas tilted his head quizzically, capturing Sorne's behavior and filing it away for later analysis.

  "Let's not get ahead of ourselves with what ifs and conjecture, Vera," Sorne said. "I'm surprised you even asked that, considering how unpalatable you find speculation."

  Stroud said nothing to this. She bit into her bottom lip, her sharp stare stabbing at the Archarbiter like a blade. Silas's attention bounced between Stroud and Sorne, queasy dread churning his stomach. He felt like a specimen pinned to a table, being examined under a magnifying glass, prone and vulnerable. Suddenly, Coldspire felt less like a next step and more like an experiment where he was the subject. Sorne stepped forward, marching over to Silas once more. Silas curled in on himself, leaning forward in his seat with his hands pressed into his knees. The Archarbiter stopped, leaning down. Once again, his lips brushed against Silas's ear, causing him to shudder.

  "I am eager to see what you can do for the Empire with my own eyes," he whispered. "But remember this: a blade does not choose what it cuts—it obeys the hand that wields it. And every weapon finds a battlefield, sooner or later."

  Sorne straightened, his hand heavy on Silas's shoulder. Silas's gaping stare was fixed in front of him, focused on nothing as he trembled, his skin slightly green. He gulped, swallowing hard to push down the bile that rose in his throat. Stroud watched this, her glower boring into Sorne, her jaw clenched so tightly her muscles bulged.

  "We leave tomorrow at dusk," Sorne said. He turned his head to nod at Ravelin, who bowed deeply and exited the room. "We will travel by boiler. I would suggest pooling into one vehicle, but I believe that might be overstepping my bounds." Sorne's hand squeezed Silas's shoulder. He gave it one final pat, then clasped both hands behind his back.

  "I look forward to seeing you then. Now, if you will excuse me…" Sorne pivoted, his cape flowing. He froze, turning his head to peer over his shoulder. "Ah, yes, before I forget. Vera, you will get your verification after Coldspire. I hope you find this agreeable." He then marched from the room, departing with a jumpy Warden Oscar in tow.

  Stroud and Silas paused, facing each other in the silence that stretched between them. Silas couldn't look at Stroud. He couldn't bear to meet the gaze that pitied him. Several times, Stroud's mouth opened and closed, words failing to form as she floundered. Silas fought back tears, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe around the lump in his throat. When the emotions overwhelmed him, his eyes spilled over, the waterworks bursting from him as his body shook with sobs.

  Stroud had no idea how to react to this. At first, she feigned ignorance, pretending not to notice Silas's sorrow. She stared at the wall, gnawing the inside of her cheek. Then, she rolled her gaze toward the ceiling, racking her brain for solutions. She suddenly straightened, clearing her throat loudly to get Silas's attention. He watched her through vision swimming with tears, sniffling and sputtering messily.

  "Um," Stroud began. She pursed her lips, trying again. "E-everything will be okay, Silas. I have this under control."

  This only made Silas cry harder. Stroud blinked at him, utterly flummoxed by his whimpering and sniveling. She stood and awkwardly shuffled to Silas's chair, dragging her feet.

  "There, there," she said, tapping Silas on the shoulder using the palm of her hand, her fingers spread wide. "T-there's nothing to cry about. We… We will get through this. Together."

  Silas hiccupped, a sound caught between a sob and a giggle. He wiped his eyes, swiping away the tears so he could see better. Stroud stood with her neck bent to peer down at him, her gaze narrowed in concentration. Silas giggled again, his tears drying.

  “You are terrible at this,” he signed, knowing Stroud couldn’t understand him.

  She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. Squinting, she said, "That looked rude. Was that rude? Don't lie to me, mouse."

  They froze, studying each other. At once, the tension shattered. Silas and Stroud burst out laughing. Silas's tears returned in full force, his vision weeping with merriment. Stroud hugged herself, bent at the waist as she gasped between chortles. She hobbled back to her chair, collapsing into it as her exuberance simmered down. She buried her face in her hands, peeking at Silas through her parted fingers.

  "Oh, mouse boy, look at what you've gotten me into," she sighed, closing her fingers to hide her face.

  Silas dabbed at his wet cheeks with his sleeve, collecting himself. He picked up his stylus, ready to pen down his thoughts. He stopped—nib hovering over parchment—at Stroud's frustrated groan.

  "Ugh! I am done passing notes back and forth like schoolchildren." Stroud dropped her hands to her lap, looking at Silas with a twinkle in her eyes. "I think it's time that I learn some sign language. I hope you're a good teacher, little mouse."

  Silas threw Stroud a cocky half-grin. And I hope that you are a fast learner.