The streets narrowed as he approached the deeper quarter of Solthar. Where the buildings pressed close together, their darkened windows reflecting the dying light. Dust danced in the air, disturbed by the steady shuffle of Silvanus’s boots as he walked, cool eyes observing the less familiar surroundings.

  Silvanus pushed open the door to the antiques shop. The faint chime of a brass bell announced his entrance. The scent of aged paper, and faint candle smoke hit him immediately like a welcome in contrast to the damp, sooty streets just beyond the threshold. Though, it wasn’t within the poverty ridden alleys of Solthar, it was tucked closer to it. And those traces of ugliness seeped into the area.

  Outside, the clip-clop of thin horse carts rattled over cobblestones, and inside, the world felt almost suspended with ancient relics.

  Behind the counter, a man buried in the morning paper did not glance up. Nor did the inquisitor pass him a greeting. Though, his eyes, were fixed on a more familiar figure, the retired scribe and minor priest who had once served the city meticulously with his learned hands. Now those same hands trembled as they sorted through small trinkets laid out on felt cloth before his person, those obsolete tokens that had their importance thinned with the passing of time.

  "We meet again," Silvanus said, his boots clacking against the polished, wooden floor.

  The older man flinched as he turned, nearly dropping a small glass vial with his shaking hands. "Inquisitor…" There was recognition. "S—Silas… what brings you here?" His voice was hushed, a mixture of respect, fear, and exhaustion. Again? The old man would have thought.

  "A few more questions," Silvanus said, stepping closer to take a seat before him. "Would you be willing to answer them?"

  The scribe swallowed, his lips quivering. "I… I will try, though, I do not know what you may wish to hear."

  Silvanus let silence hang for a moment as if pondering what to ask first. "During your service in the churches…" and he began, "any deaths you witnessed that seemed unnatural? Anything that didn’t make it into the records?"

  The man began to process it for a few minutes, fiddling with the glass vial before carefully placing it back on the cloth amongst the other trinkets. The only sound now was the tick of the clock, and the occasional shuffle of the newspaper from behind the counter.

  "There… were some. The ones they whispered of, but the ledgers showed nothing. I… I could tell you stories, Inquisitor, but some truths are… dangerous to speak aloud."

  "You have lived long enough to know that danger is nothing compared to the consequences of silence," he said, voice low, pressing the man to speak. "Do not underestimate what I am capable of discovering on my own if you withhold what you know." Silvanus threatened.

  "I—I will tell you!" The retired man fumbled again, "There were deaths of people who worked in the churches, who’s deaths I was ordered to erase from the ledgers! They would die unnatural deaths… Some I came across myself, and—" He covered his mouth at the memory of rotten, charred corpses that had died hours before yet appeared so old with the decay, as if they were dug from the earth itself.

  "Some priests, or members of the clergy, even those of the families are silently executed. The method's vary from death to death... Some are slain by the disciples, other's are murdered by less known, and rather dark methods."

  So that was it. An execution.

  "Are you aware of who does this? The one who pulls these threads?" Silvanus questioned, but the old man simply shook his head.

  "I was only a scribe, nothing more than that. I was ordered, and I did as I was ordered to do without question," he replied, "If I dared break the silence, I could very well be next in line."

  Outside, the murmur of the city continued, oblivious to the quiet confrontation unfolding in the small shop. The weight of untold secrets settled like dust on every surface. Silvanus knew, with a certainty, that the truth about Malvar’s death, and the stirrings beneath Solthar, were waiting to be drawn out, thread by thread.

  He stood up as the man concluded his retellings.

  "Inquisitor Silas! You must be careful! Should you delve deeper into the abyss, you will find more than just enemies waiting for you! So, why do you risk your life?"

  "That is my path. That is my role." He turned to look over his shoulder at the man who's face was laced with genuine worry, "I walk where others flee because in the end, judgment is not merely a card of fate drawn. It is the truth made to manifest, and I will see it delivered, no matter the cost."

  The retired scribe wearily nodded, knowing that whatever path Silvanus chose, it was one carved in unyielding resolve. It was where hesitation meant the world itself might slip further into darkness.

  Silvanus stepped out of the antiques shop, the bell above the door jingling faintly. The air outside was cooler now, tinged with the scent of dampness and the distant clamor of Solthar’s streets. The inquisitor paused mid-step, sensing a weight pressing down on him, like one that could have been missed by any ordinary person. Slowly, he turned, and his gaze fell on a boy across the street.

  Fiery red hair caught the light, and eyes burned with an intensity that seemed older than his years.

  The boy’s posture was rigid, tense, as if he bore some invisible burden. He did not look away, nor did he flinch at the sudden glare. Mattheos merely held Silvanus’s gaze as the older man walked over to him. Stopping only a few steps away, a fair distance.

  "Sir Mattheos," Silvanus greeted with faint mockery.

  "Please, just refer to me as Mattheos. I am not one yet, Silvanus Scrivener," the boy replied, with a similarly accusatory tone. "Son of Silas Scrivener."

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  "And yet you follow me as if shadowed by duty rather than curiosity. Tell me, why?" Silvanus pressed, in a bored manner. "I believe I have been nothing more than a law-abiding citizen."

  "Just curious as to why you come here so often, Inquisitor," the boy replied. Despite appearing trained, there was a tremor in it, a faint echo of the unsurety sitting on his shoulders.

  "Curiosity is a dangerous thing," Silvanus commented, a thin smile brushing his lips. "But in this case, harmless. I am simply a connoisseur of antiques, nothing more."

  "Is that so?"

  "Some men may return to chapels for prayers, some visit the taverns after a long day, and I am just as the two keeping my mind aligned where time stops."

  Mattheos’ gaze softened just slightly. "Then, if you have the time, there are things… I wish to speak of if you would allow me."

  Silvanus inclined his head, letting the hint of curiosity take root. He then shook his head, signaling him to follow as he began to walk in a direction of the street.

  "Perhaps you could join me at the tavern," he suggested. "I would rather not chat here, these streets are ridden with swines."

  As they began walking side by side, Mattheos’ rigid composure seemed to falter in the shadows of their steps. The boy swallowed hard, silently breaking as he recalled his uncle’s words.

  "You will not shame this family."

  Silvanus sensed it immediately, because Mattheos showed it, in his gait, in his posture, on his face. This was a boy molded by discipline, yet wrestling with something he could not voice. And from the imperfect discipline, the one that remained intact with certain difficulty, slipped his hesitant inner child.

  The tavern loomed ahead, upon a closer look, it's wooden door had been darkened with the countless hands that would push it open to seek refugee within. Noise leaked through the seams arising from those that had found refugee. Silvanus’s hand brushed briefly along the same weathered wood as he stepped inside, eyes falling to observe the interior.

  The tavern was a cacophony of clinking mugs and murmured conversations that felt suffocating as he entered. He led Mattheos to a corner-most table, flickering gas lamps casting uneven shadows across their faces. He did not like the place for the intrusive noise, but it served well enough for a conversation out of the sun and prying eyes. It would blend in amongst the rest, gone unnoticed and unwritten.

  Mattheos, however, was quick to dive in as soon as they settled. "Do you know what’s occuring in the Cathedral?" He asked with eyes searching Silvanus’s expression for more than just words. As if he would find what the man was aware with just one look.

  Silvanus simply huffed, letting a silence settle between them, letting the knight search for visible answers with a knowing smile. With passing second, he could sense the gears turning in Mattheos’ mind.

  "You ask me?" Silvanus questioned back (force of habit), leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly. "A priest just passed. What else has happened?"

  "Why… why do you think he died?" Mattheos pressed, leaning closer, as if proximity might squeeze an answer from him since the stare did not.

  "An illness, I've heard..." Silvanus kept his tone casual, though he couldn’t ignore the boy’s intensity. Testing me, he thought. A fledgling of the Cathedral, probing for secrets. But the Cathedral couldn’t possibly send a rookie, an inexperienced hatchling to interrogate him.

  "I don’t think it was a natural death… or even an illness." Mattheos’ voice was quieter now, but, almost a challenge. He had seen things with his own eyes—the rotting bodies of deceased knights, mouth open in an attempt to scream, hollow eyes, and charred skin. He knew Malvar’s body was no different, he could smell the decayed copper belonging to the corpse, the smell of death, in the halls of the Cathedral long after it was taken away.

  Something was wrong. Terribly wrong so.

  Silvanus raised an eyebrow. "Doubting the word is dangerous… you should know that."

  "I can’t help it," Mattheos said, jaw tight, eyes glancing away in discomfort.

  "You could find yourself questioned for speaking like that," Silvanus said, letting the warning hang though lightly. "For questioning nonsense aloud."

  "That’s why I came to you on my own."

  "Very well. Speak." Silvanus leaned back one more.

  Mattheos swallowed, hands curling into fists. "I… I’m supposed to take the knight’s oath. My uncle says it’s my duty."

  "Ah. A great honor," Silvanus said flatly, watching the boy squirm under his gaze. He helped himself to a drink.

  "I fear… losing myself in their beliefs and orders. Being possessed by something I can’t fight." His words were steady, almost desperate.

  Silvanus’s tilted his head in curiosity. "Possessed? How so?"

  "You know very well, Inquisitor, that he wasn’t taken by any natural cause." Mattheos’ gaze held Silvanus’s, unwavering and burning. So he knew.

  The inquisitor’s sigh was low and sounded tired. "Then endure… or fall. Either way, you will learn what the Cathedral makes of its faithful. Because you walk a path with no choice. I cannot assist you here, exactly."

  Mattheos swallowed hard, the weight of inevitability pressing down now. Silvanus sipped his drink casually, ignoring what the youngster across from him was going through. They had been silent when the tavernkeeper had come to place them on their table.

  "You always speak as if you despise them."

  "I speak as one who listens more than he obeys," Silvanus replied smoothly, eyes fixed on the swirling contents of his mug rather than the boy. "I am no disbeliever, I only judge and pass judgments. I do my duty, and so should you."

  "Duty—Must I really take the oath?" Mattheos’ voice was edged with exhaustion and something still akin to desperation.

  Silvanus’s gaze was flat once more as he repeated his words. "It is an honor," he concluded.

  "You keep saying it like honor matters. I do not have a choice in my own life decisions." Mattheos let out a sharp, bitter sigh. "I have been told that before, and I refuse to accept it, whatever the consequence."

  "To be punished by your family… or to be claimed by the orders," Silvanus said slowly, "That is your choice."

  "You are seriously no help, Silas," Mattheos accused, frustration fraying his voice. "Tell me—what are you planning to do with all your investigations? Don't dare escape this now."

  Silvanus tilted his head, a shadow of amusement crossing his face when Mattheos spoke of his secrets. "And on whose orders do you question me, Knight?"

  "No one’s," Mattheos replied quickly. "I swear by the Sun, I tell you the truth. I do not wish to take the oath."

  Silvanus’s eyes hardened. "You will take the oath," he commanded.

  "W—what?" Mattheos recoiled in surprise.

  "You will take the Knight’s Oath," Silvanus repeated. "But remember yourself in the process. Hold onto what is yours, even as they seek to claim you."

  "I… I did not come to you for this," Mattheos said, shoulders drooping in defeat, frustration and fear warring in his eyes down once more. Yet, Mattheos had deliberately come to meet him, a man of strange beliefs, he was the only one who he could trust right now. Instead, he was pushed to a corner, but what Silvanus had demanded was rather strange. Why would a man who openly disliked ideologies demanded him to become another follower?

  So with his voice broken in defeat, Mattheos asked, "W—Why? You don't obey them, or whatever drive them. Why would you not help me when I so need it?"

  "You will soon know why. You came to me because you want shelter, but shelter will not keep you untouched by what will come after," Silvanus said, as he sipped from his drink, eyes flicking to the tavern’s shadows, already plotting what he would do next. "The city will decide for you if you do not decide first. So you must decide to keep moving. For now, that is what you can do, and the next step comes after."

  The boy had sought him out, cornered by duty and fear, and Silvanus knew that what he demanded would shape Mattheos far more than the oath itself ever could.

  Mattheos stayed silent.