Rix paced up to the box, Selriph’s previous question still hanging in the air. His calloused fingers traced the worn symbol on the Templar badge. For a moment, Selriph could almost detect a flicker of pain across his scar-lined face.

  “Dats cause I was once a Templar,” he muttered, the words edged with resentment. “They left me for dead in a tunnel collapse years ago, doze bastards didn’t even bother searching for me.”

  This revelation took Selriph aback; he had not expected him also to be a former Templar. He hesitated before asking, “So why was there magical energy securing this– are you perhaps…?”

  Before he could finish, Rix cut him off, jerking his chin toward the old man beside them. “Not me. Him.”

  Vick stepped forward, his gravelly voice carrying both admiration and something else—scepticism? “Rix here, let me borrow his little trinket box, said he wanted a better lock on it. So I conjured one. “

  He made the lock, which means this man is…

  Vick gestured to the box. “You have shown you can handle magic, lad.” His eyes landed on the box. “I must admit, I am surprised. I was expecting you to at least get as far as mindlessly trying to pry the box open without whatever half-baked hat trick you could come up with. But I never imagined…”

  He paused, his gaze shifting back to Selriph: “You dispelled a magical lock–just like that. I suspect you are more than just some novice, hm?”

  Rix grunted in agreement, still gripping the badge. “Aye. Dere’s more to you dan meets the eye, deres somethin about cha.”

  Selriph’s voice was quiet, almost defensive. “I am not a mage by any standard. I never had any formal training. I just… played around with magic a lot in secret, one of the reasons I am stuck down here with you two now.”

  Vick leaned in closer, eyes narrowing, his interest clearly piqued. “Played around, you say? Yet you managed to unlock a magical seal that would have given most apprentices a headache.”

  “It wasn’t that hard,” Selriph replied with a shrug. “You just tune into the energy and match it, then disrupt it, no? I bet anyone could do that.”

  Vick’s face darkened, his features twisting into a deep scowl. “Just tune into it? Anyone you say?” He stepped forward, voice low and almost menacing. “I locked that box myself. My years in the craft alone could make me older than your daddy; that was no toy box.”

  He lowered his voice to a gravelly whisper. “To do what you just did there, it’s a skill that would take at least a year or two of formal training. And you just tuned into it?”

  “I didn’t do anything special,” Selriph insisted, his tone defensive but sincere. “I followed my instincts. If you think I’m a secret-sanctioned mage by the Templars and came down here as some sort of spy, you are sorely mistaken. My magic isn’t sanctioned by divine grace. I did my magic in secret—always wanted to learn it for real, but you can’t. Not here, not in the Empire.”

  Vick’s scowl eased slightly, curiosity mixed with suspicion. “You followed your instincts,” he repeated slowly. “That’s... convenient.”

  His tone was edged, but the disbelief was tempered now with genuine intrigue. After a moment’s silence, he gave a slow nod.

  “Well then,” he said, stepping back. “Let’s put those instincts to the test. Meet me here again tomorrow. Let’s see how far those instincts of yours go.”

  Tomorrow...? I would like to be out of these tunnels and the city by then. There’s no reason to dawdle here; all I need is information on how to—

  Rix clapped a heavy hand on Selriph’s shoulder, as if directly answering his thoughts. “That’s enuff for one night, boy. Come on.” He nodded toward the dim hallway carved into the stone. “You’ll rest dere before de next round of questions from Vick; dey can be quite somethin, can’t have you collapsin mid-interrogeshun.”

  “But...” an uttered whisper escaped him as he bit his lips, withholding his protest.

  No... that can wait. He is right; I need to rest. I can ask this old man how to navigate the tunnels tomorrow; maybe he might even teach me something useful...

  Selriph quietly nodded and followed Rix into the dim hallway, the hand leaving his shoulder just as they entered. The toothless man bent down, gesturing to a faint silver on the ground before stepping theatrically over it.

  The youth followed suit, his eyes traced the visible wire to the ceiling, where an assortment of mugs, metallic objects and other discarded knick-knacks hung beyond the eyeline.

  “Dun wanna cause a ruckus, also mind yer head,” as he bent lower as the ceiling above him curved towards the ground, leading into a corridor that was low and even, dug by hand, the indentation evident in the stone. Old pipes and metal made makeshift supports.

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  Then once more, the ceiling ascended past their heads, the expected hum of quiet life came—murmured voices, the clink of cutlery, the scrape of chairs.

  Selriph stayed close behind Rix, taking in everything. Peering through a small opening, the lantern’s light revealed a group gathered at a makeshift table. As they paced through the corridors, a girl curiously tinkered with a gear-driven device as a boy watched intently. Two elderly men sat opposite each other, sharing a bottle of liquor.

  As they moved deeper, the signs of habitation grew: alcoves, clotheslines stretched across walls, a chalk map etched on stone. This wasn’t just a hideout. It was a place for the discarded.

  “These people…” Selriph murmured. “They all live down here?”

  Rix grunted. “Most of ’em have nowhere else to go. The Falsely Accused, Runaways, Defectors, Outlaws–all with more sense than greed. The city above chews people up and spits ’em out. We Tunnel Rats just gather what’s left.”

  Selriph gazed around his surroundings, briefly caught on a crude mural painted on the stone of a rat gnawing through chains.

  They finally reached a quieter stretch. Rix pulled aside a curtain of patched fabric and gestured for Selriph to enter.

  The room was small, hollowed out of rock. The room contained a bed, even flimsier than the one in the Templar cell where he’d been detained many times. This was completely makeshift, loose planks of fresh wood and old wood stitched together with an assortment of fabrics.

  On the rock next to it was a jug of water, a lantern resting atop a stack of crates half ajar. He could see loose pieces of cloth and stale bread inside. This was squalid by all standards, but after his ordeal above, this felt closer to a sanctuary.

  Selriph set down his pack slowly. His eyes lingered on the flame of the lantern. Without turning his gaze, he could not help but ask the question that was gnawing at his mind.

  “You really were a Templar?” he asked.

  The words were laced not just with curiosity, but genuine befuddlement; he had not expected the hunched-over beggar, who spoke like that, to be a former member of that order.

  “I waz,” he said quietly. “A long time ago.”

  He didn’t look at Selriph as he continued.

  “We were huntin something in the Deep Warrens, off in de western provinces of da Empire. It waznt natural, terrorizin locals. Orders were simple: neutralise or kill.”

  He exhaled, his thumb tracing the badge’s edge.

  “But then the tunnel collapse’d. Half of my squad, gone in an instant. I was pinn’d—broken leg, busted ribs. Blood everywhere.” His voice turned bitter. “I waited. A day, two. No sign of rescue. Not even a whisper. Jus silence. Figured they’d come eventually. I was a brotha Templar, after all.”

  Selriph’s frown deepened. “But they didn’t.”

  “No. Dey didn’t.” Rix’s jaw clenched. “Command assumed we were ded. Chalk’d it up as a total loss. Buried de mission. Left me to rot.”

  He finally met Selriph’s gaze, the lantern light dancing in his weary eyes.

  “Dats when I learned something important: loyalty means jack shite to the Empire. It runs dry real fast once you’re no longer useful.”

  Selriph was quiet for a moment. “I never made it as far as you. I was a trainee, but I think they were never going to make me a fully fledged Templar. I was there for their amusement; it would have been eternal.”

  Rix nodded slowly. “Den you already understand.”

  Silence settled between them–not awkward, but heavy with shared disillusionment.

  Rix gestured to the cot. “Get some rest. Vick is gonna lay into ya now that he knows what you can do. “

  Selriph eased himself down onto the mattress. “I shudder to think what the old man has in store for me, but thanks for the warning.”

  Rix lingered a moment longer, the badge still clutched in his hand. “Don’t thank me yet,” he whispered.

  Then he turned and stepped out into the corridor, leaving Selriph only with the anticipation of what was to come.

  ***

  [The sanctum of the Inquisitorius, Courtyard.]

  The silver cloaks of the three figures billowed in the cold nightly winds of Caer Eldralis. Around them were the ornamented facades of the Inquisitorius compound, adorned with the carvings of the finest artisans in the holy capital. The very air carried the hum of holy energy; a result of the consecrated mark on the central courtyard, as well as the presence of holy magic-wielding personnel.

  A voice broke through, clear, with an almost youth pompousness, barely restrained with a veil of politeness, “Permission to speak freely … Brother Varos.”

  Brother Varos turned back, still bearing the bloodied mark on his left shoulder–where the tramp with the uncanny bladework had struck him. “Your prior reprimand does not preclude you from voicing your thoughts. Speak.”

  The young man glanced over at Brother Yuldric as if seeking his approval. “I must apologise for my remarks on the sermon.” His voice was a civil mix of apology and something else, as if a prelude to an inflammatory remark.

  He paused, pondering his words as he continued, “So what I am about to say may seem—”

  Brother Yuldric interjected, “Speak plainly, is this about the drifter in the tunnels?”

  The answer came without hesitation. “Yes, are you certain if you—” his voice cut off as he noticed the beginning of a scowl forming on his two senior brothers.

  The young inquisitor cleared his throat. “Pardon me.” His eyes traced the statue adorning the courtyard, as if seeking its guidance to form his words. “Would it have been prudent to bring him in for scrying?”

  Varos’ eyes flashed with a strange mix of realisation, but laced with recollective pain, an unreadable image flashed in his mind.

  “The boy showed no magic; my judgment and Yuldric’s aligned. The matter is concluded.”

  “Even so… we should have brought him in; there were only a dozen others at most.”

  Brother Yuldric’s voice came, calm and assured. “Even the priests dared not subject them to the scrying flames. Our apothecaries will come with the elixir of truth in time.”

  “We need not the flames nor reagents; the blackguard who sent the order can recognise the fugitive.”

  Varos paused in his stride, as if a thought had suddenly unearthed itself in his mind. “Duly noted. However, the fact remains that we had been extensive in our interrogation.” His voice wavered, a trickle of doubt, near unnoticeable in his statement.

  He stared at the sigil in his hand, now only an idle glow, barely visible in the darkness, as if seeking its assurance. “His stench was profound; tracking him down will be child’s play.

  “I still don’t think—”

  “Enough, young Dreth,” Yuldric’s hand extended, landing on the acolyte’s shoulder. “Vireon, no doubt, touched your mind; that is why you already bear your crest. But you still have much to learn,” as he gestured to the tattoos ingrained in the acolyte’s palm.

  “Indeed, we will know come morning if the undevoted trash had indeed subverted us. I will bear the responsibility and resolve it—the blackguard and I are acquainted.” Varos’s eyes now reflected the weariness of the night despite the resolute undertone of his statement.

  The answer came reluctantly, conceding. “Very well, your years of devotion far outshine mine,” as Dreth lowered his head in respectful concession, eyes landing on his glyph in his hand; silver, devoid of any holy glow.