What star had she been born under to deserve this?

The town rioted as the guards hauled her through the doors. People screamed, cursing and slinging threats and insults. Someone forced their way through the crowd and lobbed a boot at her head. The heel caught her in the temple and the guard behind her laughed.

Banor called after Windmore, the slew of dwarvish and common-tongue curses nearly drowned beneath the racket. She understood only half of it — several choice names and something about her sword. Between the pauses in Banor's rant, she heard Andryll. It was unusual for him to raise his voice, but it rang out in the night, every word dripping with venom.

Their complaints mattered little to Captain Windmore, who shoved her along, a gleeful smile plastered on his lips.

Everything from shoes to bottles rained down upon them, and Everna could no longer tell who was the target. A bottle struck Windmore in the back of the head. A stone caught her in the shoulder. The guard to her left took the blunt force of a slipper hurled by the elderly lady who lived across the street from the tavern.

The Guard struggled to hold them at bay as Windmore's group escorted her further into the town. From the tavern, they took her down the main avenue before turning onto a smaller side street which led to the barracks. It was older than most buildings in town, composed of worn, mossy stone and roofed with bark shingles.

Long and narrow, the barracks dominated the street behind the Guard post, stretching west for nearly a block. Where the post housed the officers, the barracks catered to the general members who lived there during their three-month rotations. Beneath it, accessible through a steep staircase at the back of the main entry hall, was the town's jail.

Windmore shoved her down the stairs, cackling as she stumbled and struck her knee on the edge of a step.

The cell block seemed darker than she remembered. Dim torches, placed at irregular intervals, hung from brackets bolted into the rough-hewn walls. Half-rusted doors lined either side of the hall, which stretched for nearly three hundred feet before disappearing into the gloom. The individual cells were little more than holes carved carelessly into the rock.

Halfway down the hall, the guards came to a stop. Windmore plucked a ring of keys from his belt, selected one, and shoved it into the door's lock. With a soft click, followed by the groan of unoiled hinges, the cell door swung open. The guard behind her shoved her, hard, and she tumbled into the cell. The door slammed shut behind her.

"Now stay put," Windmore said. He was preening with deranged delight. "Try not to freeze before your trial. I'd hate to be deprived of the pleasure of seeing your hanging."

Laughing, he shook the door and disappeared down the hall.

Everna leaned back against the back wall and sighed. Jagged rock dug into her back. The shackles bit into her wrist, the metal freezing despite the contact with her skin. Her knee twinged, the skin scraped raw and weeping.

Before long, the temperature plummeted, and the air turned frigid. Winter was still a month and a half away, and Pendel, as far south as it was, rarely saw such cold. Yet, the longer she sat there, the colder it grew. Shivers wracked her body as she curled into herself, desperate for warmth.

She hadn't a clue how much time passed since Windmore left. There were no windows, save the one set in the barred door. Her only source of illumination came from the dim torchlight spilling through the cracks. She could barely see her feet in front of her.

Beyond the footsteps of the patrolling guards and the occasional jingle of chains further down the hall, the prison was quiet. Unnervingly so.

Pendel rarely had criminals to cater to. Beyond the brigands who raided the farmlands south of town, most people spent a night, perhaps two, in a cell for more minor offenses. And there she was, bound and freezing for a crime she didn't commit.

At some point, a dull ache spread through her arms and settled deep into her shoulders. Placing her feet flat against the floor, Everna braced her back against the wall then lifted her rear and scooted her bound hands forward. As soon as the chains were beneath the bend of her knees, she drew her legs to her chest. Her arms now in front of her, she settled back against the wall, ignoring how her hair caught and snagged on the stone, and blew out a breath.

There was no telling how long she'd be there. It could take a full day before word reached the capital. From there, it would be several more days, if not weeks, before the Courts saw the case. Then, she'd have to wait two days after for the escort to arrive.

Once she reached Inversa, there would only be more waiting. They were notoriously slow; their penchant for thoroughness delayed many a trial for months. The Inquisitors had to conduct their investigation; it could could take weeks or perhaps months, before her initial hearing. Then, the Low Court had to find the time for the proper trial.

It could be half a year or more before she saw the stand.

Pushing that thought aside, as it only made the knot in her stomach worse, she did the only thing she could do; figure out her defense. The Inquisitors were worse than Windmore. If she weren't careful — if she didn't have her head sorted before they questioned her — she may only condemn herself further.

Mayor Ashburn died in what she suspected was a premeditated assassination that went awry. Robbery couldn't be the motive; even the poorest of the townsfolk had more than enough to live on, and nothing about the mayor's attire suggested wealth. He arrived as a hunter, swathed in drab leathers rather than his usual finery. If it was coin they were after, it'd make far more sense to corner her in the cellar when she left with the lockbox.

Someone planted her sword at the scene to incriminate her. That was an undeniable truth. How it found its way into Captain Windmore's hands would be the crux of the issue, one with far too many potential answers. The alleged presence of magic complicated the matter. There were, if she recalled correctly, few limitations. Someone could have easily gotten into her room, snatched her sword, planted it at the scene of the crime, and she'd be none the wiser.

It may not even be her sword. There were spells that could disguise objects through illusions or transmutation. For all anyone knew, Windmore could've been holding a spoon made to look like her personal weapon.

And because of that, she faced charges for a murder she didn't commit.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. The capital's involvement was not a good sign. The local authorities handled most cases and only appealed to the capital in matters of exceptional proportions; serial murder, organized trafficking, and treason. The death of a small-town mayor, a relatively minor political figure of little importance, didn't fall within that spectrum. They were disposable, as far as the Courts were concerned; they were elected into power by the local population, and their sphere of influence only extended as far as the borders of their district.

Mayor Ashburn was an oddity, however. Mayors held their office for five-year periods and few served more than one or two terms. As far as she knew, there was never a mayor who served six consecutive terms as Mayor Ashburn had. Pendel adored him.

It was a crime of significance as far as the town was concerned, but not something she'd have expected the Courts to waste their time with.

Perhaps it had less to do with his status and more to do with his reputation. Mayor Ashburn wasn't just an official. He was one of the Five Heroes, known throughout the kingdom for his accomplishments prior to becoming Pendel's mayor. Many within the Guard considered him an honorary Knight. He, like her father, had the late King Keeland's favor.

Gods, she didn't have a chance.

There were too many holes and not enough information to fill them. She had nothing but scattered fragments of a larger picture that were too obscure to offer any insight beyond the obvious. The Mayor was dead. Her sword was, allegedly, found at the scene. There were no other suspects.

As far as academics went, she loved cases like this. She welcomed the challenge of an exceptionally complicated puzzle no one else could solve. The surge of pride that followed when she connected the final piece and the mystery unraveled before her eyes left her giddy for days. But this was not an academic case; it was her reality.

Convincing the Courts of her innocence would be the greatest challenge she faced, but the stakes weren't the same. She wasn't a casual observer trying to solve a case for a passing grade, but the victim of a framing that may end with her own demise. The penalty for murder, in any capacity, was death.

You don't have to find the culprit, she reminded herself. You only have to prove it wasn't you.

That would be easier said than done. Windmore may not have a motive, but he had the most damning piece of evidence. She'd have to convince the Inquisitor to consider the possibility — no, the certainty — that someone framed her. If she could do that, the Courts may release her. It was the only hope she had.

Her thoughts continued to wander, branching off into the realm of conjecture before looping back. She fabricated scenarios, argued within the confines of her mind, and cursed her luck. Time trickled past, each second an eternity. The air grew colder still; her lips chapped and her knuckles aching. Her mother would say it was her own fault for cracking them like she did.

She must have fallen asleep, as the sudden clang of a door closing further down the hall jolted her awake some time later. Everna sat up straighter, her neck aching, and blinked the bleariness from her eyes. Pins and needles shot through her rear, and when she shifted her left leg into a more comfortable position, the feeling intensified.

She released a heavy sigh, the sound echoing off the walls of her cell, then she noticed something amiss. The jail was quiet — too quiet. She could no longer hear the patrols nor the other occupants. The shadows seemed darker, the torchlight bleeding through the cracks in the cell door dimmer.

Then the darkness in the far corner shifted, and she barely swallowed a startled yelp as a cloaked figure appeared inside her cell.

It was as if he stepped from the shadows themselves, the darkness coiled so tightly around his frame that she couldn't say where it ended and he began. If not for the hint of pale skin visible beneath the hood of his cloak and the scruff around his jaw, she'd think he was an animated shadow. Or perhaps a ghost.

"You're remarkably perceptive. That's not a good trait for someone as careless as you."

His voice was rough, low in both timbre and volume. It carried the melodic lilt typical of the kingdom, but with a pretentious flare most often found in the more notable parts of the capital. It wasn't at all what she expected.

Not that she expected anyone to barge into her cell unannounced.

"Who... How did you...?"

He snorted. "Through the shadows."

Everna bit the inside of her cheek. Magic was far from uncommon, but casters were rare in the outlying regions, and the few to be found were trifling. They were bards and aspirant practitioners with delusions of grandeur, capable of party tricks and little else. Those with any skill were the hunters and druids blessed by the nature deities.

In the capital, however, mages were more than abundant. The academy dedicated much of its funding to the study of magic and to its casters. She'd seen everything from brilliant balls of roiling flame to ghastly apparitions conjured with nothing but a few words and a flourish of hands. Once, a student created an illusion of a dragon so realistic the academy had to issue a formal apology to the public.

But magic that allowed one to blend into the shadows — to move through them, even — was not a magic she'd seen before.

"I noticed," she said at length. "Why?"

A heavy, unsettling silence preceded his response. She felt his gaze on her, the intensity of it enough to send a shiver down her spine. Drawing her legs to her chest once more, she pressed further against the wall, desperate to put some distance between them. It was a futile endeavor. The cell was as wide as her outstretched arms, perhaps five feet across and no more.

And there she was, bound and unarmed, with a man whom she was certain had been leering at her throughout the night.

Aim for the balls, she thought. That's what her father always told her.

"You didn't kill Mayor Ashburn."

Everna rolled her eyes. "Come to that conclusion all on your own, did you? I would hope so; it's not as if you weren't skulking in a corner the whole time."

"Consider yourself fortunate I was," he said. "Otherwise, you'd already be dead."

The shadows shifted, and she scowled. "Take one step towards me and I'll shove my foot so far up your ass you'll be tasting the bottom of my boot for a week."

"Feisty, aren't you?" he asked in a way that she couldn't tell was patronizing or amused. "Somehow, I don't think your legs could reach from there."

"Unfortunately for you, I'm not chained to the wall," she shot back. "You have thirty seconds to explain what you're doing in my cell before I scream for the guards."

The shadows moved again as he tilted his head — not shadows, she realized, but his cloak. "You think they'd care?"

She'd like to think some of them wouldn't be so quick to point the finger, but given the circumstances, it was an idealistic belief. Half the town seemed convinced she was guilty. Everna didn't blame them; she'd be just as furious if someone else were in her position, but it hurt no less. The townspeople, many of them she'd known her whole life, turned on her in an instant or kept their silence. Only two or three tried to say anything.

Not that it mattered. Windmore clearly had no intentions of considering the possibilities. She'd think he was responsible, if she thought he was intelligent enough to pull it off.

"No, but with the way you're slinking about the shadows, I have the sneaking suspicion you're not supposed to be in here."

Again, he snorted. "That would make two of us. Yet, I have a feeling you are supposed to be here, but not for the reason everyone believes."

"Get to the point before I decide to test how far my legs can reach."

"You'll hang for this. Undoubtedly. You'll be dead within the week."

To that, Everna laughed. "Clearly you know nothing about the Courts. It'll be a week before—"

"You don't understand what's happening at all, do you?" His voice held a sharpened edge, an icy undercurrent that tightened the sickening knot in her stomach. "You're being charged with treason. The Courts have already decided the verdict."

Everna recoiled. "What?!"

That couldn't be true. On what grounds could Windmore claim treason? And how could the Courts know about it? She couldn't have been asleep for more than a couple of hours. There was no way the Courts received word of the matter that quickly and absolutely no way they would issue a verdict without a trial.

"That's not possible," she argued. "I know the Courts rather well. There's no way—"

"This isn't an isolated incident," the man said. "Arden Ashburn is but one victim of a recent slew of assassinations in this part of the kingdom. Something's happening, and the Courts are eager to stop it before it spreads further."

"But I didn't do it!"

"It doesn't matter. They want to make an example out of you. To let the kingdom know that man or woman, innocent or guilty, anyone suspected of involvement in this matter will have their rights suspended and will face the full penalty of the law until the Courts are sure they've gotten the right ones."

"I don't believe a word of this," she said. It was too drastic and too exaggerated of a response. "They legally cannot do that. They don't have that kind of power."

"The Courts declared a state of emergency two months ago. At the moment, they have that power," he said. "And that's the problem. You're not getting out of this. Not without help."

Everna worried at her lip. None of this made sense. While she no longer had a direct connection to the Courts, she had friends in the capital who did, and she hadn't heard a word of this. None of the travelers mentioned it either. She would think something that significant would've reached the rumor mill by now.

"And you think you can help me?"

"You're more useful to me, and the Courts, alive," he said.

"What do you want from me?"

A brief flicker of a smile touched his lips. "Your cooperation when the time comes. You might not have killed Mayor Ashburn, but someone wants everyone to think you did. I want to know who and why, and you might be the key to figuring it out."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I'll assume you are involved, and it won't be the noose at your neck, but my blade. The choice is yours."

"I don't have a choice."

"There's always a choice."

Gods, she hated that saying. There was some truth to it, she supposed, but it most often came from a place of ignorance. She had a choice, but when both roads led to the same outcome, it was only an illusion of such. If there was a grain of truth in his words, she would die regardless.

If she refused, he'd kill her. If she agreed and, against her better judgment, placed her trust in a shady stranger with a personal agenda, she'd likely meet her end the same way, either by his blade or by the consequences of whatever he demanded of her. She could die knowing she hadn't a chance, or she could die with the shattered hope of believing she could save herself.

The only choice she had was in the way she wanted it to end.

Everna shook her head. "You expect me to believe you can miraculously convince the Courts to forestall my execution?"

"I have my ways," he said. "While you would certainly make things easier, I don't need your help. You, however, won't get out of this on your own."

He was right, and she hated it. If the Courts truly waived her rights and decided her verdict, there would be no opportunity to discuss the matter. They'd put her to the gallows before she could state her defense.

Unless she had the name of the culprit and irrefutable evidence to prove her innocence, she hadn't a chance in hell.

But could she trust his word?

Should she trust his word?

Was trust even a consideration at this point?

Her only chance of salvation came with strings attached; he could ask anything of her and the consequences could be dire. He might help her situation, or he might make it worse. Her decision may save her life, only to condemn it in another way.

When she didn't respond immediately, he said, "I'd be quick about it if I were you. You have less than a minute before the guards wake up, and if they hear you talking to someone, you'll be in even more trouble."

"I told you, I don't have a choice," she said with no small amount of bitterness. "Still, I'm not stupid. I'm not agreeing to anything until I have proof what you say is true and the Courts forestall my execution."

"You're not in a position to negotiate."

She hefted her chin and stared him down with as much courage and defiance as she could muster. "I'm dead either way, it seems. If you can spare me the noose, then I'll cooperate, but until then, I don't know who you are and I've never spoken to you."

He was silent for several moments. Then he laughed. It wasn't a loud thing, hardly more than a breathy chuckle.

"You're smart, I'll give you that. All the more reason I expect you to hold to your word. If you don't, well, I think you already know what the consequences are."

With that, he disappeared into the shadows once more.

Detained

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