The last time Everna passed through the north gates, she was glad to be home.

Three months into her studies, the novelty of the capital waned, and she found she missed the simplicity of Pendel, where mornings were quiet and the evenings lazy. She missed waking to the birds singing from their roosts and the smell of fresh bread from the bakery across the street. The evenings brought with them a sense of closure as the town wound down for the night, people shuffling home or to the tavern after a long day's work. By nightfall, the streets were nearly barren, leaving only the drunkards and the Guard patrols wandering beneath the starlight.

Inversa never slept. The day saw throngs of people choking the winding maze of streets. It took well over two hours to walk from the academy, perched high in the Golden Spires, to the market district in the Old City. That was on a good day, when wagons and carts weren't stuck in the narrow side streets many used to bypass the main roads.

Come night, the city shifted from a bustling center of trade and commerce to a haven for the dregs of society. The capital was dangerous no matter the time of day, especially in the Old City and the deepest parts of Low Town, but once night arrived, the city fell under the purview of the Ferrier of Souls. Thieves and predators hid among the back-alleys and side streets, waiting for easy mark. Drunkards staggered about, hounding after young men and women. Everna learned, quickly, that her sword was better strapped to her side than in her dorm.

Yet, as the palisade walls surrounding the town proper came into view, unease pitted in her stomach, and she found she missed its weight at her side.

When she returned for the first time, she did so as a miffed academy dropout, morose and defeated. One more year and she could've come home with an Apprentice's Mark and a brighter future ahead of her. Perhaps she wouldn't be in her current predicament if she had.

The sight of home now filled her with dread. She felt the invisible noose tighten around her neck as she passed through the gate, an unwilling agent of the Courts. The Inquisitor left her with nothing but a vague goal and a cryptic warning. Her escorts were unaware of the circumstances. Only she, Sir Swiftbrook, and the Courts were to know of the arrangement.

She pulled the edges of her cloak closer. It was a comfortable thing, double lined with fur, that one of the younger guards gave her before they departed. Her hands shook as her fingers dug into the brushed wolf pelt, not with cold, but with nerves.

She had two months to unravel the mystery. Two measly months to find leads, gather evidence, and somehow convince the Courts not to hang her for the sake of appearances. It was a daunting prospect, and she had no more confidence in herself than the Courts did her innocence.

Once, the thought of handling her first case after graduation brought with it an abundance of excitement. Now, it only left her frazzled and anxious. Her life hung by a thread, one so frayed it might snap at any moment. The smallest obstacle could quickly become an insurmountable roadblock. One mistake could be the difference between life or death.

Gods leave her. It was hopeless.

As the cart pulled further into the town, she swallowed the lump in her throat and turned to watch the buildings as they passed. Those nearest the wall were small, barely more than a story tall, and composed of wood and bark shingle roofs. There was no organization to speak of, the buildings crammed into the meager space between the wall and the town proper in whichever manner they fit. Some sat at odd angles, butted up against another set of houses. Others were elevated, with a set of stone stairs leading to another dwelling half-buried beneath the earth. There was less than a foot of space between each; some were so close that they appeared connected.

They were the remnants of the old town, relics from the days before Mayor Ashburn arrived and seized Pendel by its crumbling roots and molded it into the thriving settlement she'd always known. The change was as drastic as the sudden shift in the architecture.

All at once, the haphazard mess gave way to a scene most would find only in storybooks. Buildings of stone foundations and timber framing lined the cobbled streets. Planters hung from every eave, the vibrant flowers within buried beneath the snow. Ivy meandered along the walls, branching from building to building and coiling around the clothes-lines that hung across the alleys. Gardens and planters adorned with thick bushes and small ornamental trees lined the medians of the larger roads.

The rigid uniformity of the streets — a deliberate cross-hatch pattern which remained consistent throughout the town — was a breath of fresh air compared to the chaotic disarray of Inversa. Her father often complained it left the town vulnerable t0 an assault, as winding streets and dead-ends confused invading forces, but it made navigation for both the townspeople and travelers fairly easy. It was difficult to lose your way in a town where all roads eventually led to the central square. The caravans, which carried the wheat grown in the outlying fields from the town and eventually to Inversa, moved more quickly through the streets as well, preventing the sort of turmoil she often witnessed in the capital.

She'd expected a turmoil of a different kind when she returned, one comparable to the night Windmore arrested her. Yet, as the cart trundled through the town with her perched on the driver's bench, the townspeople hardly spared her a glance. There were some who scowled at her, and others who whispered amongst themselves, but the majority went about their lives as if nothing had changed.

As if she hadn't left in chains, accused of murdering Mayor Ashburn a week prior.

She worried at her lip. Had something happened while she was gone? Or had they deferred to the Courts' judgment on the matter?

While most people saw the Courts as a formality and often a nuisance, they were second only to the Crown. If they truly wanted her to investigate the matter, they would have to declare her innocent. She'd get nowhere with the townspeople trying to lynch her at every turn.

Though a reasonable assumption, she still couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right.

Before she could consider it further, the cart reached its destination.

The Guard post stood on the north side of town, less than a quarter mile from the town hall. It towered above the surrounding buildings, arrow slits set into the walls on every floor. At the top of the tower, positioned on every corner of the parapets, sat massive ballistas manned by loitering guards. Two more guards stood idly at the entrance on the ground level, Sir Swiftbrook, the town's only knight and the head of the post, between them.

There was no sign of Windmore.

She breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn't decide if he was involved or not. Was he responsible, or was he a convenient tool for the culprit? With his attitude towards her and her family, either was possible. He was too quick to pin the blame on her and too pleased with his success. Be it the monetary incentives the Guard received for every arrest or personal satisfaction, he had means, motive, and opportunity as far as her framing went.

When the cart came to a stop in front of the main entrance, the guard to Sir Swiftbrook's right, to her surprise, offered a hand to help her down.

"I can't say I was expecting you to return so soon," Sir Swiftbrook said as she disembarked. "Or at all, if I'm honest."

Where her father was large and imposing — a brute of a man, some would call him — Sir Swiftbrook was larger still. At nearly six and a half feet tall, built of nothing but pure muscle, and swathed in heavy armor, he was a daunting sight. The greatsword strapped to his back only furthered the sentiment.

He was one of the longest-serving knights in the kingdom. Most retired around their fiftieth winter, when their physical capabilities waned and the aging pains set in. Sir Swiftbrook was nearing his seventieth winter and had yet to show any signs of significant aging. He didn't look a day over fifty.

There were some who believed he might not be human, at least not entirely. It wouldn't surprise her. Mixed heritages weren't as uncommon as many believed, but most people were so removed from their non-human ancestors, it showed only in subtle ways. Her father once told her red hair originated many centuries ago from elven ancestry.

"There wasn't enough evidence," she said, reciting the excuse the Inquisitor instructed her to use. Sir Swiftbrook knew the truth, but she suspected his company did not. "The Inquisitor believes it was an obvious framing and there was no use in pursuing my involvement further."

"I'm not surprised," Sir Swiftbrook said. "Anyone with a lick of sense could see that."

Everna frowned. "Then why was I sent to the capital?"

She had assumed it was Sir Swiftbrook's doing. As a Captain, the highest rank of the Low Guard, Windmore didn't have the authority to rule her case as treason. Those accusations were permanent, regardless of the accused's guilt or lack thereof, and therefore subject to a much stricter verification process. As a Knight, Sir Swiftbrook was the only person in town with that authority.

If he hadn't informed the Courts that it was a matter of treason, then who did?

Sir Swiftbrook released a sharp breath through his nose. "Because I wasn't informed of the charges until the day after you left."

“You weren’t?”

Sir Swiftbrook scowled. “No. Imagine my surprise when I return from my meeting with Governor Krast to find Arden dead and that someone charged you with treason without my approval. We’ll talk more about that in a moment.”

With that, he motioned for her to follow.

The interior of Pendel’s Guard post looked more like a small tavern than a base of local authority. Plaques, shields, and tapestries lined the walls of the interior room while trophies and other trinkets sat crammed onto hanging shelves. Small circular tables cluttered with maps, papers, and half-empty bottles of brandy occupied much of the open space in the middle of the room. A set of cards sat scattered across one. Blackguard, it seemed.

From the main room, Sir Swiftbrook ushered her into the small office at the back of the hall that extended from the main room. It was unimpressive as far as offices went, decked with a dreary wooden desk and two accompanying situated the center of a bleak stone room. Behind the desk hung the most impressive thing; a regional map so large it nearly obscured the entire wall.

Everna knew Trellan was large, but the sheer magnitude of it never ceased to amaze her whenever she looked upon a full map.

The Scintillating Peaks, a range of exceptionally tall mountains over which ribbons of light danced during certain nights of the year, spanned the eastern and much of the southern borders of the region, separating them from the neighboring Indarian Region. Far to the west, well past a swathe of plains and further beyond a large desert, sat The Varenbour Deep. No one knew what lay beyond it; those who sailed beyond the edge of the map never returned.

And Inverness was nothing but an inconsequential speck in the southeastern corner.

Once inside, Sir Swiftbrook closed the door and slipped the lock into place.

“I’m sure you’re well aware of this, but treason is a serious charge, and one not issued on a whim,” he said as he took the seat behind the desk. “Typically, I would issue the charge, then send it to the regional authority for confirmation. If both agree, it becomes official, and it’s handed off to the High Court.”

“If the regional authority denies the charge, the case goes to the Low Court, who then decides whether they should take it or leave it to the local authority,” Everna said. “I’m aware of the procedure, which is why I couldn't believe my ears when the Inquisitor informed me of the charges.”

“And there’s the problem,” Sir Swiftbrook sighed. “Your case went straight to the High Court, and with an urgency I’ve never seen before. Sir Wolfsbane and I heard nothing of it until after the fact.”

“Windmore went over your head.”

“Impossible. Even with his family connections and callous disregard for the rules, he doesn’t have that power. Someone else is pulling strings.”

That she could agree with. Her visitor had, if she assumed correctly, kept his word and forestalled her execution. She hadn’t a clue how, the Inquisitor never said, but it was entirely possible there could be someone else on the other side pulling strings of their own.

“Who would have that power? And to have it done that quickly?”

“The Lords and Ladies of Inverness, the High Knights, the royal family — the ones responsible for most of the kingdom’s problems,” Sir Swiftbrook muttered. “Which isn’t as uncommon as you’d think. Those highfalutin bunheads exert their power all the time. Arden’s death, well, it caused a stir, to put it mildly.”

Everna pursed her lips. “I’ve heard rumors the Courts declared an emergency recently.”

“They did, which is why I’m shocked they released you,” Sir Swiftbrook said.

“Even if it’s the excuse the Courts are using, there truly wasn’t enough evidence.”

“I know, Everna. The Inquisitor contacted me two days before you arrived, but even under these circumstances — no, especially under these circumstances — that isn’t normal,” he said. “No court in their right mind would allow their prime suspect to conduct her own investigation.”

He was right. It was ludicrous to even suggest such an idea. Anyone else in her position wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it took to save their skin.

“I don’t pretend to know what they’re thinking,” she said after a moment. “Have you found anything else since I left?”

Sir Swiftbrook shook his head. “A few missing reports, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary. Paperwork gets misplaced all the time.”

She hummed. Her instructors always taught her to assume everything was intentional until evidence suggested otherwise. To disregard the smallest details, even if they weren’t particularly unusual, was to overlook something of potential importance. One seemingly harmless note or inconsequential happenstance could make or break a case. When it concerned a crime, true coincidences were rare.

“It’ll be rough,” Sir Swiftbrook warned. “Witt swears he sensed magic, but he can’t tell what kind or how much, and that complicates matters. I’ll be honest with you; we don’t have a god be damned clue who it could’ve been. We can’t even say the witness reports are reliable.”

That wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear, but what she’d expected. She’d come to a similar conclusion not long after her arrest. The methods she’d learned during her studies may as well be useless; she wasn’t a mage. She hadn’t a clue how to go about solving a case involving magic.

Anything was possible. The questions she would normally ask had no bearing. With magic, the culprit could’ve entered and left Mayor Ashburn’s room without leaving a trace. That would explain why the third set of footprints disappeared at the window, though it had been open enough for anyone to climb out.

“I wasn’t sure Windmore had your sword until Banor confirmed it was legitimate. It could’ve been Mayor Ashburn’s skivvies made to look like your weapon, for all I knew.”

“And I’m the last person to ask about magic,” she sighed. “I know as much as the average person, if that.”

Magic remained largely a mystery even to its practitioners. They understood it in a practical sense, but none knew the true scope of it. Most of what she’d learned was hearsay and scattered pieces plucked from her roommates’ occasional tangents.

“Though, now that I think of it, there was someone there that night who could’ve done it,” she said, yet as the words left her lips, she knew it made little sense. Still, a possibility was a possibility, and it was the only one she had at the moment.

Sir Swiftbrook waved her off. “I know who you’re referring to, but it wasn’t him. I’ve worked with him before, and believe me when I say if he killed Arden, it would’ve been for good reason.”

“Who is he?”

He hesitated. “If you weren’t told, you’re not supposed to know. The most I can tell you is he’s not someone you want to make an enemy of.”

Everna ignored most threats, as they were often little more than empty promises and bluffs, but from the brief conversation with her visitor, she hadn’t a doubt he meant every word. He had that air about him — the same thinly veiled promise of danger her mother displayed when someone tested her patience.

“Nothing but the reports, then?” she asked after a moment of pregnant silence.

“Nothing. Everyone’s alibis are air-tight. Even yours.”

She dropped her head into her hands. Gods, it truly was hopeless. She’d hoped that after nearly a week of investigation, there’d be more information. A lead. A suspect.

Something.

“I interrogated Windmore yesterday,” he continued. “He wasn’t too happy about it, but his story matches what his men claimed. Now we’re focusing our efforts on Arden’s recent contacts. If the Golden Lady lends her hand, one of them might provide us with a clue to point us in the right direction.”

She snorted. “You’d be better off checking his political rivals first. The people loved him, but no one gets into power without stepping on a few toes along the way.”

Given his status, that would’ve been where she started. The election was in Springtide, a mere six months off. All of Pendel knew that Mayor Ashburn wouldn’t lose an election unless he chose not to run. Last she heard, he intended to stay in office as long as his health allowed.

“We’re working on that as well,” Sir Swiftbrook agreed. “It’s not an easy task, I can tell you that. I had hoped the capital would send an Inquisitor. That’s what we need more than anything else.”

“The Courts think differently, but I have no control over that. In the meantime, what should I be doing?”

Sir Swiftbrook slumped in his chair, and at that moment, his age showed. She could see it in his eyes — the sort of weariness that came with years of having seen and done too much and knowing there was only more to come. Her father had that look in his eye from time to time, as if the weight of the world had finally caught up with him.

“To be honest, Ever, I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t like this. Not one bit. It spooks the Courts so badly they want to execute an innocent woman for appearances, but they won’t send me an Inquisitor? Either they think this is a dead case, or they’re hoping for a miracle."

Then he sat up and cleared his throat. “For the time being, go about your daily life and try to find whatever you can without drawing attention to yourself. I’ll help when possible, but I can’t be open about it. I won’t call you back here unless I have something significant.”

“Some help is better than none,” she said with a sigh. She stood then and smoothed out her skirt before starting for the door. “If I were to find something, how would I go about passing it onto you?”

“Find Gillan, the guard who questioned you the night of the murder. He’s a good lad. One of my most trusted. Though, I have to say, it’ll be an honest godsend if you find anything. This is the cleanest case I’ve seen in years.”

From a certain perspective, she supposed. Mayor Ashburn’s room had been a bloody mess. It was one of the more disastrous scenes she’d seen, arson notwithstanding.

“Everna? One more thing.”

She paused, her hand hovering over the handle. “What is it?”

Sir Swiftbrook hesitated, and she noted the slight crease between his brows, his narrowed eyes, and the firm line of his lips.

“Be careful. Something about this doesn’t smell right, and if my suspicions are correct, the Courts will be the least of your worries.”

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