Trust. Fear trust – for it is the sharpest blade of all. It cuts all those that wield it carelessly and scars the betrayed for life in ways they will never forget.

It was cold. Bitterly cold. The cell they had dragged him to yesterday had no source of warmth, and the window at the far end of the room had only metal bars, which did little to shield him from the freezing temperatures. The winds howled outside, shrieking against the building that rose menacingly over the other houses of the city. Aldo tried again to struggle against his constraints, but it was of no use. The chair he was made to sit in was bolted to the floor, and his hands were chained to the armrests. Another icy wind came through the window, making him shudder. Aldo was not a big man, but he was used to the warmth of his shop after years of working there. He was in his late fifties and very much looked the part. The stress and exertion of running a shop the size of his alone were obvious in his hunched figure and the fatigue that decorated his face. Although that might just have been from all the time he had spent here, slowly freezing to death. It had been a rather peaceful afternoon the day before, business going slow yet flowing steadily, just like every afternoon in his shop. It seemed to be a most ordinary day really, though Aldo had no idea just how different this one would become. He remembered how the street went suddenly quiet, the laughter of excited children, which he so enjoyed hearing, rendered eerily silent in an instant. It took nary a few minutes until he knew exactly why. A Crown Inquisitor had come for him. Accompanied by a few members of the White Mantle, the man in the white half mask had explained to Aldo that he was being arrested – though he did not mention for which crime. His stomach growled, ripping him from his thoughts and bringing him back to the cold and hunger he had suffered for over a full day. Judging by the ever-dwindling light coming through the window, the sun was about to set, marking the second night he would spend in this cell. It wasn’t really a cell but rather an interrogation chamber, an interrogation Aldo was still waiting for. He knew he had no chance of escaping the Inquisition’s grasp and therefore steeled his resolve for the night to come.

What do they want from me? I committed no crime! Unless…

His thoughts raced, trying to guess how much trouble he was in. He was torn from his considerations by the sounds of a few pairs of heavy-duty boots getting louder and louder. The man braced himself for whatever the Inquisition would throw at him. The reinforced door was unlocked, and three silhouettes swiftly stepped into the chamber. One of them, the smallest, wearing a wide cloak with a deep hood, ignited a few candles standing on the table, finally enabling him to see clearly. Aldo’s bones chilled. The tallest of the figures was a High Inquisitor. The ivory, expressionless mask they wore completely concealed their face, with only two thin eye slits revealing a hint of humanity beneath it. The mostly white uniform, basking in its false righteousness, completed the look. Aldo had heard the terrifying tales about just how much power these people had, condemning whole households with a flick of their wrists, all the while not being questioned once. Whatever Aldo could plead for his case, he had to be careful, lest he talk himself into an early grave. The last of the three was who Aldo recognised as what had to be a Scrivener of Guilt, carrying a large ledger with a deep crimson colour and a quill. The scriveners were not as threatening as the inquisitors and didn’t hold nearly as much power but were still mortifying to spy from afar for anyone who carried only a morsel of guilt within them. The man was maybe in his early to mid-forties and wearing a mask that only covered his face from the eyes downward. Both he and the smaller person sat down in chairs, waiting in the far corner, while the Inquisitor looked out of the window into the young night.

“State your full legal name.”

The High Inquisitor’s voice was quiet and detached, very controlled and low in volume. His tone held a certain coldness that made Aldo audibly gulp.

“Aldo Mancini, Sir.”

It took but two seconds before the man with the blood-red ledger started to dip his quill into the ink before putting it to the pages and scribbling his name down. The masked man at the window nodded slowly once, as if recognising the name from a previous encounter.

“I am High Inquisitor Witherbloom,” the man stated while focusing his piercing gaze on Aldo. “I will ask you questions, and you are to answer them truthfully and plainly. Understood?”

What other choice do I have?

“Yes, Sir. I understand.”

The High Inquisitor seated himself at Aldo’s table, the expressionless mask fixating on the old man’s face. A coldness crept up his neck, making the hairs stand on edge.

“How long have you lived in New Vyrethia?”

Aldo almost sighed in relief internally, hopeful that his lineage was the only thing that the Inquisition was questioning.

“All my life, Sir. My parents moved here from Katheris a year before having me.”

The scrivener wrote furiously, the quill tip impaling the pages with details about Aldo’s nationality. Witherbloom seemed to ponder Aldo’s answer for a bit before eventually moving on with his questioning.

“Have you heard of the rumours, Monsieur Mancini? Whispers of elven sightings taint the dirty streets of your monotonous town and plague the Inquisition for months now.”

An almost amused chuckle left the masked man. Almost.

“I mean, do you have even the faintest idea what has to happen for someone like me to be sent to such a decrepit town like this?”

Aldo did indeed not know, though he could imagine it had to be quite important if they sent a High Inquisitor. To his knowledge, there weren’t that many of them to begin with, and even fewer that could command them – which was probably the reason why Whitherbloom thought whatever task he had been given here was beneath him. Apparently, he didn’t think much of Aldo’s hometown, as he spoke ill of it steadily. He racked his thoughts for an answer that would satisfy his interrogator.

Had he heard of such things?

Aldo wasn’t too sure what he knew and who he could trust anymore. He had heard that the White Mantle had increased the number of raids and forceful arrests made in the region – countless people being taken away for ‘questioning’, though almost none ever returned. Those that eventually did were mostly changed people, often traumatised by the machinations of the Inquisition, which held an iron grip over the land. In the years since the Inquisition’s founding, the executive power they had amassed was frightening. The King had promised them that they would keep peace and safety for the public, shielding them from any foreign influence. It hadn’t taken long for most people to realise that whatever the Inquisition’s idea of peace was, it was nowhere near that of the citizens of New Vyrethia.

Let each live their life as if it were yours.

He repeated the mantra that his mother had taught him in his youth. No one really knew why the White Mantle had drastically increased their presence here; most people chose to believe that the rumours were a hoax. Then again, if Witherbloom was here, there had to be at least some truth to it, right? Maybe there really was more than the one he – No. He really shouldn’t think of it. It was said that the Inquisitors knew if you thought ill of the Crowns or any of their policies and that they would notice if any of your thoughts held the tiniest amount of heresy. Even though he didn’t believe it personally, it couldn’t hurt to be careful. Especially so in a situation as precarious as the one he found himself in. He couldn’t draw his response any further out before angering Witherbloom, who seemed to grow more restless by the minute.

“No, Sir. Can’t say that I have.”

More frantic scratching on the parchment could be heard.

“Are you absolutely certain? Surely, as keeper of a shop with a location such as yours, you have plenty of information or, at the very least, have heard gossip from the locals, have you not?"

The mask fixated on Aldo’s eyes, as if the man beneath it tried to stare right through his soul. Aldo squirmed in his chair, overwhelmed by the dread that had plagued him since his arrival in this chamber. He recognised another sensation. Coldness. The man sitting before him, Witherbloom, had something unmistakably cold about him. Aldo realised then that the coldness of the room was nothing in comparison to merely existing before whatever it was that sat opposite of him.

You know nothing! Don’t think of it!

Aldo wanted to tell the High Inquisitor that he truly had no clue about any elves, but Witherbloom beat him to it.

“You know a lot more than what you tell us.”

His blood froze in his veins. What could the man mean? Aldo prayed silently to the gods that the Inquisition did not know what they claimed to and that Witherbloom was merely bluffing. He kept quiet. The only thing that could be heard was the scratching of the quill on the parchment pages. Noncompliant. That was most likely what the scrivener jotted down. Aldo didn’t have to waste much time contemplating what his interrogator meant until he clarified it for him.

“You had business with a peculiar woman last week, did you not?”

Shit.

The Inquisitor hadn’t bluffed. Of course he hadn’t.

“A woman whose appearance matches the descriptions of the escaped elf from the last prisoner transport to Cendrecour rather well, wouldn’t you agree, Monsieur Mancini?”

Aldo remembered the woman Witherbloom was talking about. She had worn a tattered cloak with a deep hood, concealing her facial features, though not as wholly as she had hoped. He had noticed the uncanny differences in her looks: the sharp canines, elongated like fangs, that she had failed to hide, and the two bumps where the hood had bent weirdly, apparently due to her poor approach to disguising her ears. He had seen the signs; all the alarm bells in his head should have rung loudly, but he hadn’t stopped her.

Why didn’t I stop her?

She was kind.

The woman had been friendly with him and had laughed at one of his crude jokes. She had seemed to be a genuinely good person. That’s why he hadn’t alarmed anyone. That was why he hadn’t reported anything to the White Mantle or, god forbid, the Inquisition.

“Yes, Sir. I had someone like that in my shop last week. But I did not think that woman was an elf. Merely a bit shy, perhaps. Nothing more.”

Aldo couldn't be sure, but Witherbloom appeared unconvinced, at least based on what he could see through the thin slits in his ivory mask. To read any of the High Inquisitors was an almost impossible feat to achieve, given the mask that hid their entire face beneath it. The lesser Crown Inquisitors were far easier to read; the half of their face that could be seen often revealed a lot about their moods and thoughts.

“You, just like everyone else in this wretched excuse for a city, were instructed to report all suspicious activity to the next inquisitorial office immediately. You did not. Why?”

Luckily, Aldo’s instincts noticed the trap the Inquisitor had carefully laid out for him in time, before he stepped right into it.

“As I already told you, Sir. I did not find anything about her suspicious,” Aldo answered, sidestepping the Witherbloom’s trap. If he had said anything else or claimed to not know of the inquisitorial edict, it most probably would have been framed as him agreeing that he indeed did not report something that he should have.

“Do you deny having dealt with the elf?”

No, Sir. I merely deny knowing—", Aldo began to defend himself before the Inquisitor interrupted him in a sharp tone.

“Silence! You are to answer my questions plainly, not extensively,” Witherbloom, obviously annoyed that he still was in the interrogation chamber this late, barked at him, raising his voice for the first time that evening, even if only by a bit.

“You gave the elf the directions she needed to escape, with enough supplies to survive the road, no less. You helped an enemy of the state. What you did is considered high treason!”

The hooded figure seated beside the scrivener looked to the High Inquisitor in surprise, clearly having not been privy to all of the information Witherbloom held. Meanwhile, Aldo’s thoughts were racing wildly through his head.

How? How would he know that? I was so careful!

Aldo had indeed helped the young woman by giving her much more food than she could have paid for and not even taking the silver. He had not uttered a word after realising she was an elf, in fear of the ears that the walls had seemed to have grown after the Inquisition increased its forces in the city. Additionally, he gave her a map of New Vyrethia and marked the fastest route to the next border. She had been too stunned to speak by his kindness then and thanked him wordlessly, with immense gratefulness in her brown eyes. Aldo could not understand how anyone, especially the Inquisition, could have learned of their exchange. Apparently the shopkeeper hadn’t been careful enough.

“Hear this, Mancini. You have but one chance to rehabilitate yourself. Tell us now where the elf went, and no harm will come to your kin.”

Sheer terror flowed through his veins. He had no kids and only a small family, but he cherished his remaining relatives above all else. The thought of his little niece being at the mercy of men the likes of Witherbloom and his kind was unbearable to Aldo.

“Sir, what about me?”

The High Inquisitor scoffed dismissively.

“You forfeited your life the moment you helped that vile creature, Mancini. We are merely negotiating collateral damage.”

Grief tried to overtake him briefly but was soon swept away by sheer determination. If there was only the faintest sliver of hope of saving his sister and her children, he had to try. He owed them that much, if not more.

“So, old man. What is it going to be?” Witherbloom’s voice rang through his hazy thoughts.

One could almost smell the Inquisitor's impatience.

“She went south. She intends to cross over the strait between Katheris and New Vyrethia,” Aldo said with a heavy heart.

He hated himself for betraying that kind woman, but he could not sacrifice the lives of innocent children just out of his dislike for the conduct of the crowns. Witherbloom stood in an instant, rising to his full height the very moment Aldo’s confession left his lips.

“Finally! That wasn’t so difficult, now was it?”

The High Inquisitor gestured at the two figures sitting in the corner. The hooded one understood his command instantaneously and pulled out a metal whistle. A shrill sound erupted from the cloak, signalling the end of the interrogation. The door was opened immediately, two soldiers of the Mantle that had apparently waited outside stepping into the chamber.

“Aldo Mancini, for the crimes you committed and with the power bestowed upon me by the grace of His Majesty the King, I hereby sentence you to death. Take him away.”

The soldiers did as he commanded, dragging Aldo away after saluting Witherbloom and the scrivener. Aldo's final thought, before being hauled away, was about whether the rumours were true. Maybe the Inquisitors truly could see into one’s mind.

If that is true, this land is doomed.

The scrivener threw Witherbloom a questioning glance, silently asking the same question he had asked a hundred times this moon.

“Tomorrow. At first light. You are to hang that one publicly.”

The scrivener, seemingly satisfied with that answer, wrote it down precisely before packing his things and saluting before he turned to leave.

“Scrivener Ledros", the Inquisitor asked, prompting the man to turn around again.

“Should that elf not turn up at the border before the end of the week, consider Mancini’s bloodline condemned. As are his house and shop.”

Ledros considered this briefly before nodding once. With that, the man trotted off with no urgency to his step, despite the gruesome task that awaited him. The hooded figure looked after the leaving scrivener as he stalked down the narrow corridor.

“How have you found your first interrogation?” Witherbloom asked quietly.

“Interesting. Though I had not foreseen that you would seek to kill the man’s family, even though he complied.”

A low sigh escaped the Inquisitor’s lips, the sound considerably dampened through his mask.

“It’s about principle. We have to set a precedent so others as foolish as him might reconsider before helping the enemy. Trust the mask, Ria.”

The hooded woman seemed to pause slightly, but he couldn't determine if it was due to consideration or hesitation.

“Of course, High Inquisitor.”