The stench of canal effluent and burnt saccharine clung to the air, thick as the smog that perpetually veiled Brehn’s upper spires. Inquisitor Alaric Voss, his dark Luminary Order tunic a stark contrast against the grime of the Dockside district, adjusted the brass-bound lamp hooked to his belt. Its anemic glow barely pierced the gloom under the rattling gantry of Depot 7. He could taste the grit of industrial soot on his tongue, a bitter familiar companion. “Hold formation, Oblates,” Alaric commanded, his voice a low rumble. Six figures, cloaked in the Luminary’s grey, moved with practiced silence. Their faces, obscured by deep hoods, held the impassive dedication of the Order. They were his to command, for now. His gaze, usually sharp and penetrating, was haunted tonight, a perpetual shadow clinging to the edges of his vision. Tomas. The thought was a jagged shard in his mind, driving every breath, every calculated risk. Intelligence from a desperate dockhand—bought with a coin and a promise of anonymity—had pointed to this specific warehouse. Not for contraband or illicit spirits, but for something far more sinister: the black-market nexus of Rust-Lung components. For weeks, the city’s lower districts had choked on the plague, a cough that corroded the lungs from within, turning them to rusted iron. Alaric’s own brother, Tomas, had begun to wheeze that tell-tale, rasping breath. “Breaching now,” reported the junior oblate, his hulking frame a shadow against the warped wood of the entrance. The sound of splintering timber was unnervingly loud in the pre-dawn quiet, followed by the metallic rasp of a thrown bolt. The air inside was still and stagnant, thick with the scent of dust and dried mint. Alaric stepped into the cavernous hall, his beam cutting a swathe through the darkness. Stacked crates, taller than a man, formed towering corridors. His throat went tight; here lay the source. The proof he needed to bring down the architect of this suffering. His hand went to the polished hilt of his ceremonial dirk, not for defense, but as an anchor for his resolve. “Fan out. Search for alchemical reagents, volatile tinctures, anything that could be synthesized into pneumonic agents,” Alaric ordered. The Oblates dispersed, their hooded lamps swinging, painting fleeting patterns on the stacked wood. He pushed deeper, his boots disturbing a fine layer of dust. The silence, save for the distant lapping of canal water, was unsettling. No guards, no frantic movement. Just crates. He reached the closest stack, marked with a faded shipping label. Taking out his own pry bar, Alaric worked quickly, the creak of wood protesting under the force. The lid came off with a groan. Alaric peered inside. His brow furrowed. No volatile reagents. No noxious powders. Instead, nestled within straw packing, were rows of small, dark glass vials. Each stoppered with cork, a label carefully affixed. He lifted one, bringing the amber glass toward the flame. *Bronchodilator Tincture, Distillate of Solara Blooms. For Pulmonary Support.* He checked another vial. *Antitussive Syrup, Alabaster Bark Extract. To Ease the Cough.* And another: *Analgesic Salve, Wintermint and Oleander. For Respiratory Pain.* Confusion, cold and sharp, began to prick at his certainty. These were not components for a plague. These were remedies. Palliative, yes, not a cure, but designed to alleviate the agonizing symptoms of Rust-Lung. He tore open another crate, then another. The contents were identical. Thousands of vials, all marked with the same precise, almost elegant script. Each crate bore a stenciled insignia: a stylized cog entwined with a blossoming lily, and beneath it, the words ‘Brehn Relief Fund’. “Inquisitor!” the junior oblate called from deeper within the storage floor. “Found something. A manifest station.” Alaric followed the call, every calculation unspooling. Beside a rough-hewn desk, illuminated by a single oil flare, lay an open register bound in split calfskin, flanked by unused manifests and a pot of dried ink. Alaric seized the record. Its pages held meticulous entries, dates, quantities, and destination addresses—all for the same palliative treatments. He flipped through, the entries flowing down the page, each shipment marked as ‘anonymous contribution’. At the bottom of every entry, a signature, elegantly looping, assertive in its simplicity: a single, bold ‘V’. ‘V’. The mark aligned with the one name he despised above all others. Vande. Liesel Vande. The Iron Hag of Brehn. Head of the Iron Guild. She who had been whispered to be behind the epidemic, to profit from the city’s suffering. This was her handiwork. A new kind of cruelty. A public display of philanthropy, designed to obscure her true purpose, to poison the well of public opinion with saccharine kindness. It had to be. Liesel Vande was known for her cunning, her intricate deceptions. The brief doubt evaporated against familiar spite. This was a trick, an elaborate smokescreen. He could almost hear Brandt’s clipped tones, warning him against the serpent’s guile. He envisioned Liesel, smug behind the walls of her Crucible, laughing at the city's credulity, even as Tomas wasted away. This account book and its so-called cures were merely a screen for her true operations. Alaric seized the volume, knuckles blanched against the calfskin, and thrust the corner into the open burner. The wick caught the rag paper instantly. The parchment curled, then caught, a hungry orange tongue devouring the elegant script, the damning 'V'. Black smoke coiled upwards, carrying the scent of burning paper and Alaric’s unwavering conviction. Just as the last embers died, replaced by a fine grey ash, the distant sound of heavy boots on the dock reached them. Too many for his Oblates. Too organized. A prickle of alarm cut through his triumph. Brandt’s enforcers. They had come sooner than expected. The oblate shifted his grip on his cudgel. “Inquisitor. An armed patrol. Full complement, by the sound.” The shattered timber door swung open, revealing a squad of uniformed Enforcers whose iron-shod soles cracked against the flagstones. Their leader, a grizzled Senior Inquisitor named Roric, stepped forward, his flat stare pinned to Alaric. Roric’s presence was always an extension of High Inquisitor Brandt’s will, precise and unyielding. “Inquisitor Voss,” Roric’s voice was a low growl, devoid of warmth. “By order of High Inquisitor Brandt, you are to arrest these Guild workers for the illegal smuggling of contraband, and secure the evidence.” He gestured to a group of weary-looking dockhands, now emerging from between the cargo rows, clutching torn coats. “Failure to comply will be deemed obstruction of an official Order investigation. You will be relieved of your command, and placed under arrest yourself.” Alaric’s gaze flickered from the scared eyes of the dockhands to the unyielding face of Senior Inquisitor Roric, then to the smoldering ash scattered across the pine desk. The choice, sharp and impossible, materialized before him.

A Ledger of Saints and Sinners