“You’ll go through me first.” Krystian’s pronouncement hung heavy in the air, a silken cord of steel. Rell, caught off guard by the sheer, unyielding force of the commander's will, hesitated. His men, arrayed behind him, shifted uneasily, their hands hovering over their own hilts. The Spire sentries were trained for swift, decisive action, but few dared cross their leader, especially one with Krystian’s fearsome reputation for impartiality and precise judgment. “Commander Marek,” Rell managed, his bravado wavering, “this is an order from the Circle itself. Refusal is insubordination of the highest degree.” “And I command the Spire's defense,” Krystian retorted, his voice a low thrum against the tension. “My authority supersedes any impromptu demand issued by a council of robes that does not hold immediate authority over my forces. Lady Novak,” he continued, turning his head just enough to address Ludmila, his eyes briefly flicking over her, “is currently assisting an inquiry into the recent destabilization of the Great Regulator during the Purity Test. She is under my personal protective custody.” Ludmila stood stock-still. The sheer audacity of the lie, delivered with such unwavering conviction, was breathtaking. Her ‘airhead’ mask almost slipped, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her features before she plastered on a bewildered pout. Rell’s face purpled. “An official inquiry? There was no such…” “There is now,” Krystian cut in, his blade still aimed unwavering. “The incident with the Regulator was no ‘mechanical fault,’ as some have been quick to declare. It was an act of deliberate sabotage. Lady Novak’s unique… proclivities,” he paused, a hint of something unreadable in his tone, “make her an unwitting, if useful, asset in tracking the arcane residue. Now, unless you wish to be charged with obstructing a high-priority Spire inquiry and assaulting an official asset, I suggest you withdraw your men and report back to whatever shadowy figure sent you.” Rell’s gaze darted between Krystian’s blade and Ludmila’s wide, innocent eyes. The commander's word, however unbelievable, held weight. To defy him now would be to invite a tribunal review, one that Rell, a middling officer with ambitions, could ill afford. With a frustrated huff, he spat, “This isn’t over, Marek. The Circle will hear of this.” He yanked his ceremonial blade from its sheath and slammed it back down, a gesture of impotent fury. “Fall back!” The patrol retreated, their heavy boots thudding against the polished floor, leaving an oppressive quiet in their wake. Krystian slowly lowered his blade, the metallic click of it sliding back into its sheath the only sound. He turned to Ludmila, his features blank, the earlier steel replaced by a weary pragmatism. “My office isn’t safe,” he stated, walking towards the door and peering out. “The moment Rell reports, the Circle will move to discredit me. We need to speak where ears are not so readily lent.” He gestured to a small, unassuming antechamber, typically used for holding minor detainees, nestled deep inside the complex. “Follow me. And try to look suitably contrite.” Ludmila, still processing the whirlwind of his actions, nodded, her steps measured as she followed him. Inside the antechamber, a single glowing orb cast a stark light on the rough-hewn stone walls. Krystian closed the heavy, iron-bound door with a soft clang. “I bought us an hour, perhaps two,” he said, leaning back against the door, his arms crossed. “They’ll be working to counter my ‘protective custody’ claim. That was an audacious lie, Captain.” Ludmila finally spoke, her voice devoid of its usual airy lilt, a low, quiet observation. “Even for you.” Krystian offered a faint, almost imperceptible curve of his lips. “I have had ample practice. My father… he suffered from a similar magical ailment. Not the Glass-Rot, but a creeping petrification of the spirit, slow and deliberate. The healers of the Circle claimed it was a rare, natural decay. They ‘treated’ him for years, draining our family’s coffers, until there was nothing left but a husk.” His eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, held a distant sorrow. “I saw him fade, piece by piece, while they profited from his suffering. I learned then that not all illnesses are natural, and not all healers are benevolent.” Ludmila’s gaze softened, an unpracticed look of empathy settling on her face. The words were a bitter echo of her own fears for Pavel. His quiet confession, so unexpected and raw, was a shard of truth piercing through the carefully constructed walls around her own heart. The isolation she’d cultivated for so long felt, for a fleeting moment, less absolute. “Rell was too eager,” Krystian continued, pulling himself back from the memory. “He knew exactly where to find you. That was not a random assignment. Someone among the sentries is acting as the Circle’s ear. A traitor in my ranks.” His jaw tightened. “They want you, yes. But they also wanted to corner *me*, to force my hand, to see if I would protect you. And I did.” He looked at her with an unwavering stare. “We need to play their game now, Ludmila. Publicly, you are still the Marrow-Witch, and I am still your stern captor. But privately, we work together.” “What’s your plan?” she asked, her voice low and practical. The usual theatrics were gone, replaced by a focused intensity. “I will ‘confine’ you to your rooms under strict surveillance. This buys you time and restricts their direct access. It also makes it appear as though I am punishing you, not aiding you.” He pushed off the door. “Come. We will make a public spectacle of it. Otylia will be watching.” They emerged from the antechamber, Ludmila deliberately stooping, her shoulders slumped, her expression one of utter dejection. Krystian walked beside her, his posture rigid, his voice sharp enough to cut stone. They passed through the main hall of the barracks, where several guards looked up, their faces a mixture of curiosity and disdain. “Lady Novak,” Krystian boomed, his voice carrying, “your flagrant disregard for Spire regulations and your dangerous dabbling in forbidden arts have left me no choice. Until this ‘investigation’ is concluded, you are to be confined to your personal chambers within the North Tower. An officer will escort you, and any attempt to leave or communicate with outsiders will be met with immediate and severe consequences. Consider this your final warning against further insolence.” Ludmila flinched, her head bowed low, playing the part of a chastised schoolgirl. She made a soft, mournful sound, a pathetic whimper that would have grated on anyone’s nerves. It was a masterclass in feigned humiliation. Just as Krystian had anticipated, a figure detached herself from the shadows near a soaring archway – Otylia. Her stepsister wore a mask of saccharine sympathy, but the triumph in her gaze was unmistakable. She believed she had driven a wedge, that Krystian had finally turned against her. Good. Let her believe it. Krystian noted Ludmila being led away by a junior sentry, then returned to his office. The door clicked shut, sealing him in with the cold, calculating rage that simmered beneath his composed exterior. He activated a small, silver chime on his desk. “Send in my senior officers. All of them. Immediately.” In moments, four officers stood before him: Orin, a grizzled veteran; Jarek, known for his unbending adherence to protocol; Faelan, quiet and observant; and Rell, who entered with a smug, almost defiant set to his jaw. Krystian’s gaze swept over them, his unique sight already working, sifting through the subtle distortions in their inner signatures. Lies, he knew, shimmered faintly, like heat haze over stone. Only one outline was clouded, discoloured by deceit. “There has been a breach in the integrity of the garrison,” Krystian announced, his voice devoid of emotion. “A mole. I will not tolerate this. We will perform the Veil of Veracity. Now.” He moved to the center of the room, drawing a complex glyph on the floor with quick, precise movements of a specialized chalk. The officers stood motionless, their faces grim. The Veil of Veracity was a potent, ancient ritual, used only in cases of dire internal betrayal. It would not extract a confession, but it would reveal guilt, painting the betrayer’s aetheric signature with an unmistakable hue. As the final stroke of chalk was laid, a faint, resonant hum filled the chamber. Krystian placed his hand on the central glyph, and a shimmering, translucent curtain of pure raw essence pulsed outwards, washing over each officer in turn. Orin, Jarek, and Faelan stood unblemished, their silhouettes bright and clear. But Rell… a sickly ochre glow pulsed around him, dulling his innate magical aura, like rust on fine steel. His mouth parted in dawning horror. “Rell,” Krystian said, his voice quiet, almost mournful. “The Veil does not lie.” Rell’s bravado shattered, replaced by a trembling fear. “I… I didn’t mean to, Captain! They… they had leverage! My sister, she’s ill with the Rot…” “Who is ‘they’?” Krystian demanded, his eyes narrowing. “Who is your contact?” Rell swallowed hard, his gaze darting to the floor. “Lady Otylia. She came to me. She knew about my sister. She said the Circle would cure her, if I… if I simply reported on certain activities. On Lady Ludmila. And on you.” He shuddered. “She said you were a threat to their ‘benevolent order’.” Faelan and Jarek moved swiftly, securing Rell’s arms. His confession, though coerced, was damning. Krystian simply studied him, his face a mask of cold fury. “What else did Otylia tell you? What else did you learn from the Circle?” Rell, defeated, looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “Only… only that the ingredient I saw being moved, the one for the new palliative… it was always referred to as ‘the final ingredient.’ And that they kept it… in the Spire’s Heart.”

The Traitor in the Ranks