The arena torches, typically a dull smudge of smoke, caught the golden flecks in Magda’s gaze. That silent question lingered across the blood-slicked sand. Farkas felt it, a thread of unexpected connection, pulling taut between them. His own fate-thread, normally a muted grey, pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible warmth. He offered a slight nod, a gesture of quiet acknowledgement that bypassed the roaring crowd and the stunned instructor. Magda’s grip on the discarded sword tightened, her knuckles stark white, before she finally let it fall with a clang. She turned back to Ilka, her immense form shielding the smaller student. Ilka, still half-collapsed, pushed herself up, squinting at Magda’s back with grudging stillness. Farkas didn't wait for the ensuing chaos. He turned and walked away, the clamor of the arena fading behind him. He heard the Commandant's bellow – a sharp, furious sound – as he moved through the shadows of the lower tunnels. The connection with Magda was dangerous, a crack in the cold detachment that kept him alive. Back in the scullery, the familiar clatter of pots and the acrid scent of burnt tallow offered familiar ground. Cinder, curled on a high shelf amongst drying herbs, stirred, its fur a cool grey. Farkas ran a hand over its sleek back, the touch grounding him. He resumed stirring the vats of nutrient gruel – the academy’s bland, starchy staple – his mind already sifting through possible ingredients for tomorrow’s 'Culling' survivors. He had to assume Ferenc would make it now, and perhaps even Ilka and Magda. That was three threads, once destined for immediate severing, now altered. His thoughts were cut short by a sudden hush that fell over the adjacent dining hall. A silence so profound, it felt like a physical pressure against his ears. Then, a voice, sharp and clear, cut through it, echoing from the hall. “Attention, recruits! A momentous occasion!” Commandant Varga’s voice, typically a thunderclap, was strained, almost obsequious. “We are honored by the presence of a distinguished visitor from the capital! The esteemed Inquisitor Solmaz has graced the Veiled Bastion with her inspection!” Farkas froze, the wooden spoon suspended above the gruel. Inquisitor. The word tasted like ash. He’d heard whispers, of course. The capital’s infamous 'Truth-Seekers,' the relentless hunters of Fate-Eaters. His heart, a cold, hard stone, began to pulse with a low, dangerous thrum. A light, measured tread approached the threshold. The other prep hands stiffened over their cutting blocks. A figure appeared in the archway, framed against the faint light of the mess hall. She was tall, slender, dressed in severe, dark robes that seemed to absorb the light. Her hair, the color of polished obsidian, was pulled back in a severe knot. Her face was serene, almost beautiful, but her eyes held a chilling detachment, like still pools reflecting an endless, empty sky. She ignored the frantic bowing of the staff, her gaze sweeping over the vats of steaming gruel, the stacks of rough bread, and finally, Farkas. “Chef,” she said, her voice soft, yet it carried an authority that silenced the entire room. “The Commandant speaks highly of your… foundational sustenance. May I?” Farkas, caught off guard, simply gestured towards the nearest vat. She approached, her movements fluid and graceful, a stark contrast to the coarse surroundings. A silver spoon, impossibly delicate, appeared in her hand. She dipped it into the thick, grey gruel, brought it to her lips, and tasted. Her expression remained utterly unreadable. No flicker of distaste, no hint of approval. It was as if she were tasting water. “Functional,” she declared, the word a verdict, not a compliment. Her eyes, those unsettlingly calm eyes, then drifted upwards, past the drying herbs, to the high shelf where Cinder had been observing with a single, glowing eye. Cinder’s fur remained a steady, cool grey. But a tremor, almost imperceptible, ran through its small body. It was a creature of magic, a mirror to Farkas’s own hidden nature. It instinctively knew what Farkas did: this woman was a predator. “A rare creature,” Solmaz murmured, her gaze fixed on the ember-fox. Her voice held a hint of something new, a subtle shift in tone that Farkas couldn't quite decipher. “They are said to bond only with those who walk between worlds.” The room grew quiet. Farkas’s grip on the wooden spoon tightened until his knuckles ached. He met her gaze, his own face a mask of practiced indifference. He would not flinch. He would not betray himself. She knew. How much she knew, he couldn’t tell. But that phrase… 'walk between worlds' – it was a common euphemism for Fate-Eaters, a term whispered in hushed tones, always followed by the word 'heretic.' Solmaz’s gaze dropped from Cinder to Farkas, a slow, deliberate movement. Her hand, slender and unadorned, slipped into the folds of her robe. When it reappeared, it held something small, metallic, and instantly recognizable. A signet ring, crafted from solid gold, bearing the crest of the Azure Crown: a stylized hawk, wings spread wide, clutching a single, sapphire tear-drop. It was the prince’s ring. The very one Farkas had last seen on Prince Károly’s finger, glinting in the light of the royal banquet hall, moments before the poisoned wine had taken hold. The threat hung bare between them across the stone floor. “Tomorrow,” Solmaz said, her voice regaining its serene composure, though the chill in the air intensified. “I require a specific meal. I have a… guest. A captured heretic. They are quite… stubborn. But a well-prepared meal, Chef, can often loosen even the most tightly-bound tongue.” Her eyes, unwavering, held his. “I will require a dish of your finest craft. Something subtle, yet potent. A meal designed to induce… candor.” She paused at the doorway, her silhouette framed by the receding light. Her final words hung in the air, a silken noose around his throat. “I have a very particular palate for the truth, Chef. I hope you haven't lost your touch.”

The Inquisitor's Palate