The acrid tang of burnt ash and petrified fungal growth clung to Inquisitor Ksenia Orlova's mantle, carried back from the Ossuary’s perimeter. She had tracked the rot-scarred trails for two days, the phantom rumble of the creature’s passage still vibrating in her ears. The trail had gone cold near the Vesperis Peaks, a region too treacherous for even her unit to traverse quickly. Failure gnawed at her, a bitter grit beneath her teeth. She returned to the sun-sworn outpost at Oakhaven Bastion, its whitewashed stone standing stark against the grey, withering scrubland it surveyed. “Orlova reporting,” she said, dust scraping her throat as she hailed the duty cleric at the sally port. Her plate bore dried mud up to the breastplate. She presented her identification tablet, a scion sigil gleaming dully in the dim light of the watch post. The cleric, a gaunt youth named Joric, nodded stiffly, his eyes darting to the dirt on her boots before directing her to Commander Roric’s chambers. Prefect Roric, a man whose silver-streaked hair matched the severe cut of his tunic, sat hunched over an illuminated parchment map of Ravka. Grey wash marked the spreading decay across the painted provinces. He did not look up immediately. “Report, Orlova,” his voice was a low rumble, devoid of warmth. “Sir, the runaway, Vesna Kolar, remains at large. She is accompanied by the traitor, Stellan Varic. We pursued them to the Ossuary of Saints.” Ksenia paused, choosing her next words carefully. “However, the quarry is far more dangerous than initially assessed. The Void-spawned entity, the Nemesys, breached the surface with unprecedented violence. It was… not merely a localized corruption. It felt like a tear in reality itself.” Roric finally lifted his gaze, his eyes sharp but dismissive. “Exaggeration, Inquisitor. We have had reports of heightened corruption along the front. Your Kymor runaway is an open channel, a conduit. Naturally, her proximity draws the local rot. There are always whispers of ‘void entities’ in the common folk’s fables. Do not succumb to such superstitions. The creature is an offshoot of Kymor heresy, nothing more.” He waved a hand impatiently. “Focus on the objective. Bring the girl back. The Hierophant himself has decreed it.” The dismissal rankled. Ksenia had seen the shadow consume the very air, heard its shriek tear through stone. She had witnessed the girl’s power break the dark—a surge that answered to neither shadow nor sun. “Sir, I observed the girl, Vesna Kolar, unleash a destructive force that eradicated the Ossuary’s guardians. It was… raw. And Stellan Varic, despite his status, fought with a ferocity that saved her, and by extension, my own squad. His actions defied the profile.” Roric merely grunted, returning his attention to the map. “Varic is a disgraced tracker, nothing more than a paid sword now. He serves whoever pays him. Perhaps he harbors delusions, shielding a Kymor apostate. His dossier is unambiguous. Do not waste the Hierophant’s time with sentimental musings. Bring her in. That is all.” A chalky dryness coated Ksenia’s tongue. “Understood, Prefect.” She snapped a brisk salute and stepped into the corridor. Roric’s dismissive tone, the way he brushed aside what she considered critical intelligence, felt wrong. The Nemesys was no ordinary outbreak of the creeping rot. It was something primal, something *else*. And Stellan Varic’s conviction, the sheer force of his desperation in defending Vesna, did not fit the profile of a simple mercenary. It was almost… protective. Unease pulling her stride toward the west wing, Ksenia detoured to the Oakhaven scriptorium, an echoing hall stacked with shelves of vellum and wax-sealed ledgers. The draft smelled of dry ink and beeswax. She demanded access to restricted service files, specifically Stellan Varic’s. The record-keeper, a wizened clerk named Old Kaelis, squinted over iron spectacles and slid an ironbound folder across the counter without a word. Ksenia cracked open the heavy binding under a lantern. The top folio showed Varic’s official record: ‘Disgraced Imperial Huntsman, exiled for insubordination and suspected Kymor sympathy.’ But as she scrolled, she found oddities. Entire paragraphs were redacted, black bars obscuring crucial details of his final mission. She cross-referenced mission logs, looking for inconsistencies. His supposed insubordination involved an order to purge a Kymor border hamlet—a standard clearing for suspected corruption—yet the report offered no sworn statements, merely his refusal. No witness testimonies, no specific charges, just a vague declaration. She flipped through the leaves, methodically cross-checking dates and seal impressions. She pulled the auxiliary register for any correspondence referencing the Vespertine Order or Sister Iryna, the abbess who had first delivered the girl's location to high leadership. The official records were sparse, almost as if deliberately scrubbed. Then, stitched behind the binding of an administrative ledger, a single ciphered parchment appeared. It was dated a few weeks before Vesna’s discovery. Ksenia's breath caught in her throat as she leaned over the desk. The cipher matched the sovereign seals of the high council. It took her several painstaking minutes with her signet cipher wheel to align the runes. The text unfurled, stark and chilling: *TO: Hierophant’s Inner Council. FROM: Operative ‘Shepherdess’ (Sister Iryna). SUBJECT: Subject Delivered. Status: Complete. Fugitive ‘Vesna Kolar’ secured as per pact. Hybrid nature confirmed. Recommend immediate extraction and purification rites. Prepare the Grand Conclave. The Vespertine Echo will not be denied. Initiate Phase One.* Ksenia stared at the words, her mind struggling to reconcile them. *Sister Iryna?* Vesna’s adoptive mother was the ‘Shepherdess’? She had traded the girl away? Pact? Hybrid nature? Grand Conclave? This was no simple hunt for a Kymor abomination. The conspiracy reached the highest circle of the sun-order. She had been used as an unwitting hound, unleashed to run down a girl who was not a heretic invader, but an offering. “Clever girl.” The voice, smooth and deceptively calm, came from the archway behind her. Ksenia spun, hand flying to the hilt of her sunblade. A figure stepped from behind a towering shelf of records, draped in dark council vestments, his face hidden beneath a hood. His stance was casual, yet coiled with lethal intent. A narrow stiletto hung loose in his grip, dull metal catching the yellow lantern glow. “Such persistent curiosity is rarely rewarded with a long life.”

The Justicar's Doubt