Before the final echo faded, a dark figure dropped from the airship's underbelly like a falling anvil, a blur of black plating and burnished steel. Inessa Voran struck the mud near the waterline, sending pebbles skipping across the bank. Her armor, crafted from the rare, hardened shell of a deep-sea kragore, shimmered with dark, arcane runes that pulsed faintly. A high, reinforced collar framed a face of hard planes, her pale-streaked hair bound in a tight knot. Her gaze locked onto Teymour, who was humming softly while watching his cork bobber. “You!” Her voice, stripped of amplification, cut across the quiet crowd of refugees. “False deity! You dare defy the Trezantine realm?” Teymour blinked, slowly turning his head. He offered a small, apologetic smile. “Oh, hello there. Did you need something? I’m just trying to catch a Grime-scale Fin-flutter. They’re a bit shy.” Inessa drew herself upright and stepped forward, lifting her right hand. Searing sparks snapped across her knuckles, an orange glare burning across her palm. The air grew thick and heavy, pressing down on the onlookers. Despina pulled her glowing river stone against her collarbones, breath hitching as she leaned forward. Garek, hidden amongst the crowd, braced himself, a flicker of genuine alarm crossing his face. This was no ordinary spell. “You mock our authority with your insolence,” Inessa said, voice dropping low. “You threaten our rule over these waters. For this, you face judgment. Witness, all of you, the Sun’s Wrath!” A sphere of blinding white flame coalesced over her palm. It burned with raw brilliance, throwing harsh shadows across the shoreline. With a guttural cry, she thrust her hand forward. The orb shot from her palm like a celestial cannonball, a burning projectile aimed directly at Teymour’s head. The light swallowed him. A concussive blast displaced the lake's surface, whipping spray into the reeds and stripping leaves from the willows. A collective gasp rose from the onlookers, followed by an abrupt, stunned silence. No one—not even Princess Despina, for all her faith—had anticipated such raw, unbridled destruction. When the blinding flash dissipated, Teymour remained. He hadn’t moved an inch. A wisp of steam curled from his damp hair, which now appeared remarkably dry and slightly fluffy. He even had a faintly pleasant scent, like ozone mixed with a hint of freshly laundered linen. Inessa stood frozen, her arm outstretched, the remnant embers on her fingers guttering out. Her grey eyes lost their rigid calm. Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked from Teymour’s perfectly unharmed, now-dry head to her hand, then back to Teymour, a slow, mortified flush creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks crimson. Her squad, deployed down repelling cables to flank her, shifted their boots in the mud. Not one had ever seen their commander look so thoroughly baffled. Teymour, oblivious to the existential crisis unfolding before him, frowned slightly. He tilted his head, peering past her. “Excuse me, Inquisitor,” he said, his voice soft. “Could you… move just a little bit to your left? You’re casting a shadow right over my bobber. The Fin-flutters are very sensitive to shifts in light.” Inessa snapped. The humiliation, the blatant disregard for her power, the sheer, infuriating *casualness* of this supposed god—it was too much. Years of unbending military training demanded order. If incineration failed, restraint remained; she would drag him aboard the iron hull in irons. “Shadow on your…!” Her voice cracked with sheer rage. “You will come with me, false idol! I will tolerate no more of this blasphemy!” She lunged in a scrape of chitin plating, unhooking a pair of rune-inscribed restraint cuffs from her belt. They were designed to shackle even the most potent of mages, draining their power. Her intent was to clamp them firmly around his wrists, but Teymour, startled by her quick charge, instinctively backed away, trying to step aside. Her momentum carried her forward. Instead of his wrists, her armored hand snagged the front of his simple, river-damp tunic. Teymour, caught off balance, stumbled. Inessa, still lunging, lost her own footing. There was a heavy splash as both tumbled into the ankle-deep shallows. They landed in a tangled heap. Teymour found himself half-submerged, with Inessa Voran, the terrifying Imperial Inquisitor, sprawled across his chest. Her helm tumbled away into the silt, letting pale strands spill out across the rippling surface. Her flint-colored irises stared directly into his from inches away, flecked with slate. He could feel the coarse weave of her tunic where her breastplate parted, the fast rhythm of her breathing against his cheek, and the solid heat of her frame. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Teymour stammered, his own cheeks warming. “Are you alright? I didn’t mean to make you fall.” Inessa could only stare, a silent, mortified gasp caught in her throat. The cold water, the sudden closeness, the absurd lack of danger, the sheer, unprofessional intimacy of the moment—it was a sensory overload. Her mind, trained solely on martial directives, ground to a halt. A foreign, unwelcome heat bloomed in her chest, utterly unrelated to her failed solar blast. Her gaze dropped to his lips, then back to his wide, apologetic eyes, and a blush deepened across her cheeks, even reaching the tips of her ears. “Get… get off me, you… you insufferable…” she muttered, her command entirely absent. She shoved at him without leverage, the bronze cuffs clinking uselessly against his ribs as a strange warmth prickled her skin. Above them, the leviathan's belly rumbled with renewed mechanical purpose. With a series of deep, metallic groans, massive, articulated hoses, thick as ancient tree trunks and gleaming with industrial chrome, extended from its hull. They unfurled, snaking downwards like colossal serpents, their gaping mouths descending towards the surface of the lake. A moment later, a sickening *THUM-THUM-THUM* echoed across the lake, the sound of immense pumps activating, and the tranquil surface of Teymour’s perfect fishing spot began to visibly ripple, the water level subtly, undeniably, starting to drop.

Enter the Inquisitor