The neutral ground was a desolate stretch of wind-whipped scree, some leagues north of the Citadel’s outer defenses. A thin, biting wind scoured the rock face, carrying the distant, metallic scent of ironclad dreadnought exhaust. Orkhan stood alone at the center of the designated circle, a figure of serene stillness against the swirling dust. His dark tunic, simple and unadorned, offered no pretense of a warlord’s finery, yet it amplified the unnerving aura that clung to him like a second skin. Twenty paces opposite, Commander Boran stood flanked by four figures in dark, form-fitting armor, their faces obscured by polished visors. These were the null-guards, elite nullification specialists, their very presence a statement of intent. Boran himself, a compact man with shrewd, calculating eyes, offered a stiff nod. No pleasantries. Orkhan appreciated the efficiency. “Regent,” Boran’s voice, though sharp, held an undercurrent of caution. The title, usually spat with disdain, was now delivered with an almost deferential precision. “Or, as my intelligence suggests, perhaps simply… Orkhan.” Orkhan’s gaze remained flat, unblinking. “Your intelligence is remarkably accurate, Commander. A rare trait in the southern vanguard.” Boran’s jaw tightened. He ignored the barb. “You are not a mage. Not in any sense we understand. What are you?” “A man with a purpose,” Orkhan replied, the wind ruffling a stray lock of dark hair across his forehead. His voice carried surprisingly far over the desolate plain. “And a distinct lack of patience for drawn-out negotiations.” One of the null-guards shifted, boots grinding grit, preparing for violence. Orkhan didn't spare them a glance. His focus remained solely on Boran. “Your ‘purpose’ has cost three fine siege legions, Regent,” Boran retorted, lips peeling back over yellowed teeth. “And the reputation of its most decorated vanguard leader. I did not request this parley to endure riddles.” “You requested this parley, Commander, because your ‘finest’ legions were reduced to slag, and your ‘decorated’ reputation is now that of a man who lost a thousand war-engines to a single wave of mountain defiance,” Orkhan countered, his tone devoid of triumph, merely stating a fact. “You seek to understand what you cannot comprehend, and more importantly, to survive what you cannot defeat.” Boran took a slow, deliberate step forward, his eyes narrowed. “You claim to be a man. Yet your actions defy mortal explanation. You redirected a full artillery barrage with a gesture. You are said to have manifested a storm, a wall of pure force. These are not the deeds of a man, Orkhan. These are the acts of a god, or a demon.” “Labels are for those who lack imagination,” Orkhan dismissed, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor running through the ground beneath them. It was not the region's ambient magic. It was the Silent Regent, stirring within him, a deep hum of cosmic impatience. He suppressed it with practiced ease. “Tell me, Commander, is it the ‘god’ or the ‘demon’ that concerns you more? Or is it merely the disruption to your meticulously planned career trajectory?” Boran flinched, a subtle tightening around his eyes. Orkhan pressed on, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet each word seemed to cut through the wind with unnatural clarity. “It has been a long climb for you, Commander. From the forgotten garrison on the fringes of the Argus Expanse, where you distinguished yourself in the suppression of the Qazari Uprising—a brutal but necessary campaign that saw you bypass several more senior officers. Then, the swift ascent through the ranks of the Tenth Legion, culminating in your promotion to Vanguard Commander after the unfortunate ‘accident’ that befell General Theron. A clear path to High Marshal, wouldn’t you agree?” Boran’s face, usually a mask of hardened cynicism, now contorted into a grimace of profound shock. Boran glanced toward his retinue, then back to Orkhan. The information Orkhan had just casually recited was classified, locked deep within state archives, known only to a select few within the High Directorate. “How…?” Boran’s voice was a ragged whisper, his bravado utterly gone. This was not magic. This was something far more insidious, far more terrifying to a spymaster’s mind: total informational compromise. “Your realm, for all its clockwork industry, is surprisingly porous,” Orkhan stated, observing Boran’s unraveling. “Its security protocols are… inadequate. Perhaps even negligent, in the upper echelons.” He let the implication hang in the air, a poisoned dart aimed directly at Boran’s ambition. Before Boran could recover, one of the armored guards lunged forward with a guttural cry. He moved with impossible speed, a blur of dark armor, his hand already on the hilt of a curved, obsidian blade – an anti-magic weapon, crafted to nullify any arcane force. It was a desperate, unsanctioned attempt to strike down the enigma before them. Orkhan didn’t turn his head. He didn’t react. He simply continued to meet Boran’s terrified gaze. The warrior's blade, drawn with a rasp of metal, caught the gray glare for a fraction of a second. But before it could complete its arc, before it could even clear the sheath entirely, a ripple passed through the air around it. The dark obsidian fractured, then crumbled, disintegrating into a fine, black dust that scattered on the wind. The sentry, now holding a useless hilt, stumbled and caught his balance on buckled knees. Boran watched it happen, his mouth agape. His gaze flickered from the dust to Orkhan, then back to the sentry, who now stood frozen, clutching empty brass fittings. This was not a display of power; it was a casual erasure, a dismissive flick of a cosmic hand. “An overzealous subordinate,” Orkhan said, his tone flat, as if remarking on the weather. He finally shifted his attention to Boran. “You see, Commander, your masters seek to eradicate magic. To exploit this continent. But you are chasing phantoms, fighting symptoms, while a far greater threat looms. A threat that will consume everything you value, your homeland and Kestar alike.” He paused, giving the silence time to erode what remained of Boran's composure. The wind picked up, whipping at their clothes, but Orkhan’s voice remained steady, clear, almost hypnotic. “Help me destroy the Silent Regent, and Kestar will be yours.”

An Inquisition of One