The High Council buzzed with quiet activity, the low hum of conversations mixing with the rustle of parchment and the soft clatter of quills against desks. Candles flickered along the tall oak tables, casting long shadows across the stone floor, and the scent of wax and ink hung faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of burning firewood from the hearths. Servants scurried along the corridors, carrying bundles of reports or trays of refreshments, their movements swift but careful, mindful of the council's strict decorum.
"Found something?" Cedric asked, stepping closer to the man across the table. His sharp gaze fell upon the other man's face, which was scrunched in deep concentration as he held up a small vial of blood, the candlelight glinting off the liquid inside.
The man's lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing behind round-rimmed spectacles that he adjusted with a careful push of his fingers.
"I suspect it wasn't a natural death," he said, voice low, measured, almost clinical. He kept his focus on the blood sample, turning it gently in his hand to inspect it from every angle. "Duke William… his blood shows traces of a strange compound. It's unlike anything I've seen before, at least nothing identifiable as of now."
Cedric's brow furrowed as he peered at the vial, intrigued. "What makes you say that?" he asked, coming to stand directly beside the man, peering over his shoulder. The subtle gleam of candlelight reflected off the glass, emphasizing the deep red liquid within.
"There is a compound in his bloodstream," the man replied, voice steady, "something unnatural. The precise nature… I cannot yet determine. It eludes identification. But mark my words, it is no common ailment or poison of the known realm." He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, then reached up to adjust the small circle-rimmed glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose once more.
"You should report this immediately," Cedric said, his tone casual, his eyes curious urgency. "It should be passed to the forensic team for further investigation. Every detail matters." His eyes lingered on the test tube, reflecting the dancing candlelight, as if trying to peer deeper into its secrets.
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Meanwhile, across the council chambers, a more quiet part of the high council Neal's hands were clasped tightly in front of him, knuckles white, as he recounted the events of the night of the attack.
"I didn't see the people who attacked, but… I believe Lord Dorian should know. He instructed me to go when the attack occurred." His voice, though steady, carried a subtle tremor, betraying the lingering fear still clinging to him.
Nathaniel, seated across the table, pinched the bridge of his nose. He had heard the account several times already, yet the details remained just as pressing, the danger still immediate in his mind. His sharp eyes studied Neal carefully, noting every nervous gesture, every slight hesitation.
Nathaniel finally gave a slow, deliberate nod and rose from his seat, the heavy velvet of his council robe swishing against the stone floor.
"Alaric," he said to his partner, voice calm but firm, "let him go."
Alaric, reclining in his chair with a long, measured sigh, reached forward to collect Neal's notes. "I want to submit it myself," he muttered, weariness coloring his tone.
"No worries," Nathaniel replied, his usual friendly cadence intact despite the tension. "I'll do it for you. Let him leave… you can go home. Rest."
"Really?" Alaric's dull eyes brightened at the unexpected reprieve.
"Of course," Nathaniel said with a small, polite smile, absently rubbing the corner of the parchment. He stepped lightly out of the dimly lit room, leaving Neal blinking in the shadows, the night outside pressing against the windows in soft, quiet darkness. His steps were measured, confident, yet there was a playful lightness in his stride as he made his way toward the higher chambers, where all official reports were submitted.
Before reaching the main hall, he veered down a narrow side corridor, a more secluded route, and entered a small chamber lined with shelves of ledgers and scrolls. A single candle flickered atop a worn desk, illuminating a stack of fresh parchment. He seated himself deliberately, fetching a fresh parchment, similar to the ones Neal's notes were written on, dipping his quill into the dark ink with a slow, ceremonial motion, and carefully copied Neal's statement onto the new sheet.
His fingers lingered over the parchment as he made subtle adjustments, erasing the mention of Lord Dorian being the last person at the market. Each stroke of the quill was deliberate, precise, and almost artistic. A faint smile traced across his lips, the faintest glimmer of satisfaction as though he were admiring a completed masterpiece. The candlelight danced across his features, highlighting the intensity of his gaze, the patience of his movements, and the shadowed determination in his eyes.
"I should be rewarded for this".