# Chapter 227: The Warden's Watch
The summons came without warning, a chime that cut through the sterile silence of Inquisitor Isolde's chambers. It was not the general alert for a city-wide disturbance or the low-grade thrum of a Ladder Trial requiring observation. This was the private, insistent tone of the High Inquisitor himself. Isolde set down the report she was annotating—a tedious analysis of Cinder-Tattoo degradation in low-level competitors—and smoothed the front of her severe grey tunic. The fabric was rough, a constant, abrasive reminder of her purpose. Her own Cinder-Tattoos, a delicate filigree of silver vines on the back of her hands, remained dormant, their light a pale, untroubled grey.
The corridors of the Synod's headquarters were a testament to order and authority. Polished obsidian floors reflected the cold, steady light from lumen-crystals set into the high vaulted ceilings. The air was cool and carried the faint, clean scent of ozone and stone. Acolytes in plain brown robes moved with practiced silence, their eyes downcast. Isolde's footsteps were the only sound, a crisp, rhythmic beat against the stone. She passed the grand Hall of Concord, where the tripartite council met, its massive doors carved with the sanitized history of the Bloom—a story of divine cleansing, not catastrophic failure. She had never questioned it. To question was to invite doubt, and doubt was the first crack in the foundation of faith.
High Inquisitor Valerius's office was at the apex of the central spire, a room that felt less like an office and more like a sanctum. The walls were not stone but seamless, curved glass, offering a panoramic view of the Crownlands and the snaking Riverchain. From this height, the city was a perfect, orderly grid, the ash plains beyond the walls a distant, grey smudge. The sheer scale of the view was designed to make a visitor feel small, to reinforce the immense power of the man who worked within.
Valerius stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him, staring out at his domain. He was a tall, spare man, his hair a severe white cut, his back ramrod straight. He did not turn as she entered and came to a halt in the center of the room, her hands clasped at the small of her back.
"Inquisitor Isolde," he said, his voice a low baritone that seemed to resonate in the glass. "You have been observing the Vale asset."
"Yes, High Inquisitor," she replied, her tone carefully neutral. "My reports are current. His psychological profile indicates increasing paranoia and a tendency toward reckless, emotionally-driven decisions. He is isolated, his support network fractured. He is, by all measures, failing."
Valerius turned slowly. His face was sharp, all angles and planes, his eyes a pale, piercing blue that seemed to look through you rather than at you. But today, Isolde saw something new in those eyes. A flicker of something that looked dangerously like uncertainty.
"Failing," Valerius repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. He gestured toward a data-slate on his vast, empty desk. The screen displayed a schematic of a failed convoy ambush. Red icons marked Synod losses. "Our assets in the field were prepared for a feint from the west. They were positioned to counter a diversionary tactic targeting the supply wagons. Instead, Vale's team struck from the south, a direct, brutal assault on the armored escort. They anticipated our anticipation. They did not do what we expected them to do."
Isolde frowned, stepping closer to the desk. "That is inconsistent with his profile. His recent actions have been predictable, almost formulaic in their desperation."
"Precisely," Valerius said, a cold fury simmering just beneath his calm surface. "The information we received was accurate. It was the plan we intercepted from his squire, the boy Finn. But Vale did not use it. He fed his own people a lie to test their loyalty. The boy was a pawn, and the plan he leaked was a poison pill we willingly swallowed."
Isolde felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. Soren Vale, the chaotic, emotional fighter she had been tasked with monitoring, had orchestrated a counter-intelligence operation. He had manipulated the Synod's own intelligence network against itself. It was a move of cold, ruthless cunning. It was a move a true Inquisitor would make.
"His source," Valerius continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "He is not operating in a vacuum. The Sable League is involved, of that I have no doubt. But their information is being filtered, refined. Someone is advising him. Someone with a deep understanding of our methods. Someone inside this city, perhaps even inside this organization, is feeding him not just data, but strategy."
He began to pace, a slow, predatory circle around the room. The glass walls made his reflection seem to multiply, a phalanx of grim-faced Inquisitors marching in lockstep. "My usual channels have become… noisy. Whispers of dissent, questions about the Concord. The leak is not a simple hole to be patched. It is a serpent in the garden, and it is poisoning the roots of our authority."
He stopped in front of her, his pale eyes locking onto hers. The weight of his gaze was immense, a physical pressure that made her want to take a step back. She held her ground, her training taking over.
"Your piety is noted, Isolde. Your unwavering belief in the sanctity of our mission. It is a rare quality in these times of moral ambiguity." He reached out and touched the silver vines on her hand. His fingers were cold. "Your Gift is one of discernment, of seeing the truth that lies beneath the surface. I believe it is time you used it not just to observe from afar, but to act."
He let go of her hand, and the spot where he had touched felt strangely cold. "I am assigning you a new task. You will move beyond observing Vale. You will infiltrate his periphery. You will identify his inner circle—the strategist, the quartermaster, the informant. You will find the source of the leaks."
Isolde's mind raced. This was far beyond her mandate. To actively engage, to interrogate… it was a minefield. "High Inquisitor, my role is intelligence gathering, not field interrogation. To approach his associates directly risks exposing our operations."
"You will not approach them as an Inquisitor," Valerius countered smoothly. "I am granting you special dispensation. Warrant of Inquiry Gamma-7. It gives you the authority to question any non-sanctioned individual under suspicion of undermining the Concord. You will operate in the shadows, but you will have the full weight of the Synod behind you. If you are discovered, you will be disavowed, of course. A necessary sacrifice for the greater good."
He was setting her up to be a scapegoat. The realization was stark and immediate. If she succeeded, he would claim the victory. If she failed, she would disappear, another nameless casualty in the war for control. The piety he praised was the very tool he intended to use to manipulate her. He knew she would not refuse. To refuse would be an act of heresy.
"The risk is considerable," she said, her voice betraying none of her inner turmoil. "Vale is unpredictable. His allies are unknown. A single misstep could alert the entire network."
"Then do not misstep," Valerius said, his voice hardening. He moved back to his desk and tapped a control. A new file appeared on the data-slate, a list of names. Finn. Captain Bren. A tavern owner named Lena. A disgraced healer named Orin. Low-level associates. The people a desperate man would rely on.
"These are your starting points," he instructed. "Begin with the boy, Finn. He is the weakest link, emotionally compromised. He was used once; he will be afraid. Fear makes people careless. Find out who he talks to. Find out who he trusts. Use your Gift. Listen to the echoes in his soul. The truth will be there."
Isolde stared at the names. These were not shadowy spies or powerful league merchants. They were common people, the dregs of the city, caught in the crossfire of a war they barely understood. To interrogate them would be to crush them. Her purpose had always been to protect the order, to preserve the stability that kept millions from starving in the ash. But this… this felt like persecution.
"You seem hesitant, Inquisitor," Valerius noted, his voice dangerously soft.
Isolde straightened her spine, pushing the doubt down. This was a test. Not just of her skills, but of her faith. The Synod was the last bastion of civilization. Soren Vale and his ilk, with their talk of choice and rebellion, were agents of chaos. If a few had to be sacrificed to save the whole, it was a righteous calculus. It had to be.
"I am not hesitant, High Inquisitor," she said, her voice regaining its composure. "I am considering the most effective method of approach. Direct interrogation may yield false positives. A more subtle touch is required."
"Good," Valerius said, a thin, approving smile touching his lips. "That is why I chose you. You understand that the scalpel is often more effective than the sword. But do not mistake subtlety for mercy. The serpent is clever. It will not be found by gentle prodding. You must be willing to be ruthless. You must be willing to do what is necessary, no matter the cost to your conscience."
He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. As she walked toward the door, he called out one last time. She stopped, her hand on the cool metal handle, and turned back.
"Isolde," he said, his voice like the winter wind off the ash plains. "Do not fail me. The stability of the Concord, the very future of the Gifted, rests on your shoulders. Find the serpent in his garden."
He paused, letting the weight of the statement settle in the vast, silent room. His eyes were chips of ice, devoid of any warmth or compassion.
"Or I will burn the entire garden to the ground."
The door hissed shut behind her, and Isolde was alone in the corridor, the echo of his threat chasing her down the hall. She was a warden, and her watch had just begun. But for the first time, she was not entirely sure who the prisoners were, or if she was guarding them from the world, or the world from them.