# Chapter 232: The Inquisitor's Gambit
The air in the Synod's interrogation chamber was cold and sterile, smelling of ozone, polished stone, and the faint, coppery tang of old fear. A single, harsh light crystal in the ceiling cast unforgiving shadows, illuminating the perspiration beading on the brow of the man chained to the central chair. He was a minor Ladder functionary, a scribe named Pell who had the misfortune of having his records accessed during the infirmary breach. He was nobody, a cog in a vast machine, but tonight, he was the center of the universe.
Inquisitor Isolde circled him slowly, her boots making no sound on the flagstones. Her Synod-issued uniform was immaculate, its silver inlay catching the light like a sliver of frozen moonlight. Her face, usually a mask of placid devotion, was a carefully constructed portrait of weary frustration. She knew she was being watched. High Inquisitor Valerius was a ghost in the machine, his presence a palpable pressure from the shadowed gallery above. He was testing her. The attack on the infirmary had been a failure on his part, a stain on his infallibility, and he needed a scapegoat. More than that, he needed to know if the rot came from within his own ranks. Isolde felt his gaze like a physical weight, a predator's stare waiting for her to falter.
"Again, Pell," she said, her voice devoid of its usual warmth, replaced by a sharp, flinty edge. She let a thread of genuine exhaustion bleed into her tone. It wasn't hard to find; she hadn't slept properly since she'd made the impossible choice to save Soren. "You accessed the infirmary's patient logs three days ago. Who authorized it?"
Pell, a portly man whose jowls trembled with every ragged breath, shook his head, the chains rattling a mournful rhythm. "No one, Inquisitor. I swear. It was a routine audit. The quarterly sanitation report…"
"Do not lie to me," Isolde snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. She slammed her palm flat on the metal table beside him, the sound echoing violently in the small room. The shock made Pell flinch violently. It was a good performance, she thought. A little too much anger, a little too much desperation. Valerius would expect her to be unhinged, her faith shaken by the security breach. He would be looking for cracks, and she would give him a masterpiece of fractures.
She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "I know what happened in that infirmary. I was there. I saw the heretic's work. And now I find out someone, someone *inside* these walls, fed them information. They knew which ward he was in. They knew his guard rotation. They knew about the girl." She let the name hang in the air, a baited hook. "And you expect me to believe it was for a *sanitation report*?"
Pell's eyes darted around the room, landing anywhere but on her. "I… I don't know anything about a girl. Just the audit, I swear it on the Light."
Isolde straightened up, turning her back to him. She pressed her fingers to her temples, a gesture of profound mental strain. This was the critical moment. She had to sell the breakdown, not as a ruse, but as a genuine crisis of faith. She began to pace, her movements agitated, her breathing shallow. "The Light is silent," she murmured, just loud enough for the listening devices to catch. "I prayed. I bled for this Order. And for what? To be surrounded by serpents? To have our holy work undone by traitors who whisper in the dark?"
She stopped pacing and spun back to face Pell, her eyes wide with a feigned, sudden revelation. "It wasn't you," she said, her voice softer now, almost sympathetic. "You're too small. You're a worm, not a serpent. You were given an order, weren't you? A sealed directive. You were told it was for the audit, but the real purpose… the real purpose was to open the door."
Pell stared at her, his mouth agape. He was a simple man, a bureaucrat. The idea of such intrigue was beyond him, which made him the perfect canvas for her to paint her lie upon.
"Who gave you the order, Pell?" Isolde pressed, her voice gentle, coaxing. "Think. A name. It wasn't just a piece of parchment. It had a seal. Who would have the authority to issue a secret audit on a high-security patient?"
The functionary's brow furrowed in concentration. He was terrified, but he was also a creature of habit and procedure. He remembered details. "It… it was unusual," he stammered. "The seal wasn't the standard Commission wax. It was a personal sigil. A raven… on a field of grey."
Isolde's heart gave a single, hard thump. The sigil was a fabrication, a detail she had planted herself an hour ago by "casually" mentioning a rumor of a disgruntled archivist to a junior acolyte she knew was an informant for Valerius's internal spies. The raven belonged to a minor Synod official, a man named Master Caelus, an ambitious but middling administrator in the Records Division who had publicly questioned the Inquisitor's heavy-handed tactics after the infirmary attack. He was a perfect scapegoat: vocal enough to seem like a dissenter, but not powerful enough to be missed.
"Caelus," Isolde breathed the name, her performance of dawning horror flawless. She stumbled back a step as if struck. "Of course. He always questioned the High Inquisitor's methods. He said we were becoming monsters. He thought *he* knew the Light's true will." She turned her face up to the dark gallery, her voice rising with righteous fury. "He sought to undermine us! To aid the heretics because he believed our path was flawed!"
She let the accusation hang in the air, a perfect, poisoned fruit waiting to be plucked. She had given Valerius everything he wanted: a traitor, a motive, and a clear demonstration of her own unwavering, if fanatical, loyalty. She had proven she was willing to tear the Synod apart to find the rot, even if it meant accusing one of their own.
Pell, seeing a way out of his own predicament, latched onto the story with desperate relief. "Yes! That's him! Master Caelus! He said it was a matter of utmost discretion!"
Isolde's face hardened. She had what she needed. "Thank you, Pell," she said, her voice once again cold and distant. "Your cooperation has been noted. You will be held for further questioning, but your… transparency… will be remembered."
She turned and swept out of the chamber, her back ramrod straight, the picture of an Inquisitor who had just uncovered a terrible truth. The heavy stone door swung shut behind her, plunging Pell back into his terrified solitude. In the corridor, Isolde allowed herself a single, silent breath. The scent of ozone was stronger out here, a byproduct of the chamber's truth-dampening wards. She could feel the eyes on her still, not just from the gallery, but from the stone itself. The Synod was a beast, and she had just fed it a morsel of poisoned meat.
She walked with purpose through the sterile, white hallways, her boots clicking a steady, confident rhythm. She did not go to her own sparse quarters. Instead, she ascended the central spire, her path taking her to the very heart of the Synod's power. The guards at the door to the High Inquisitor's sanctum stood aside at her approach, their faces impassive. They knew. The news had already traveled up the chain of command.
The sanctum was not an office. It was a chapel of shadow and light. The walls were lined with shelves of ancient, leather-bound tomes, their spines glowing with a faint, internal luminescence. The air was cool, smelling of old parchment and incense. High Inquisitor Valerius stood with his back to her, looking out a vast, arched window that overlooked the city of Aethel, its lights glittering like fallen stars in the ash-choked darkness. He was a tall, imposing figure, his white robes trimmed with gold, his presence filling the room with a quiet, terrible authority.
"Report, Inquisitor," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in Isolde's bones. He did not turn.
"High Inquisitor," Isolde said, executing a perfect, formal bow. "The functionary, Pell, has confessed. He was acting under duress."
Valerius turned slowly. His face was severe, his eyes a pale, piercing grey that seemed to see right through her. "Duress? From whom?"
"From within the Synod, sir," Isolde said, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. She played the part of the shaken but loyal soldier. "It is Master Caelus. Of the Records Division."
She felt a flicker of something in the air, a shift in pressure. Valerius's expression did not change, but the room felt colder. "Caelus," he repeated the name, tasting it. "He has been vocal in his… disagreements."
"He believes the Inquisition has strayed from the Light's path," Isolde confirmed, her voice trembling with a carefully measured blend of outrage and sorrow. "He saw the heretic, Soren, not as a threat, but as a symptom of our corruption. He colluded with the rebels in the infirmary, using his authority to forge an audit order and pass them the information they needed. Pell was merely the unwitting tool."
Valerius was silent for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. He walked to his desk, a massive slab of black obsidian, and picked up a small, silver bell. He rang it once, the sound impossibly clear and sharp. "Master Caelus will be taken into custody," he said, his voice flat. "His assets will be frozen. His associates will be interrogated. I want this cancer cut out, root and stem."
"As you command, High Inquisitor," Isolde said.
He finally looked at her, really looked at her. His pale eyes scanned her face, searching for any sign of deception. "You found this traitor, Isolde. After the… failure at the infirmary, many questioned your resolve. Your methods."
Isolde met his gaze, allowing a single, hot tear to trace a path down her cheek. It was real, a product of the immense stress and the terror of her situation. "My faith was shaken, High Inquisitor. I will not lie. To see our holy sanctuary violated… to see the Light's work spat upon… it broke something in me." She took a steadying breath. "But I will not allow the Synod to be destroyed from within. I will burn every heretic and every traitor to ash to protect what we have built. I swear it."
Valerius watched her, his expression unchanging. Then, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Good. Your fervor is a weapon, Isolde. Do not misplace it again. You have done well. The Concord requires stability. The people require faith. We will give it to them."
He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. Isolde bowed again and backed out of the room, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had done it. She had fooled him. The wolf was distracted, chasing the scent of a false prey. She had bought Soren and his nascent rebellion precious time.
She did not return to her quarters. Instead, she made her way to the Scriptorium, a cavernous room where junior acolytes copied texts by the light of glowing crystals. She requested a private alcove, citing the need to compose her official report on the interrogation. It was a plausible request, and no one questioned an Inquisitor.
Seated at a small wooden desk, surrounded by the scent of fresh ink and drying parchment, Isolde took a deep, steadying breath. She began her official report, detailing the interrogation of Pell and the "discovery" of Caelus's treachery. Her handwriting was neat, precise, and utterly convincing. It was a masterpiece of bureaucratic fiction.
When she was finished, she set the official scroll aside to be sealed and delivered. Then, she took a fresh, smaller sheet of parchment. Her hand, which had been so steady moments before, now trembled slightly. She dipped her quill in the ink, her mind racing. She had to be careful. The message had to be simple, coded in a way only Soren would understand. They had established a few basic ciphers weeks ago, using old caravan jargon from their shared past.
She thought of Soren, the stoic, broken boy she had once known, now the leader of a rebellion. She thought of the terrible weight he now carried. Her role was to lighten that load, if only by a fraction.
She wrote five words, her script a spidery, hurried scrawl that was nothing like her official hand.
*The wolf is distracted. The shepherd is safe for now.*
She folded the note into a tiny, tight square. An acolyte from the Sable League, a boy who polished the floors and whose family was indebted to her own, would find it tucked inside the binding of a book on agricultural tariffs he was tasked with returning to a Crownlands merchant. It was a circuitous, slow path, but it was safe. It was invisible.
Isolde slipped the note into the pre-arranged hollow in the book's spine. She then picked up her official report, rolled it tightly, and sealed it with the wax of the Inquisition. As she walked out of the Scriptorium, she felt the eyes of the portraits of past High Inquisitors on her. She wondered if they could see the traitor in their midst. She wondered if they would have approved of her choice. She pushed the thought away. There was no room for doubt. There was only the mission, the lie, and the fragile, desperate hope that the shepherd could keep his flock safe until the wolf was truly gone.