Halaima had changed little since his last visit. The contrast with Aset was astonishing.
The city's main gates sagged on rusted hinges. Buildings stood skeletal, roofs gaping open to the grey sky. No marketplace bustle or busy townsfolk running around—the roads were empty.
Nothing but mud and neglect.
Church guards clustered at key intersections, their red markings ominous.
What were they guarding? If there ever were a Halstadt estate here, it'd be rubble by now.
His best bet was to follow the trail of soldiers—they must've had a base somewhere.
He might've sent his companions away too soon. But the sooner they started negotiating with the mountain tribes—
Uh. What? What was there to fix at this point? Not even beggars remained.
At least it was easy to spot the Inquisition's headquarters, a fortified church annex. Stone blackened, as if someone tried to light it on fire, armored soldiers swarming in and out.
As the only one without their markings, he stuck out on the streets like a sore thumb.
"You must be the Prodigy of Haiten," an amused voice surprised him.
Konrad turned to face a young woman in grey robes, leaning against an alley's wall.
She looked the same age as him, but her garbs, and—holy crap, she was tall.
"What gave me away?" he schooled his tone, studying the androgynous face.
"With what remained of this town—nobody in their right mind comes here anymore, so it wasn't hard to guess." A fair point, hummed on a low voice. "I'm Sister Stella of the Inquisition."
"Konrad Ostfeld," the boy nodded, unsure if he should shake her hand or kiss it.
He ended up doing neither.
"Let us waste no time, then," she waved at the ominous building. "Inquisitor Otto awaits."
As she left the alley, her long, blonde hair surprised Konrad. It reached way below her belt—well-groomed, contrasting with her simple, androgynous looks.
Put her in regular clothing, and she would've been—
No, he had to focus. He already had a harem, hands full of girls.
The annex reeked of mold and incense. The office added old parchments into the mix. The man himself stood by a leaded window, his face carved from granite—angular, imposing.
"The Prodigy of Haiten—and my namesake." A humorless smile greeted him.
Namesake?
And why was everyone associated with the Inquisition this huge?!
"Please, call me Konrad," he bowed, offering a hand, but the Inquisitor didn't take it.
"I was born around these lands, too, many winters ago," he monologued instead. "And they gave me the name, Otto Ostfeld." Okay, that explained the namesake part.
Everyone in this duchy got the same name if they weren't born with one.
Like how Aset called all its orphans Sudberg, but to think one could become an Inquisitor?
His noble ambitions weren't that far-fetched then. As if reading his mind, Otto pointed at his hand.
"I take it you remember my old friend, Alastair," he said, voice low and booming. "We studied theology together in Halaima before—it became this. He wrote me about your triad."
Konrad's hand twitched toward the birthmark.
"He took good care of me," he lied.
But if it gave him a better footing with the church—
"Yes, a smart man," the Inquisitor noted. "He was a great asset for Haiten, too."
"Was?" Konrad raised an eyebrow. He was away for one month. What else changed?
"Don't worry, he's still among us," Stella clarified with a smile. "But his insights were too valuable to waste on a small village like that. You'll meet him soon."
Oh, well, that was almost a disappointment.
"Let us talk about the Halaima Code of Conduct," Otto Ostfeld offered.
"Right," Konrad nodded, "I've got a copy of it from the king, but to me, it's—"
"A dry list, I would assume." Again, that smile that didn't reach his eyes. "The names of every noble house's rights and duties are here. Lord Erwin's decrees, no longer enforced by anyone."
"It is more of a sad memento than guidance these days," Stella added.
"Indeed, in the last decade, it was a mere formality. The nobles failed, and the Church alone shoulders it all," the Inquisitor sighed. "Bandits raid unchecked. Heretics fester."
"Yeah, these heretics?" Konrad cleared his throat. "I'd live nearby until a month ago, and—"
"Why don't you see for yourself?" Stella stepped forward, keys jangling at her belt. "You're also one of the lords responsible for running this town now. Feel free to interrogate them."
Well, that was easier than he expected. They were a cooperative bunch. Otto nodded, too.
"The church serves the king, and I swore to aid all who try to uphold his law. If you don't trust me, feel free to investigate, interrogate, you've access to everywhere."
"But first—" Stella gestured to Konrad's sword. "No weapons in the cells. I hope you understand."
They didn't carry any, either. He was so used to it by now that he almost forgot it was on his belt.
The things Vargas said about noble customs echoed in his mind. Carrying a blade anywhere was one of those, but taking it to a jail seemed like asking for trouble.
He unbuckled the blade, Welf's reforged steel heavier in his hands than usual.
Stella offered a thin silver bracelet in exchange.
"Shows you're with the Church," she explained, and waited for no answer.
Cold bit his wrist, and he almost recoiled, but it was too flimsy to be a handcuff.
It still dragged his arm down like an anchor.
"This way, My Lord," the tall woman led him down narrow stairs. "It's what's left of the town's old catacombs and sewers. Don't wander off too far, or you'll be waist-deep in waste."
The air thickened with mold and the smell of unwashed bodies.
His head swam, temples pounding. What were they spiking their prison cells with?
It almost felt familiar, dizzying, like when he spent too much mana, but he hadn't felt it since—
"Do you have fond memories of Father Alastair?" Stella asked, marching with steady steps.
"Something like that," Konrad mumbled, but couldn't pay attention.
The world spun. He stumbled, bracing himself against slimy walls. Torchlight flickered, revealing iron-barred cells ahead. Bodies covered the floor. One door was open.
"Almost there, Ser Prodigy," the woman murmured.
His vision blurred. When did the torches run out?
Well, he was a master of light magic and should've had plenty of mana to spare—
Summon light. Focus. Bind to his palm.
Nothing. Not even a spark. Only the bracelet's icy teeth sinking deeper.
He never failed this simple spell—
Stella shoved him hard, and he crashed onto his knees. He wanted to jump up, but his head spun too much. He found himself in a cell, rough stone underneath his hands.
A door creaked shut.
"What the—" he scrambled up, slamming against the bars. "What is this?!"
That bracelet? It was now almost as thick as his wrist, heavy, and cracking around the edges.
An androgynous smile—cold, not reaching her eyes.
"Oh, you're a prodigy, alright," she took a step back. "I've never seen one swell so much."
He tried to get it off, but it wouldn't budge, and even keeping his arm level became a challenge.
"I'd better get some more before you overcharge our mana drain," Stella crossed her arms. "A little more, and I would've been in trouble here."