The heavy doors of the tribunal slammed shut behind them, sealing off two worlds. Outside, the sun lingered low, the evening breeze whispered across the courtyard. Inside, silence hung thick with unspoken screams and the icy stench of despair. Father Lucien Croft could barely stand on his own; his face was paler than any penitent kneeling in confession, pressed against the cold stone wall as he gasped for air, as if he had been dragged from the depths of a river. His emerald eyes were hollow, haunted.
Eleanor Croft followed a half-step behind, her hands holding a small wooden box of writing implements. Her face carried the carefully measured pallor and timidness of a "frightened, delicate" woman, yet deep within her ice-gray eyes lay a lake of absolute calm, reflecting every frame of the tribunal's horrors—the judge's indifference, the witnesses' foolishness, the old woman's collapse, and finally the verdict, the repulsive shudder born from power crushing life.
"Father Croft?" A slightly impatient voice interrupted. A middle-aged man in the robes of a higher-ranking clerk approached, his gaze sweeping over the nearly collapsed priest. He frowned before resting on Eleanor, softening slightly. "Madam, you've had a trying day. I know… these situations are difficult for a first time. It will be easier next time."
There was a practiced condescension in his tone, the familiar sympathy reserved for "fragile women," as if her silence and paleness could be explained entirely by fear.
Eleanor dipped her head politely, her voice delicate: "It is… it is an honor to serve the Lord's work… though I am so useless, unable to help more…" Her performance was flawless.
The clerk seemed satisfied with her obedience, nodding. "The Father appears to need rest. Madam, you may accompany him back. Come early tomorrow; there are some follow-up documents that need to be organized and archived." He paused as if adding casually, "The old records room in the side corridor. It's quieter there."
"Old records room…" Eleanor repeated the name silently, maintaining the demure expression on her face. "Yes, sir. We will be punctual."
She helped the nearly incoherent Lucien, moving slowly, step by step, out of the suffocating heart of the tribunal. Along the way, other clergy hurried past, casting glances of fleeting pity—or barely perceptible disdain—toward Lucien's weakness and Eleanor's intrusion.
Only after reaching their cramped quarters in the church's backyard and closing the door did Lucien finally seem to find a relative shell of safety. He slumped into a chair, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
"She… it's just… a few chickens that died…" he muttered, his voice fractured. "How… how could they… sentence them to the flames…"
Eleanor ignored his breakdown. She set down the wooden box and moved to the window, staring out into the deepened night. The tribunal's scenes replayed in her mind, but they stirred not fear, only cold determination and a precise, analytical clarity.
The old records room. The clerk's offhand comment was a key. A "quiet" place meant lax oversight, few passersby, and documents "needing attention"—likely including follow-ups on that day's trial, perhaps even older cases.
The next morning, Eleanor appeared more "recovered" than Lucien. She had even prepared a modest breakfast (albeit unpalatable) and reminded the hesitant, eye-avoiding priest, "The clerk instructed us to go to the old records room today."
Lucien's face betrayed resistance, but he could find no rational excuse to refuse.
The old records room lay at the end of a secluded side corridor of the tribunal complex. The air smelled heavier here, a mix of dust and aged parchment. Dim light filtered through a few small, high windows. Tall shelves were stacked with dusty archive boxes, while corners held bins of unsorted documents.
The elderly monk in charge seemed half-deaf and lethargic, muttering only to point at a pile of records that needed sorting by year before retreating into his corner for a nap.
This place was the tribunal's graveyard, burying forgotten "crimes" and verdicts.
Lucien went through the motions mechanically, seeking distraction in busyness.
Eleanor, however, moved like a thief in a treasure vault, her pulse quickened with quiet excitement, her hands precise. She scanned the labels for names, dates, and cases—mostly petty theft, neighborhood disputes, small debts, curfew violations, with occasional older records marked "misconduct" or "suspected witchcraft" that were ultimately unprosecuted.
Her eyes sifted like a sieve, discarding irrelevant details, hunting for any thread tied to "Fleming," "Lydia," or "Seraphina," while also noting the procedural patterns for moral cases.
During a break, she casually approached an older monk also sorting papers, offering a piece of black bread wrapped in a clean cloth.
"Please… take some. The dust here is unbearable, thank you for your work." Her tone was humble, sincere.
The monk looked surprised but accepted the gesture, opening up slightly. "Ah, all these are tasks no one wants. Just us old ones and…" He glanced at Lucien, distracted in the distance, and trailed off.
"I… went to the tribunal for the first time yesterday," Eleanor offered, a hint of apprehension and curiosity in her voice. "It's… frightening. Are all cases here so… severe? Like that old woman's…"
"Oh, that was a major one, for public display," the monk whispered, lowering his voice. "Most are trivial. But this place…" He gestured toward the mountains of records. "Holds secrets. Some cases caused a stir, then… quietly disappeared. Some names, hmm… still hold dignity today."
He shook his head, saying no more, yet his slightly clouded eyes glimmered with a knowing mockery of the world.
Eleanor's heart skipped. Disappeared cases. Secrets behind respectable names.
Her suspicions were confirmed. Beneath the tribunal's polished surface flowed a tainted undercurrent, handling matters unfit for daylight, especially scandals involving "respectable" people.
For days afterward, she remained immersed in the old records room. Lucien remained pained and numb, yet gradually seemed to tolerate the oppressive environment, finding in burying himself among papers a small escape from witnessing further bloodshed firsthand.
Eleanor seized every opportunity. Her memory was remarkable; she recorded seemingly unrelated names, dates, and codes. She observed filing patterns, noted which shelves held documents seemingly "privileged"—possibly sensitive—and which were entirely neglected.
Like a silent spider, she wove her network from this sea of dusty information, each thread potentially leading to a useful secret.
She had entered the lion's den, now measuring the space, familiarizing herself with its scent, probing for weaknesses.
Beneath the stone corridor, shadows thickened, yet her ice-gray eyes had adapted to the gloom, now flickering with the subtle glint of a hunter.