The plaza was a canvas of chaos. Guards in house colors formed a hard line, pushing the screaming crowds back. Priests, their white robes stained with soot and wine, moved among the injured, their panicked prayers a useless murmur against the stench of burnt silk and fear.
Sir Leon stood beside his dragon, his silver armor now a dull, smoky gray. A deep gash ran across his cheek where a piece of shattered marble had struck him. He ignored the castle medic trying to clean the wound. His eyes, wild with fury and shame, scanned the chaos. He found the source. The broken cart. The spilled firewood. The filthy stable boy who was now being held by two city guards, looking more confused than anyone.
"It was him," Leon spat, his voice a raw rasp. He pointed a trembling, gauntleted finger. "That…thing. The rat. He sabotaged the ceremony."
A figure in stark red robes moved through the cordon of guards. Cardinal Valerius came to a stop beside the knight. His sharp eyes were not on the wounded or the damage. They were fixed on the small, pathetic figure of Arthur.
"An unfortunate accident, Sir Leon," the Cardinal's voice was cold and precise, cutting through the noise.
"Accident?" Leon laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "You saw it! The wheel…it was timed perfectly. That was no accident. It was witchcraft."
The Cardinal's gaze did not waver from Arthur. "Indeed. An impurity in a sacred ceremony. Such things cannot be tolerated. The disturbance must be…purified."
Leon's head snapped toward the Cardinal, a flicker of desperate hope in his eyes. He understood. This was not about finding truth. This was about restoring honor. "Yes. Exactly. He must be made to confess."
Valerius gave a nearly imperceptible nod. He did not need to give an order. His presence was the order.
Two new guards separated from the Cardinal's entourage. They wore the same red tabards, but their armor was black, unadorned, and seemed to drink the light. They moved with a purpose that made the castle guards step aside. They walked past the panicked nobles, past the Herald trying to restore order. They walked directly toward Arthur.
Fendrel, the weaselly overseer, saw them coming and scurried forward. "Sirs, there's been a misunderstanding! The boy is a half-wit, he…"
One of the Inquisitorial guards shoved him aside without breaking stride. Fendrel stumbled and fell into a puddle of spilled ale.
The guards grabbed Arthur by the arms. Their grip was like iron clamps.
"Arthur of the stables," the lead guard intoned, his voice devoid of any emotion. "In the name of the Holy Inquisition, you are under arrest. The charge is blasphemy and the use of profane magic."
A new wave of whispers rippled through the nearby crowd. This was different. An accident was a whipping. Blasphemy was a pyre.
Arthur did not struggle. He allowed them to haul him away, his worn boots dragging through the muck. He was just a boy being taken by monsters.
They build a cage of rules and call it justice, Su Ling observed through his eyes. How predictable. Let us see the quality of their cage.
The world narrowed to a stone corridor descending into the earth. The sounds of the festival died, replaced by the rhythmic drip of water and the echo of their footsteps. The air grew cold, heavy with the smell of damp stone and old despair.
They stopped before a door. It was not wood. It was a slab of black iron, veined with dull, silvery lines that seemed to warp the torchlight. The guard produced a heavy, complex key and turned it in a lock that groaned in protest.
He shoved Arthur inside. "Welcome to the Silent Cells, heretic."
The door slammed shut with a sound of absolute finality. A heavy bar was dropped into place on the other side.
The cell was a six-foot cube of rough-hewn stone. No window. No bed. Just a drain in the floor. The air was thick, oppressive. Arthur felt a strange lethargy, a dull pressure against his mind.
Ah, Sacred Silver, Su Ling's thoughts were a point of clarity in the oppressive gloom. It emits a low-frequency resonance. It agitates the surface layer of ambient energy, making it difficult to gather and shape. A child's attempt to quiet a storm by shouting at the waves. It does not change the nature of the air itself.
Footsteps approached. The slot in the door slid open, revealing a pair of hard, merciless eyes. Then, the sound of the bar being lifted, and the door creaked open again.
A man in the crimson robes of an Inquisitor stepped inside, flanked by the two guards who arrested him. He was tall and thin, his face a collection of sharp angles. A cruel smile played on his lips. He held a small, leather-bound book in one hand.
"So this is the great sorcerer," the Inquisitor, Malachi, sneered. "A stable rat covered in dung. Tell me, did you summon a demon of filth to do your bidding?"
Arthur said nothing. He simply stood there, his head slightly bowed.
Malachi's smile tightened. "Not a talker? We get those. The ones who think their silence is a shield. But every shield breaks." He opened his book. "The charge is corrupting a sacred rite. The penalty is purification by fire. But the Cardinal is merciful. He wants a confession. He wants the names of your co-conspirators. He wants to know the nature of your dark pact."
Silence was his only reply.
"You conspired to humiliate Sir Leon, a champion of the Church," Malachi continued, his voice rising. "You brought chaos to a holy day. Your soul is stained. Who taught you this magic?"
Arthur's gaze remained fixed on the stone floor.
Malachi's patience snapped. He slammed the book shut. "Fine. Have it your way." He nodded to a guard, who pointed to a corner of the corridor outside. A brazier of coals glowed with malevolent heat, a single branding iron resting in its heart, its tip white-hot.
"The Mark of the Unbeliever is a powerful persuader," Malachi said, his voice dropping to a low, vicious purr. He walked over and picked up the branding iron by its long wooden handle. The heat washed over the cell. "It burns away lies. It burns away stubbornness. Now, for the last time. Confess."
He advanced on Arthur, the glowing tip of the iron held high.
As he moved, Arthur acted. His movement was not fast. It was deliberate. He raised his chained hands. He pressed his right hand, the ashen gray one, flat against the body of the lock on the inside of the iron door. The metal was cold against his palm.
Malachi paused, a flicker of confusion on his face. "What now? A prayer? Your demon cannot help you here."
Iron, silver, faith, and fear, Su Ling's will focused to a single, sharp point. All are merely patterns. All are collections of particles held together by a story. It is time to edit the story. Deconstruct: Molecular bond. Crystalline lattice.
The Inquisitor took another step forward, ready to press the brand against the boy's chest. He stopped.
A thin trickle of dark gray dust began to pour from the keyhole of the lock. It wasn't rust. It was finer, like sand, flowing in a silent, steady stream.
Malachi stared, his brow furrowed. "What is this?"
The trickle became a flow. The entire body of the massive, unbreakable lock, forged by master smiths and blessed by archbishops, was dissolving. It turned to powder from the inside out, disintegrating without a sound, without a tremor. The dust pooled on the floor in a neat, conical pile.
In seconds, the place where the lock had been was nothing but a hollow, empty space in the door.
Malachi's jaw fell open. His eyes widened in horrified disbelief. The branding iron slipped from his nerveless fingers and clattered onto the stone floor, its glow suddenly seeming weak and pathetic.
Arthur pulled his hand away. He gave the heavy iron door a gentle push.
With a low, protesting groan, it swung open.
He stepped out of the cell. The broken manacles, their own locks having suffered the same fate, fell from his wrists and hit the floor with a metallic clang. He stood in the corridor, free.
He looked at Malachi. The Inquisitor was on the ground now, scrambling backward, his hands and feet slipping on the slick stone. The mask of cruel authority had shattered, replaced by raw, primal terror.
For the first time, Arthur's face changed. A small, calm, almost gentle smile touched his lips. It was the most terrifying thing Malachi had ever seen.
"Demon!" the Inquisitor shrieked, his voice cracking into a high-pitched scream. "You… you are a demon!"
Arthur paid him no mind. He turned his head, his expression one of mild curiosity. A sound was drifting from further down the corridor, a place of deeper darkness the torches did not reach.
It was faint at first. A giggle.
Then, a low, breathy laugh, full of a strange, broken joy. It was the sound of someone who had been alone in the dark for a very, very long time.
Now this is interesting, Su Ling thought.
Ignoring the screaming Inquisitor, Arthur turned away from the path to the surface. He took a step into the shadows, walking toward the mad, inviting laughter.