# Chapter 43: The Inquisitor's Report
The High Inquisitor's office was a space carved from silence and stone. It occupied the apex of the Synod's central spire, a room where the city's perpetual twilight seemed to hold its breath. The air was cool and carried the faint, clean scent of ozone, a byproduct of the subtle warding glyphs etched into the obsidian floor. They pulsed with a soft, violet light, the only illumination in the room besides the sliver of dying sun cutting through a narrow, arrow-slit window. The light fell across a desk of polished black iron, severe and unadorned. Behind it sat High Inquisitor Valerius.
Isolde stood before the desk, her back ramrod straight, the pristine white of her Inquisitor's novice uniform feeling like a shroud. She kept her eyes fixed on the center of Valerius's chest, not daring to meet his gaze. He was a man whose presence filled the room, not with sound or motion, but with a profound, unnerving stillness. He was lean, with features carved from pale marble, and his eyes—the few times she had glimpsed them—were the color of a winter sky just before a blizzard. He did not look up from the report he was reading, a single sheet of vellum that he held between two long, immaculate fingers. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, a test of her composure. She could hear the faint, rhythmic hum of the city's life-support systems far below, a sound like a sleeping giant's breath.
Finally, he placed the report down. The soft click of the vellum on the iron desk was as loud as a gunshot in the quiet room. "Inquisitor Novice Isolde," he said. His voice was a low baritone, devoid of inflection, yet it carried an absolute authority that made the air vibrate. "Your report on the Shambles Trial is concise. It lacks the usual… emotional embellishments of your peers. I find that satisfactory."
"Thank you, High Inquisitor," Isolde replied, her own voice carefully modulated to betray nothing. "I strive for accuracy."
"Accuracy is the foundation of truth," Valerius said, steepling his fingers. His gaze finally lifted, and Isolde felt it like a physical pressure. It was not an angry look, nor a curious one. It was the look of a master artisan examining a tool, assessing its flaws and its potential. "You have identified the two primary anomalies of the match. Soren Vale and the girl calling herself Nyra. Speak of them. Not what the Ladder Commission's official record says, but what your Gift tells you."
Isolde took a shallow breath, centering herself. Her own Gift was subtle, a form of empathic resonance that allowed her to sense the emotional currents and latent intentions of others. It was why she had been chosen for observation duty. "Soren Vale is a reservoir of repressed fury, High Inquisitor. His stoicism is not a sign of peace, but a dam holding back a torrent of pain and rage. The loss of his father, the indenture of his family—they are not motivators for him. They are brands. In the arena, when he unleashed his Gift, the dam broke. The power was raw, undisciplined, but its source was pure, unadulterated wrath. He is a man who has nothing left to lose, which makes him dangerously unpredictable."
Valerius listened, his expression unchanged. "And the Cinder Cost? The medics' reports were… alarming."
"The cost was immense," Isolde confirmed. "He pushed himself into a state of near-total cellular collapse. But even as his body failed, his spirit did not. He is a survivor in the most literal sense. He will endure, and he will seek retribution for the betrayal he feels from his partner."
"Ah, yes. The partner," Valerius murmured, a flicker of something—interest, perhaps—crossing his features. "Nyra. The Sableki girl, though she competes under a false name. Tell me about her."
"Nyra is the opposite of Soren," Isolde began, recalling the complex tapestry of emotions she had sensed from the girl during the match. "Where he is a storm, she is a calculating current. She is pragmatic, intelligent, and utterly ruthless. Her emotions are… layered. There is a core of ambition, a deep-seated need to prove herself, but it is buried under layers of training and deceit. She feels fear, but she masters it. She feels empathy, but she suppresses it. Her partnership with Soren was a transaction, nothing more. She used his raw power to achieve her objective, and when he was no longer useful, she discarded him."
"A common enough story in the Ladder," Valerius noted. "But you believe there is more."
"I do," Isolde said, leaning forward slightly. This was the crux of her report. "During the final moments of the Trial, when the Ironclad was disabled, my senses registered a focused, high-frequency data transmission originating from Nyra's gauntlet. It was a burst, no more than a second, but it was directed toward a receiver in the merchant district, a sector known to house numerous Sable League front operations."
Valerius's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly. "A data-siphon. What was she stealing?"
"The Ladder's rotational schedule and contingency plans for the next cycle," Isolde stated. "I cross-referenced the transmission's signature with known League encryption methods. The match is a near-certainty. She wasn't just there to win. She was there to gather intelligence."
The High Inquisitor was silent for a long moment, his gaze drifting toward the window, to the sprawling city bathed in grey twilight. The Sable League. The merchant princes and spymasters who had chafed under the Synod's spiritual dominance for generations. To have them actively manipulating the Ladder was not just a breach of the Concord of Cinders; it was an act of war, fought in the shadows.
"The Sable League believes the Ladder is a game of resources and logistics," Valerius said softly, more to himself than to her. "They see the Gifted as pieces on a board, their powers mere variables to be quantified and exploited. They do not understand the divine spark, the terrible responsibility that comes with such power. They seek to control the game, but they are playing with fire they cannot comprehend."
He turned his attention back to Isolde, his eyes now gleaming with a cold, predatory light. The quiet observer was gone, replaced by the master strategist. "This changes things. Soren Vale is no longer just a heretic with a volatile Gift. He is a catalyst. A blunt instrument, but a powerful one. And this girl, Nyra… she is the key."
He rose from his chair, a fluid, unnervingly silent motion. He walked to the window, his back to her, looking down upon the city like a god surveying his creation. "The League will want to protect their asset. They will watch her, and they will watch anyone who comes into contact with her. Soren, in his current state of betrayed fury, is the perfect vector. He will seek her out. He will confront her. He is a magnet for her attention."
Isolde felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. She saw the path he was laying out, a web of manipulation with Soren and Nyra at its center. "What are your orders, High Inquisitor?"
"Your surveillance of Nyra is to be deepened, but indirectly," Valerius commanded. "Do not get close to her yourself. You will become Soren Vale's shadow. He is your new mission. Monitor his recovery, his contacts, his plans. He believes he is hunting the girl who betrayed him. Let him. In fact, encourage it. Feed him information if you must, whispers and hints that push him toward her."
He turned back, and the faint light from the window carved his face into a mask of cold purpose. "The Sable League has sent a serpent into our garden. We will use the wolf they have unwittingly provoked to flush it into the open. Find out what she wants, Isolde. Find out who she works for and what their ultimate goal is. Use Soren to get to her. When the time is right, we will crush them both and remind the League why the Synod is the sole arbiter of the Gift."
The order settled upon Isolde, heavy and absolute. To use a broken man, a soul in torment, as a pawn in a greater game. It was logical, it was efficient, and it was utterly devoid of mercy. It was the work of the Inquisition.
"Yes, High Inquisitor," she said, her voice steady, betraying none of the complex thoughts swirling in her mind. She was a true believer. This was necessary. The stability of the world, the proper ordering of the Gifted, depended on it.
"Go," Valerius said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. "And Isolde? Do not fail. The Sable League is a cunning foe. We must be more so."
Isolde bowed her head and turned to leave. As she walked toward the heavy iron door, the violet light of the warding glyphs glinted off the silver Inquisitor's sigil on her collar. She was a weapon, honed and aimed by the most powerful man in the city. Her target was no longer just a heretic. It was a conspiracy. And her first point of contact was a broken, furious fighter lying in a medical ward, completely unaware that he was now the most important piece on the board.