The elite guards escorted Corvus and me towards the magistrate’s estate. Above us, Corvus’s murder of crows wheeled against the late morning sky.
As we left the Warren and approached the wealthy district, the streets grew wider. Elegant townhouses rose on either side, their windows gleaming with expensive glass, and their doorways flanked by ornamental columns. The air was clean and fresh, perfumed with flowering vines that cascaded from pristine gardens.
The magistrate’s mansion dominated the end of the boulevard, a massive stone structure with soaring architecture. Tall iron gates opened silently at our approach, revealing manicured grounds where fountains played and exotic birds strutted across perfectly trimmed lawns. The mansion itself rose like a mountain of marble and glass, its countless windows catching the sunlight like facets of a crystal. Ornate spires and towers stretched toward the sky, with stone gargoyles perched along the steep-sloped roofline.
Something about the mansion’s grandeur felt wrong. Everything was too pristine, too perfect. Like Evangeline’s scattered music sheets in her otherwise orderly apartment, this display of wealth and power struck a discordant note in my mind. My years of training had taught me to trust my instincts, but I maintained a neutral demeanor as we climbed the broad steps to the main entrance.
The massive double doors swung open without a sound, revealing a breathtaking grand foyer. The ceiling soared three stories overhead, crowned by an elegant crystal chandelier that cast rainbow-hued light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. A sweeping staircase of white stone curved upward, its wrought-iron railings carved in distinct designs.
“The Lord Magistrate awaits in his study,” announced our tiger-helmed escort. “This way, if you please.”
As we followed him up the stairs, I noticed how the guards’ footfalls made no sound on the marble. Even Corvus, usually so attuned to sound, appeared unsettled by this unnatural silence. But there was something else wrong with the blind warrior. His movements had become increasingly hesitant. His usual confident stride had given way to cautious, uncertain steps. Slowly. his shaky hand reached out, fingers searching the air until they found my shoulder. He gripped it tightly.
“Brother,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, “something is wrong. My awareness... it’s gone. I am truly blind here.”
I started at this revelation. Corvus’s blindness had never been a true handicap before—his other senses, enhanced by both training and supernatural means, had always compensated. But now he moved like a genuinely sightless man, his free hand stretched slightly forward as if expecting to encounter obstacles. The crow on his shoulder seemed equally disturbed, shifting restlessly and letting out soft, distressed sounds. This was highly peculiar. Whatever power permeated this mansion was strong enough to suppress Corvus’s extraordinary senses, a concerning development that made me even more wary of our host.
“Stay close,” I whispered back, allowing him to keep his grip on my shoulder as we continued to follow our silent escorts.
The upper floor was a maze of corridors decorated with priceless artworks and tapestries. Everything was immaculate, without a speck of dust or sign of wear. No servants were visible, though the mansion showed clear signs of constant maintenance. The effect was unsettling, like walking through a perfect illusion rather than a lived-in space.
My rogue’s instincts automatically cataloged every detail as we walked. The corridors branched in precise patterns—three doors on the left, two on the right, then a cross-intersection every thirty paces. Windows appeared at regular intervals, their diamond-paned glass thick enough to prevent entry but designed to open inward for ventilation. The ceiling height never varied, and elaborate brass sconces provided consistent lighting, spaced exactly the same distance apart.
I noted potential escape routes, counting steps between turns and memorizing the pattern of decorative rugs that could muffle footsteps or hide trap doors. The walls were covered in rich tapestries depicting historical scenes, but my trained eye looked for subtle bulges behind some that might conceal secret passages. Every piece of furniture, from delicate side tables to imposing armoires, was positioned in such a way that it created paths that could either aid or hinder rapid movement.
We entered the east wing. Here, the decor shifted subtly—darker woods, deeper colors, and artwork that featured more shadows than light. The guard led us to a set of double doors carved from ebony, their surfaces etched with complex geometric patterns that seemed to draw the eye inward. He knocked three times and the doors slowly swung open.
The magistrate’s study was a circular room with walls of dark wood panels and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a commanding view of Ebonheart. Tall bookshelves lined with leather-bound tomes reached to the ceiling, the higher shelves accessible by a rolling wooden ladder. A massive desk of black marble dominated the center of the room, its surface bare except for a single crystal paperweight and an elegant white quill pen. Behind the desk stood the magistrate himself. His arms behind his back, he faced one of the grand windows, staring out at the city.
“Lord Magistrate, I present to you the two blackguards from the Dreadspire Sanctum,” our escort announced.
The magistrate looked over his shoulder. I had expected someone imposing, but the figure before us was surprisingly elegant. The magistrate, who appeared no older than forty, was a tall and slender man, dressed in robes of deep purple silk trimmed with gold. His clean-shaven face was impossibly handsome, with sharp aristocratic features, and pale gold hair that was styled immaculately without a single strand out of place. His eyes, however, were a striking violet color that I had never seen in a human before.
“Ah, welcome, gentlemen,” he said, his voice rich and melodious. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.” He gestured to two plush high-back chairs before his desk.
I cast a hesitant glance at Corvus, but he was already reaching out, attempting to make his way to the chairs. I guided him to one of them and he sat. To see Corvus suddenly this helpless disturbed my very soul. The guards remained by the door like silent and motionless sentries.
“I must admit,” the magistrate continued, settling into his own chair behind the desk, “I was quite intrigued when I heard there were blackguards in my city. We don’t often host members of your esteemed order here in Ebonheart.” He paused and fixed his violet eyes on Corvus’s shoulder, where his favorite crow perched with unusual stillness. “What a magnificent creature,” he remarked, his voice carrying genuine appreciation. “Such glossy feathers. And those eyes... quite remarkable. I’ve always admired how crows possess both beauty and intelligence.”
Corvus stiffened slightly. His fingers curled around the arms of his chair. His crow, normally so vocal, remained silent under the magistrate’s gaze. Even through his blindfold, I could sense Corvus’s unease.
“Thank you, Lord Magistrate,” he replied, his tone carefully neutral. “Though I find it curious that you would find such mundane details about a common bird so fascinating.”
The magistrate’s smile broadened. “Ah, but nothing is truly common when you take the time to look closely at the details. Every creature, every object, holds its own unique beauty and purpose.”
“Speaking of details,” I interjected, “I don’t believe we caught your name, Lord Magistrate.”
A brief, subtle change passed over his features. “Names are such curious things, aren’t they?” he mused, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “They carry weight, history, expectations. In my position, I’ve found it more... efficient to simply be known by my title. It allows me to serve the city without the burden of personal identity clouding my judgment or the citizens’ perceptions.”
“How… convenient,” Corvus observed, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
“Is it? Consider the nature of governance, my friend. When people look at me, they should see the office, the authority, the responsibility—not a man with all his human flaws and histories. The title ‘Lord Magistrate’ represents something greater than any single name could encompass. It represents order, justice, and stability.
“In my experience, names can be... divisive. Some citizens might associate certain family names with old grievances or political allegiances. By remaining simply ‘Lord Magistrate,’ I can serve all of Ebonheart’s people equally, without the weight of such associations.”
I watched the magistrate carefully as he spoke, noting how his movements were precise and deliberate, like an actor who had rehearsed every gesture. My years of training had taught me to read people, to spot the tells and ticks that betrayed their true nature. But this man... he was different. Too perfect. Too polished. It was like watching a masterful performance where not a single detail was out of place.
Something about his explanation of namelessness struck me as fundamentally wrong. Names held power—this was one of the first lessons taught to those who walked the shadow paths. To willingly abandon one’s name wasn’t an act of humility; it was often a means of escaping accountability or hiding one’s true nature.
“With all due respect, Lord Magistrate,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “anonymity can also be a shield behind which corruption flourishes. The citizens of Ebonheart might sleep better knowing the true name of the man who governs them.”
The magistrate’s gaze fixed on me, and for a moment I thought I saw something else looking out through those violet orbs. Something ancient and calculating. But then he smiled again, and the feeling subsided.
“Quite true,” he agreed. “Which is why I maintain complete transparency in all other aspects of my governance. Every law, every tax, every decision is properly documented and available for public review. I believe actions speak far louder than simple names, don’t you agree?” He gestured to a wall of shelves filled with leather-bound ledgers and official documents. “My predecessor was plagued by corruption precisely because people trusted in names and reputations rather than actions and results. I’ve worked hard to change that culture.”
I shook my head. “You speak of transparency, yet you are reluctant in revealing something as simple as your name. That makes no sense.”
“Ah, but doesn’t it?” the magistrate said, his tone remaining smooth and pleasant. “Your concern for transparency is admirable, but consider this—what truly matters more: a name, or the actions and decisions that shape a city’s future?”
“Both matter,” I countered. “A name carries weight, responsibility, and accountability. It’s a fundamental part of who someone is and the legacy they create. For someone in your position to withhold such basic information... it raises questions.”
“And that is precisely my point, my friend. Names can become a distraction from the real work of governance. Take your own order, for example. The blackguards serve a greater purpose, one that transcends individual identity. When you don your armor and take up your duties, do the citizens you protect care about your personal name, or do they care about what you represent?”
“That’s different,” I argued. “We operate in shadows by necessity. You hold public office.”
“Do we operate so differently?” He raised an elegant eyebrow. “Both of our roles require a certain... separation from the personal. You wear dark armor; I wear the mantle of magistrate. Both are symbols that represent something greater than ourselves.”
I ground my teeth, noting how skillfully he was turning my own arguments against me. “A symbol without substance is merely an illusion, Lord Magistrate. The people deserve to know who truly leads them.”
He leaned back in his chair and appeared thoughtful for a moment before speaking again. “Tell me. When a citizen comes seeking justice, do they care if I was born John or Jack? When I lower taxes to help struggling merchants, does my family name matter? When I maintain order and peace in these streets, do my personal details affect the safety people feel?” He shook his head. “No. The people care about results, about stability, about knowing their magistrate serves their interests without the burden of personal politics or family allegiances.”
“But—”
“Consider the alternative,” he continued smoothly. “If I were to tell you I was born a Goldsmith, those with grievances against that family might question my every decision. If I claimed the name Lightborne, merchants tied to rival trading houses might feel unfairly treated. By setting aside my personal identity, I ensure every citizen receives equal consideration under the law.”
His logic was maddeningly precise, each point building upon the last like stones in a perfectly constructed wall. I could feel my arguments slipping away, unable to find purchase against his seemingly flawless reasoning. It was a losing battle that I finally conceded. Even Corvus seemed to relax slightly, though his crow remained unnaturally still.
“Now, tell me.” The magistrate grinned with satisfaction. “What brings two esteemed blackguards to Ebonheart? Surely not mere curiosity about local governance?”
There was something in his tone—a subtle challenge beneath the polite inquiry—that made me choose my next words carefully. His tone was friendly, but I detected a subtle edge beneath the warmth. Those violet eyes studied us with keen intelligence, missing nothing.
“We’re investigating the theft of a sacred artifact on behalf of the high acolyte at the Thirteenth Aurorium,” I replied.
“Ah yes, I heard about that.” The magistrate nodded, his expression growing appropriately concerned. “A troubling incident, to be sure. Though I must admit, I’m somewhat surprised to see blackguards involved in what appears to be a simple case of theft. Your order typically concerns itself with... larger matters, does it not?”
“The dagger holds great significance,” Corvus said, his voice tight. “Its theft threatens the very order we serve.”
“Oh, I understand. Even so, it seems unusual for warriors of your caliber to involve yourselves in minor city politics and local crime.” He studied us both.
I felt the weight of his gaze. It was as if he was waiting patiently, biding his time for one of us to crack first. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I’d dealt with plenty of men like him in my former life. “We go where our duty leads us,” I responded.
The magistrate’s thin lips curved into a knowing smile. “Of course. And I would never question the methods of the blackguard order. But your presence here gives me pause. I assure you, while Ebonheart has its share of problems—as any city does—we are working diligently to address them.”
“Some would disagree with that assessment,” Corvus said.
“Ah, you speak of the malcontents?” The magistrate sighed, and for a moment, he looked genuinely weary. “Every city has its share of those who resist progress, who cling to old ways simply because they are familiar. Change is never easy.”
“And yet,” Corvus interjected carefully, “there seems to be an unusual level of... devotion amongst your supporters.”
“Is it so unusual for people to support policies that improve their lives? When citizens see their children fed, their streets safe, and everyone treated with equal consideration regardless of their situation—is it strange that they would embrace such changes? I simply provide structure, order, and opportunity for all. Rich or poor, noble or common, everyone benefits equally under my guidance. The people’s response is their own choice.”
His words were perfect, his reasoning flawless. Yet something still felt wrong, like a perfectly tuned instrument playing slightly off-key. I glanced at Corvus, whose crow remained unnaturally still and silent on his shoulder, as if frozen in place by the magistrate’s presence.
“You speak of equality,” Corvus argued. “Yet we’ve heard some disturbing rumors…”
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“Ah, rumors.” The magistrate’s laugh was rich and genuine. “My friends, surely you understand how quickly common gossip can spiral into wild speculation? Yes, there have been changes in Ebonheart—all for the better, I assure you. We’ve improved tax collection, reduced crime, and established new trade agreements that have brought prosperity to our merchants.
“When I first took office, Ebonheart was drowning in corruption. The previous administration had allowed criminals to run rampant, taxes were being embezzled, and the common people suffered. Yes, my methods may seem strict to some, but everything I do is for the greater good of this city.”
His reasoning was delivered with such conviction that I almost wanted to believe him. Even the dark power within me, usually so alert and so sensitive to deception, yielded. My thoughts suddenly drifted to Evangeline. “What about your treatment of the city’s bards?”
A hint of amusement crossed the magistrate’s features for a moment. “The bards? Now that’s peculiar. Tell me, what specific concerns have reached your ears?”
“We’ve heard of strange rituals,” I said bluntly. “Of bards being forced to perform in secret chambers, of people disappearing without a trace.”
He simply chuckled. “My friends, I fear you’ve been misled by common gossip and superstition. Yes, I maintain a regular court where the city’s finest musicians perform. It’s a tradition that dates back to Ebonheart’s founding. And yes, I have a private music chamber with excellent acoustics where I sometimes enjoy personal performances. But rituals? Disappearances?” He shook his head. “Pure fantasy.”
“Then you wouldn’t object to showing us this chamber?” I challenged.
“Not at all,” he replied without hesitation. “In fact, I’ll do even better. I will give you a complete tour of this entire estate, including the lower chamber. Perhaps my full transparency will ease your mind and put these ridiculous rumors to rest.”
I glanced warily at Corvus, who remained impassive. I could sense the wheels turning in his head. This baffling mystery had become even more complex.
“That…would be acceptable,” I said, my voice full of doubt.
“Very well.” He rose from his chair with fluid grace and gestured to the door. “Shall we begin?”
The tour was comprehensive, almost exhaustingly so. The magistrate led us through countless rooms, each more opulent than the last. He showed us the grand ballroom with its soaring ceiling and crystal chandeliers, the extensive library filled with rare volumes, the conservatory where exotic plants bloomed in eternal summer, and the gallery lined with priceless artworks.
Throughout it all, he maintained an engaging commentary, sharing historical details and architectural facts with the enthusiasm of a proud collector. His knowledge seemed boundless, and his passion for the estate’s history appeared genuine.
As we toured the mansion, I carefully noted every detail. The placement of furniture, the thickness of walls, the pattern of windows—everything that might later prove significant. Beside me, Corvus occasionally reached out to touch various surfaces, his sensitive fingers reading the textures and materials in ways his blindfolded eyes couldn’t. I still led him along, however, since it seemed that his abilities were still severely hindered.
The magistrate seemed to notice Corvus’s tactile exploration and thoughtfully paused whenever we entered a new space, allowing Corvus to orient himself. “The woodwork here is quite exceptional,” he commented as Corvus ran his fingers along an ornately carved doorframe. “Imported rosewood, carved by master craftsmen from the eastern provinces. Each panel tells a different story from Ebonheart’s history.”
After what felt like hours, we had inspected every room, closet, and corridor on the upper levels. Everything was exactly as the magistrate had described—organized, well-maintained, and completely normal.
Finally, we descended a broad staircase to the lower levels. The magistrate led us down a well-lit corridor with polished stone walls.
“And here,” the magistrate said, stopping before a set of double doors, “is the acoustics chamber.”
I tensed slightly, remembering Evangeline’s description of the strange symbols and unsettling atmosphere. But as we entered the chamber where she said the performances were held, I found myself confused.
The room was large and circular, but otherwise ordinary. Polished wooden floors gleamed in the light from elegant wall sconces. Clean stone walls curved up to a domed ceiling, supported by elegant columns. The acoustics were indeed impressive—our footsteps created subtle echoes that seemed to dance around the chamber—but I saw no signs of the mysterious symbols Evangeline had described.
“This is where we hold our musical performances,” the magistrate explained, his voice carrying perfectly in the space. “The architecture creates natural amplification, allowing even the softest notes to reach every corner of the room. Can you believe that the previous magistrate used this for storage? Such a waste of a magnificent space.”
I walked the perimeter of the room, studying every detail. The walls were bare stone, the floor unmarked. Even the sconces holding the light crystals seemed perfectly normal. I reached out with my trained senses, searching for any trace of dark magic or hidden power, but found nothing unusual.
Corvus tilted his head, likely trying to use his heightened senses to analyze the room. But he shook his head frustratingly. Next, he slowly moved through the space, his fingers trailing along the walls as guidance. His crow shifted uneasily on his shoulder, but remained silent.
“As you can see,” the magistrate continued, “it’s all quite ordinary. Though I understand how rumors can transform the mundane into something more sinister.” He shook his head in pity. “People do love their mysteries, don’t they?”
I ignored his comment while I remained focused on investigating the room. Maybe there’s another performance space here. I mused, scanning the walls for any sign of hidden doors or magical remnants.
Corvus finished feeling his way through the room and sighed. “It is useless, brother. Perhaps you may be able to sense any magical resonance,” he muttered to me.
I shook my head, knowing I was not yet nearly as skilled as Corvus to detect certain complex forms of magic. “I feel nothing.”
The magistrate’s brow furrowed. “Gentlemen, this is simply a room for music and celebration. Though I suppose its beauty might seem magical to some.”
I could not reconcile this simple room with Evangeline’s description of strange symbols and resonating energies. Either she had been mistaken, or... “Is this the only chamber in the lower levels?” I asked.
“The only one used for performances, yes,” the magistrate replied. “Though we do have storage rooms and wine cellars further along. Would you like to see those as well?”
His offer was so open, his manner so transparently helpful, that I found myself doubting my earlier suspicions. Everything he’d shown us had been perfectly normal, his explanations reasonable and consistent.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “I’d like to see everything.”
“Of course!” The magistrate’s enthusiasm never wavered.
He led us through a series of corridors, each well-lit and immaculately maintained. The wine cellar was exactly what one would expect—rows of carefully labeled bottles in climate-controlled racks. The storage rooms held furniture, seasonal decorations, and various supplies needed to maintain such a large estate. Everything was meticulously organized and completely ordinary.
Throughout our inspection, the magistrate maintained a running commentary about the history of various items, the organization system he’d implemented, and his plans for future improvements. His knowledge was comprehensive, and his willingness to show us every detail seemed to contradict the image of a man with something to hide.
“And here,” he said, opening yet another door, “is where we store our musical instruments when they’re not in use. We have quite a collection—some quite rare and valuable.”
The room contained rows of carefully maintained instruments: ornate harps, delicate flutes, drums of various sizes, and several stringed instruments I didn’t recognize. Each was stored in a custom-made case or stand, protected from dust and damage.
“Why provide instruments?” I asked, gesturing to the impressive collection. “Surely the bards have their own?”
The magistrate grinned. “Ah, an excellent question! You see, many of these instruments are quite rare, with unique tonal qualities that complement our chamber’s acoustics perfectly. While our performers are certainly welcome to use their own instruments, we find that these specially selected pieces create a more... harmonious experience.”
He lifted a beautifully crafted lute from its stand. “For instance, this piece was crafted by master artisans in the elven lands. The wood was specially treated to resonate at particular frequencies. When played in this chamber, it creates the most extraordinary harmonies.” He strummed a single chord that seemed to float in the air, pure and perfect.
“And the bards don’t find this... controlling?” I pressed.
“Controlling?” He laughed. “On the contrary, they’re quite excited to have access to such fine instruments. Many couldn’t afford pieces of this quality on their own. Think of it as... providing the best tools for their art.”
His explanation was perfectly reasonable, yet something still nagged at me. I glanced at Corvus, who remained silent but tense.
“I neglected to mention that the humidity in this room is also carefully controlled to protect the more delicate instruments,” the magistrate explained. “We even have a master craftsman who comes quarterly to ensure everything remains in perfect condition.”
I took a moment to examine every corner of the storage rooms, looking for hidden panels, false walls, or any sign of the mysterious elements we’d heard about. Corvus tried to do the same, his hands running along the walls and floor. But we found nothing out of place. We returned to the performance chamber, and I did one last sweep of the room, but again, came up empty-handed.
“What is it in particular you are looking for, gentlemen? Perhaps I can be of assistance?” the magistrate obliged.
I felt foolish now, standing in this perfectly normal chamber. How could I explain what we were looking for without sounding ridiculous? Ritual chambers? Mysterious runes? Dark ceremonies? In the face of such ordinary reality, all our suspicions seemed absurd.
“There is one thing,” I said, remembering the disturbing scene we’d witnessed. “We saw a bard attempt to leave the city. They... disintegrated upon crossing the gates. How do you explain that?”
For a moment, something dark flickered behind the magistrate’s violet eyes, but it vanished so quickly I might have imagined it. His expression shifted to one of genuine sorrow.
“Ah, yes. A tragic incident.” He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “It pains me to discuss it. You see, several months ago, we discovered that certain criminal elements were using traveling performers to smuggle dangerous magical items in and out of the city. Some of these items were causing serious harm to our citizens.”
“What kind of items?” Corvus asked.
“Cursed artifacts, mainly. Soul-trapping crystals, blood magic talismans, enchanted weapons that drove their wielders mad.” He shook his head solemnly. “The previous leadership had allowed these criminal networks to operate unchecked, using the constant flow of traveling performers as cover.
“I was faced with an impossible choice. The safety of our citizens had to come first. So we implemented magical barriers at the city gates—carefully calibrated to detect and stop these dangerous items from entering and leaving the city gates. Every performer in Ebonheart was thoroughly briefed about these measures. We explained the dangers, showed them evidence of the harm these smuggled items had caused. Most understood and cooperated fully.
“Unfortunately, some of these items had already bonded with their carriers. When they attempted to cross the barrier...” He sighed. “The results were... unfortunate. Despite our repeated warnings, despite our offers to help any performer who wished to leave do so safely through proper channels... some still tried to cross the barriers. Each death weighs heavily on my conscience.”
“It seems none of the bards have been able to leave the city,” I said. “Surely, not all of them possess these… ‘cursed artifacts,’ do they?”
The magistrate’s expression softened with understanding. “The truth is both simpler and more complex than it appears. You see, after we discovered the extent of the smuggling network, we realized that many performers had been unknowingly exposed to these cursed items. Some artifacts leave magical traces that can linger for months, even years, making it impossible to determine who might be ‘carrying’ residual magic without extensive testing.
“Rather than risk more tragic accidents, we implemented a careful screening process. Any performer who wishes to leave must undergo a thorough magical cleansing ritual—a process that takes several weeks to ensure all traces of dangerous magic are removed. We provide comfortable accommodations during this time.
“However… Many performers are... impatient. They don’t understand why such precautions are necessary, or they fear the cleansing process might affect their musical abilities. Some even refuse to believe they could be carrying magical traces. Despite our best efforts to explain the dangers, despite offering every possible assistance...” He shook his head solemnly.
His explanation seemed strangely logical. I thought of Evangeline, trapped within the city walls. Is she unknowingly carrying traces of dangerous magic, too? The dark power within me stirred restlessly, wanting to protect her, but even it seemed confused by the magistrate’s words.
“So, you see,” he continued. “These barriers are necessary—calibrated to detect even the faintest trace of these dangerous magics. Yes, they prevent performers from leaving without proper clearance, but they also protect both the performers themselves and the cities they might travel to. These barriers have stopped dozens of attempted smuggling operations, saved countless lives. But they cannot distinguish between a smuggler and an innocent performer who simply forgot or ignored the warnings. The magic must treat all attempts to cross equally, or it wouldn’t be effective.”
All of it sounded too conveniently logical. From the careful screening process, to the magical barriers, to the need for thorough cleansing—it all fit together like a perfectly crafted puzzle. Yet something still felt wrong, a piece of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. I glanced over at Corvus and wondered if he felt the same unease beneath the magistrate’s flawless reasoning.
“And what of the bards’ fear and reluctance of performing here?” I pressed. “We’ve witnessed their terror firsthand.”
The magistrate’s expression grew thoughtful. “I’m afraid rumors and superstition have played a rather cruel role there. After the barrier incidents, stories began circulating—completely false, I assure you—about dark rituals and magical corruption. Some of our more... imaginative citizens even claimed to see symbols appearing on walls or hear strange harmonies in the night.
“The truth is far more mundane. We maintain high standards for our performances, yes. The monthly court gatherings are important civic functions, attended by influential citizens from across the region. Naturally, this creates pressure on the performers to excel. Combined with the tragic barrier incidents and the resulting rumors...” He shrugged elegantly. “Well, fear has a way of feeding upon itself, doesn’t it?”
“These rumors sound too real—and too frequent—to ignore,” I said.
The magistrate gave a genuine, hollow laugh. “My friends, if I concerned myself with every wild tale that circulated through Ebonheart’s taverns, I’d never get any actual work done.” He shook his head in amused disbelief. “I’ve heard them all. Last month, someone swore they saw me sprouting wings and flying over the city at midnight. The month before that, I was apparently conducting blood sacrifices in the garden fountain. People do love their dramatic stories, don’t they?”
I shifted uncomfortably, aware of how foolish our investigation must seem in the face of such mundane reality. “Apologies, Lord Magistrate, but we had to be thorough in our investigation.”
“Of course, of course!” he said warmly. “And I appreciate your diligence. It’s refreshing to meet officials who take their duties so seriously. But I assure you, the only rituals performed here involve proper filing of civic documents and ensuring the tax collectors balance their books.” He chuckled at his own joke. “And the monthly gatherings, as I mentioned before, are simple social affairs, nothing more. A chance for Ebonheart’s notable citizens to come together, enjoy some music, discuss business and politics. Hardly the stuff of dark legends.” He shrugged. “Though I suppose such ordinary explanations make for less exciting tavern tales.”
I thought of Evangeline’s fear, of the strange symbols she’d described, of the unnatural silence in the mansion’s halls. But looking around at the perfectly normal rooms, the logical explanations, the magistrate’s open cooperation... doubt crept in. Had we been chasing shadows?
“Now then,” the magistrate continued, clapping his hands together. “I hope this tour has helped ease any concerns you might have had. While I understand the need for thorough investigation, I assure you that Ebonheart’s governance is quite transparent.”
“I think we’ve seen enough,” I said finally, though something still nagged at the back of my mind. “But the theft of the aurorium’s sacred artifact is still our primary concern. However, we cannot ignore potential connections to larger disturbances.”
“Indeed, the theft of sacred artifacts is a serious matter. If you’ll allow me, I’d be more than happy to put the city’s resources at your disposal. My guards can assist in the search, and I can have notices distributed throughout the city. I will also instruct my people to be on high alert for any suspicious activities related to religious artifacts. If any information comes my way, I’d be more than happy to share it with you.”
His eagerness to help seemed genuine, and I struggled to reconcile this helpful, charismatic figure with the sinister presence Evangeline had described. Even my trained instincts detected no immediate signs of deception.
“That’s... very generous of you,” I said carefully.
“Not at all. It’s in everyone’s best interest to maintain good relations between Ebonheart and the various religious orders.” He gestured towards the stairs leading up. “The sooner we resolve this matter, the sooner you gentlemen can be on your way and return to more important duties.”
As we climbed the stairs back to the main level, I found myself increasingly confused. The magistrate had been nothing but helpful and transparent. His explanations made perfect sense, and we’d found no evidence of wrongdoing. Yet something continued to feel off. Like a perfectly played song with one note slightly out of tune.
“We appreciate your help,” I said politely.
“Of course, of course.” The magistrate smiled warmly. “Please don’t hesitate to call upon me if you need anything else. My doors are always open to representatives of such an esteemed order.”
As we left the mansion, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d missed something crucial. The magistrate’s explanations had been perfect—too perfect, perhaps. Like a masterfully crafted illusion that showed exactly what we expected to see. But if this was an illusion, where was the truth hiding? And more importantly, why did Evangeline’s account differ so dramatically from what we’d seen?
These questions tumbled through my mind as we descended the mansion’s front steps. Behind us, the massive doors closed without a sound, and I could have sworn I felt those violet eyes watching our every move until we passed through the iron gates.
As we walked down the boulevard, neither of us spoke for several minutes. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones, and a chill wind carried the first hints of evening.
Finally, Corvus broke the silence. “My abilities… I feel them coming back again.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Really? You mean you can see through your crow’s eyes again?”
“Yes. It is strange. Only while we were in the mansion did I feel my abilities suppressed.”
“Something is definitely wrong. I just can’t put my finger on what it is.”
“Did you also notice?” Corvus asked quietly. “Throughout our entire visit, my crow never made a sound. Not one caw. Not even when the magistrate commented on its feathers.”
I frowned, remembering how still the bird had remained. “Animals can sense things we can’t. Could that be why you lost your abilities?”
“Maybe… All I know is, throughout our visit, I couldn’t... feel her.”
“Feel her?”
“My crow. Normally, I can sense her emotions, her reactions, and I can see from her eyes. But in that mansion...” Corvus reached up to stroke the bird’s feathers, and I noticed his hand trembling slightly. “It was like something was blocking our connection. Like a wall had been erected between us. I was… truly blind and helpless in there. It was a terrifying feeling.”
That revelation sent a chill down my spine. I knew how deep the bond was between Corvus and his crows, particularly his favorite. For something to interfere with that connection...
“And there’s something else.” Corvus tilted his head slightly. “The entire time we were in that mansion, I heard no heartbeats. Not from the guards, not from the magistrate... Only yours.”