“Blood craft, you said?” Allis leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled as she considered Markus’s report. The concept unsettled her. Blood-based magic crafting wasn’t something the Inquisition had encountered often—if ever. “And the Outworlder—elvish, but not quite? You mentioned his movements were... beastial?”

“Aye, Marshall Allis.” Markus nodded, his tone stiff but tinged with frustration. “I almost had the upper hand, but Lisan Emberton blindsided me while I was focused on his onslaught.”

Typical. Allis resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. Instead, she rose to her feet, fixing Markus with a stern glare. “You are dismissed, Inquisitor. I have more pressing matters to deal with and a mess to clean up thanks to your recklessness. Headquarters in Norran will not be pleased.”

Markus offered a quick bow and retreated from her office. As the heavy doors closed behind him, Allis let out a long breath. The boy was eager—too eager. That kind of enthusiasm had claimed the lives of countless Inquisitors before him.

She turned to the window, gazing out over the bustling courtyard of the Inquisitorium. From her vantage point, she could see the ebb and flow of activity below. Crimson and gray uniforms blended into the orderly rhythm of the institution.

Her thoughts turned inward.

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It had been more than twenty years, but the memories still burned vividly in her mind.

Allis had been just a girl, no more than eleven, living on a modest farm with her parents and two older siblings. Her father, a broad-shouldered man with a booming laugh, worked tirelessly to provide for the family. Her mother, gentle and quick-witted, kept the house running while her siblings helped in the fields. Allis, the youngest, had fewer responsibilities and often slipped away to play with the animals. That night had been no different.

She’d been out in the barn, giggling as she tried to coax a stubborn goat into a game of chase. The warm glow of the farmhouse lights spilled into the yard, and she could hear her parents’ voices drifting through the night air.

The stranger had arrived just as the sun dipped below the horizon. He looked ordinary enough: a man with short brown hair, unremarkable features, and a traveler's cloak dusted with dirt. He had approached the farmhouse with a wide smile, his demeanor friendly and disarming.

“Evening, folks,” he’d said, his voice smooth and unassuming. “Could a weary traveler trouble you for a meal and a bit of shelter for the night?”

Her father, ever hospitable, had welcomed him in without hesitation. Allis had watched from the barn as the man was ushered inside, her mother setting out a plate of stew. The stranger had laughed and thanked them profusely, chatting amiably as though he were an old friend.

But something about him had unsettled Allis. There was a flicker in his eyes—something manic that his warm smile couldn’t quite mask.

Later that night, as Allis lingered in the barn, the screams began.

She ran to the farmhouse, her small legs pumping furiously. What she saw froze her in place.

Flames engulfed the home, licking hungrily at the walls and roof. Through the roaring fire, she saw the stranger standing in the yard, his face contorted in a comical, psychotic grin. He was laughing—a high, gleeful sound that sent chills down her spine.

“Burn, burn, burn!” he sang, spreading his arms wide as if conducting an orchestra. “Oh, this pathetic world will kneel before me! The great and mighty hero of realms!”

Allis’s heart pounded as she saw her father stumble out of the doorway, his body wreathed in flames. He collapsed to the ground, unmoving. Her mother’s screams pierced the night, but they were quickly silenced.

The stranger turned, his eyes locking onto Allis. For a moment, she thought he might come for her, but then he simply laughed again and disappeared into the night, his maniacal ramblings echoing behind him.

Allis fell to her knees, her tears carving tracks through the soot on her face. She could do nothing but watch as her entire world burned to ash.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

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Allis snapped back to the present, her jaw tight. She crossed to a drawer in her desk and pulled out a worn piece of parchment. On it was a crude sketch of the man from her nightmares. His features were ordinary, but his expression—wild eyes and a twisted grin—was unmistakable.

She traced the lines of his face with her finger, her lips pressing into a hard line.

“I’ll find you,” she muttered under her breath. “No matter how long it takes.” Allis in her heart didn’t know if she was talking about the current Outworlder of the man they had taken in.

Carefully folding the drawing, she tucked it back into the drawer. The past could wait. For now, she had work to do.

Grabbing her rapier, Allis stretched, the blade’s weight a comforting reminder of her role. Paperwork was the drudgery she endured, but the thrill of the hunt—the chance to bring justice to the wicked—made it all worthwhile.

Her next task was clear: she needed to deal with Hans. The bastard would have answers, or at least a lead to set things right.

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The air in the Brightwood Guildhall was thick with the scent of roasted meat, spilled ale, and the chatter of adventurers. Brightwood was a modest town, but the guildhall stood as a bustling hub of activity, its interior decorated with trophies from past expeditions: a chimera’s claw, a wyvern’s skull, and banners from distant lands.

Allis pushed open the heavy wooden doors, her boots clicking against the floorboards as her eyes scanned the room. The guildhall was lively, with adventurers of all shapes and sizes laughing, arguing, and trading tales of their exploits. Her gaze settled on the gruff man seated at the bar, his broad shoulders hunched as he nursed a tankard of mead.

Hans.

The Guildmaster of Brightwood was a middle-aged man with a thick beard streaked with gray and a rugged face that spoke of years spent in the field. He carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who knew he had influence, even when faced with the Inquisition.

Allis approached, her presence commanding enough to quiet nearby conversations.

“What have I done to you, Hans?” she said, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

Hans turned his head lazily, a grin spreading across his face as he spotted her. “Well, if it isn’t Marshall Allis. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t play coy. You know damn well why I’m here. Why is Lisan Emberton, a guild member, aiding a dangerous Outworlder?”

Hans leaned back, taking another slow sip of his mead before responding. “I don’t make it my business to poke into people’s affairs unless they’re causing trouble. Until you show me proof that someone’s a threat, I’m not about to hand them over to your Inquisition. We all know what happens to most of these poor saps—they get imprisoned, killed, or just… disappear.”

Allis’s jaw tightened, her gloved hands curling into fists at her sides. “That’s not your decision to make.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Hans raised an eyebrow, his grin fading into something more serious. “What authority do you think you have over me or my guild, Marshall? Your Inquisition operates by fear and force. My guild operates by trust. That’s the difference.”

Allis exhaled sharply, turning to lean against the bar. “Hans, we don’t always see eye to eye, but you know as well as I do that some Outworlders are dangerous. This one—he’s using a strange new kind of magic. Blood magic. Something we haven’t seen before.”

Hans’s eyebrows lifted slightly, the faintest flicker of interest crossing his face. “Blood magic, you say?” He paused, swirling the remnants of his mead before finishing it off. “Listen, I’ve known Lisan for six months. She’s a damn good adventurer, and I’d bet my reputation she wouldn’t throw in with someone dangerous. If she’s with this Outworlder, there’s more to the story.”

Before Allis could respond, the doors to the guildhall slammed open, and two young adventurers rushed inside, their faces pale and frantic.

“Guildmaster Hans!” one of them shouted, their voice tinged with panic. “Lisan’s party… they were all found dead.”

The hall went silent. Conversations ceased, mugs were set down, and all eyes turned to the Guildmaster. Hans’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the news.

“Is that so?” His voice was low and dangerous. Slowly, he turned to face Allis, whose lips curled into a curt smile.

“Now do you see?” Allis said, her tone sharp but not gloating. “This Outworlder isn’t just a harmless wanderer. There’s a strong likelihood Lisan is being manipulated—or controlled. If you tell me where she’s headed, I’ll do everything in my power to free her from his influence.”

Hans studied her, his eyes narrowing as he weighed her words. For a long moment, he said nothing, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a blade. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh.

“Alright,” he said, his voice grudging. “If Lisan were to register this Outworlder anywhere, it’d be at Ports Free. By foot, it’ll take them at least a month to get there.”

Allis nodded, a small surge of satisfaction coursing through her. “Good. Then I’ll handle this personally.”

Hans watched her for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. “Don’t think this makes us allies, Allis. Just remember—some Outworlders have done more for this world than your Inquisition ever has. Don’t let your vendetta blind you.”

She met his gaze, her own eyes cold and unyielding. “And you don’t let your idealism get you killed.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and strode toward the door. The hunt was on, and this time, she wasn’t going to stop until the Outworlder was brought to justice—or destroyed.