Inquisitor Twistfinger was becoming increasingly certain that there was something odd happening at Arbitage.

He ran his thumb over the smooth surface of a large, bone bead in his rosary. The evidence had been building up day by day. Missing Inquisitors. Traces of demonic energy. Reports of demon sightings — though the latter was always a dubious way to determine much of anything.

Every fool farmer with a quill convinced themselves that some large, half-blind rodent with an odd patch in its fur was a demon when it made off with their worthless crops. Reports were almost always made by yammering fools.

Almost always.

Twistfinger hooked his finger around the bead and pushed it down the thread. Anger welled in his stomach. There was evidence — but just not quite enough to justify an Inquisition. If this had happened years ago, one would have already happened. It it would have happened when several Inquisitors went missing near the Linwick Estate. It should have happened again when another Inquisitor on leave had gone missing while investigating Arbitage itself.

But it had not.

The Inquisition had gotten complacent, but there was more than that. Information had gotten delayed. Lost. The details of the missing Inquisitors had been purged. Twistfinger had only even realized they were missing because of his personal reviews of records. Nobody had properly reported their deaths.

Someone was interfering.

They were interfering to such a degree that when Twistfinger had brought his findings to the other Head Inquisitors, they had quietly smothered his findings. Some promised to look into things, then did nothing. Others just told him he was a paranoid fool. They said he saw shadows where there was only light.

Twistfinger’s jaw clenched. Old wounds in his neck throbbed, but he ignored them. Anger was a tool. Emotions were a tool. He was not controlled by his desires. They obeyed his will.

The anger evaporated, crushed under the weight of his willpower. The rest of the Inquisition had been taken out of the battle. He did not know how it had been done. There were no obvious signs of mind control — not to mention how impossible it would have been to control the other heads of the Inquisition.

Every Head was a Rank 6. They, just like he, had trained their entire lives to purge the threat of demonic influence from this realm. There was no way they all would have fallen to mind control. There was no mage powerful enough to pull that off.

No, this was something else. Perhaps there was an inside agent undermining Twistfinger’s efforts. A Head that had allied with the demons — or perhaps they had simply gotten lazy. There hadn’t been a major demonic incursion in years. Complacency bred weakness.

But whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Twistfinger had not become an Inquisitor to beg others for help. He had become an Inquisitor to act.

And that was what he had done.

Paved cobblestone rang beneath Twistfinger’s Imbued boots as he strode across the street, a black cloak wrapped around his body and the hood pulled low over his head to hide the protective Imbuements that he had tattooed into his skin.

He’d considered bringing some of the younger Inquisitors along with him. Reinforcements would have been useful — but he couldn’t bear with the thought of leading them to their deaths.

Any threat powerful enough to effectively decapitate the rest of the Inquisition was far too great for a Rank 4 or 5. He had to deal with this himself.

It was not a mission Twistfinger expected to return from.

That thought hung around his neck like a noose, tightening with every step he took. He couldn’t bear to think of the names of the other Heads. Not anymore. That would bring emotion, and emotion was weakness when it came to fighting demons.

Today, his friends were nothing more than the Heads. And the Heads had been strong. They had been righteous. They would have never faltered from such a threat, but somehow, they had all been removed from the playing board.

And if they had been removed, then he would be too. It was only a matter of time. He doubted he would be able to defeat what they could not. Not if he met the threat on its terms — and thus, he met it on his.

Death may wait for me today, but I will not die without purpose.

Twistfinger’s death would not be so simple to conceal. He had left letters detailing every scrap of what he set out to do today.

A hundred of them, to be specific. Twistfinger had written until his fingers bled. Some had already been delivered. Others had orders to be delivered, while some were hidden among his belongings.

There would be record of what he did today. And there were more branches of Inquisitors. He had sent letters to them, too. He would have liked to seek them out directly, but the others were far more… discreet than the main branch.

If Twistfinger’s analysis of the situation was correct, then there was no way to contact them in time. He’d been forced to settle for more letters.

Of course, he had no plans to fall. It was a very strong possibility — one that he had accounted for — but he had taken equal steps to ensure that he would survive. The rosary in his hand held more power than almost any other in the Inquisition. His clothes were woven with demonic bone fragments and treated with their blood before being imbued by some of the strongest mages the Inquisition had.

He was ready for a war — and there was no doubt in Twistfinger’s mind that a war was what this would be. The only question was whether it started with his death or if his preperations were sufficient to find the evidence he truly needed to force the rest of the Inquisition into motion.

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The sound of Twistfinger’s echoing footfalls stopped. He had arrived at his destination. The only hint he had managed to scour from all the evidence he had studied. The Head Inqusitior lifted his gaze from the cobbled ground.

A mansion rose before him. A tall ring of multicolored, thorny shrubbery rose up before it, walling off a large garden. White brick made up a pathway through the garden, leading up to the imposing wooden door. The door already stood open, allowing access into a red-carpeted hall.

So this is it. What sort of man is so arrogant that he names himself Father?

It mattered not. It seemed that Father was ready for him.

Twistfinger strode into the hall, throwing his hood back. There was no point disguising himself any longer. If Father knew he was coming, then it was just pointless theatrics. The Inquisitor strode down the plush red carpet and arrived at a large stairwell leading down into the depths of the mansion.

Far above, he could just barely make out the sound of distant music. A Formation.

He did not have to pause to steady himself. An Inquisitor was always prepared. He had no fear. He had no weakness. There was only what must be done.

Twistfinger descended the stairwell, following the winding stairs in circles as they brought him deeper into the depths of the mansion. The sounds of the Formation had faded into the distance by the time he arrived at a long, thin hallway.

Doors lined the left side of the hall, leading up to a massive vault entrance flanked by two lanterns of flickering purple flame. The vault door was covered with so many Imbuements that Twistfinger could feel them from a dozen feet away — and, because of them, he could feel nothing else. There was too much information to filter through.

He approached the door, focusing his senses and preparing his domain for an ambush. The doorway ground open before he was even before it, allowing entry into a plain office. An elderly man sat at a wooden desk within it, his fingers interlaced and expression unreadable.

Twistfinger’s mind exploded forward to scan the surroundings.

There was nothing. The only person he could feel within the room was Father.

Does he not know why I am here? Is he so arrogant that he believes I do not pose a threat? Or is he so powerful that he knows I do not?

The final option seemed… doubtful. Twistfinger’s magic took father in. His domain assessed his opponent, and it found him lacking.

Father was not a weak mage. His Runes had quite a bit of pressure, but he was nowhere near powerful enough to overwhelm the other Heads of the Inquisition. Even if Father were a mind mage, he would not have been able to control them so effectively.

“Come in,” Father said, his eyes as empty and black as a starless night.

Twistfinger walked in. He was not a brute. His suspicions were strong, but he did not have enough evidence to start murdering members of Noble families. And Father, early Rank 6 as he may have been, was not powerful enough to force him to become a monster.

The door ground shut behind the Inquisitor. It was a pointless show of power, and Twistfinger did not acknowledge it.

Father nodded to a plain wooden chair across the desk. “Will you sit?”

“No,” Twistfinger said. His voice was raspy and damaged. It had been ever since a demon had nearly ripped his throat out when he was fourteen and overconfident in his abilities. He could have had it fixed by a powerful healer, but it worked just fine the way it was. As a reminder.

“I thought as much,” Father said. He took a glass of wine from the desk beside him and poured himself a glass. “I trust you won’t take a drink either.”

“I will not. You know why I am here.”

“I do.” Father raised the glass to his lips and took a sip from it. He let out a satisfied sigh, but his eyes didn’t so much as flicker. They remained flat and dead. He hadn’t taken so much as a scrap of pleasure from the action. It was just for show.

“Then speak. Do you cavort with demons?”

Twistfinger ran a finger over the bone rosary, sending power into it. Energy burned within the beads, seeking demons to resonate with.

Father didn’t so much as flinch.

“That is an interesting question. If you had asked it some time ago, I would have said yes. I would have been wrong, but you would have believed me. Today, my answer is no, but you will not believe me.”

“Illogical,” Twistfinger said. He did not let his expression change, but every one of his senses dialed to the max. Father had just admitted to working with demons. He gathered every scrap of potential emotion and crushed them, shoving them far back into his mind and locking them away. “I do not understand, but did you just confirm you have worked or attempted to work with demons?”

“Something is not illogical simply because you do not understand it,” Father said. He rose from his chair, then gently took the glass of wine and set it on a shelf beside himself. “But I do not expect someone with a world scope as narrow as yours to understand that.”

He wasn’t reacting to the beads at all. Twistfinger poured even more energy into the artifact, but Father remained unbothered. That should have been impossible. Even if Father had only summoned a demon, the residual energy should have reacted with the rosary’s magic.

“Do you think this is a game?” Twistfinger rasped. “Do you know what is at stake?”

“Oh, yes. More than you ever could. But I believe words are wasted when it is just the two of us, Inquisitor. I have an appointment to be at very soon, so I have only cut you out a small block of my time.”

“You do not dictate the time we have, Linwick. You do not seem to be influenced by any demonic sources, but I will be thoroughly examining your estate. Cooperate or die.”

“Children.” Father blew out a disappointed breath. The sentiment still failed to reach his eyes. “So pushy. So insistent. But I suppose this makes things simple for me. I should thank you. You did deliver yourself to me, after all. That makes this much easier.”

“You speak arrogantly. I sense your power, and though we may both be Rank 6, your runes are far weaker than mine. Have you forgotten the immense difference that even a single Rank 6 rune can generate?”

Father tilted his head to the side. Then a chuckle started deep in his chest. It intensified until his entire body was shaking, and to Twistfinger’s unease, for the first time, he saw an emotion in the other man’s eyes.

Amusement.

“It’s a shame you came now. You might have been an interesting piece to play. Unfortunately for both of us, the game has progressed past the point in which you would be useful.” Father walked back to his desk and lowered himself into his chair. The emotions evaporated from his features.

“If you will not speak, then I will force you to,” Twistfinger said. He clasped his hands together and his blood responded from within him. It was purified with silver and completely toxic to demons — and humans.

Cuts opened up across his palms and blood welled up from the cuts, twisting into the air and forming into two massive scythes that floated at Twistfinger’s sides. They hummed with magic, imbued with enough power to cut through even another Rank 6 mage’s domain.

“You will tell me of what has happened to the Inquisition. I will not allow you to escape.”

“Escape?” Father frowned. “I’m not leaving this room, Inquisitor. Not yet. Now, are you certain you don’t want a drink? It’s customary to offer.”

Twistfinger didn’t let Father’s taunts burrow under his skin. He needed answers — but the other mage could answer without an arm.

His domain exploded out around him and he burst into motion, the scythes at his sides flying along with him as they flew toward Father.

Father’s eyes flicked up. And, for the first time, he locked gazes with Twistfinger.

There was a sound like a thousand breaths slipping from punctured lungs.

Twistfinger crumpled.