Vian Vhastok rode into the city at dawn, his blue cloak billowing behind him. It was a brisk morning, heavy with the promise of rain. The cobblestones shone in the frail light, like the backs of slick black beetles. At his side was his mentor, Senior Inquisitor Ulric. The man was a legend twice over, once for his deeds and again for simply surviving long enough for his beard to turn grey.

Witch hunters didn't often collect their pensions.

Vian shivered in the chilly air and pulled his cloak closer. It seemed no matter how much he trained, a lifetime in the Protectorate's halls had done little to inure his constitution to the realities of field work. He cast a sidelong glance at his master, noting the man's placid expression. Ulric could have been back in the archives at the scholam for all the discomfort he showed.

"Eyes front, lad," Ulric rumbled, never breaking his casual scan of the emptying streets. "And stop your fidgeting. You're supposed to be an Inquisitor today, not a nervous schoolboy."

Vian swallowed and nodded tightly. "Yes, master. It won't happen again." He fixed his eyes ahead, determined not to draw another rebuke. It was hard though - the sheer diversity of the city overwhelmed him. He was used to cloistered halls and grim training dojos, not this riot of sound and color and stench. High lords brushed shoulders with ragged beggars, gleaming façades leaned over crumbling tenements, and the thousand smells of cookshop and cordwainer, smiling house and cesspit all clashed in a bewildering melange.

It was almost too much to take in.

But take it in he must, if he hoped to complete his first mission as a junior Inquisitor. Ulric had been light on the details - the man preferred his students to glean their own lessons - but Vian had picked up enough to know his performance here would weigh heavily on his future with the order.

"Master Ulric," he began, trying to pitch his voice to carry over the clip-clop of their horses' hooves on the slick stones. "You still haven't told me what we're looking for. I know you said there were rumors of a heretic, but what kind? [Mancer], [Diabolist], rogue [Priest]...?"

Ulric spared him a glance, one brow cocked. "If I knew that, boy, I wouldn't need you along, would I? All I can say is the reports are...disturbing. Missing persons, unusual thefts, a parcel of minor nobles acting out of character. The Conclave has been receiving scattered reports for months now, but with the troubles on the border drawing away our knights, no one thought to collate them until recently. Now we have concerning pattern, but little hard evidence. That's what we're here for - to poke around and see if the pieces fit."

Vian frowned. It seemed a slender thread to pull, but he knew Ulric wouldn't be here if the whispers weren't substantive. The Conclave did not deploy grey cloaks on wild goose chases.

He surveyed the waking city with new eyes, knowing that somewhere in that labyrinth lurked a dangerous deviant. But what kind? The possibilities spiraled out before him, each worse than the last.

A [Blood Mage] would be a nightmare - their corrupted skills could turn a populace into a shuffling mob of meat puppets inside a week. [Diabolists] could conjure their hellish brands with barely a fingersnap to set man against man for the sheer chaotic glee of it. And the less said about the corpse-raisers and golem-binders the better. Vian shuddered. This was deadly business.

As they rode on, Vian did his best to study the faces around him without being too obvious. Was that scowling teamster nursing a possessive spirit? Did that obsequious clerk hide the telltale twitch of a binding sigil? He was starting to get a crick in his neck from all his surreptitious people-watching.

Gradually, he noticed a subtle change come over the crowds as he and Ulric continued their slow circuit of the city's heart. Where before they had been met with no more than a few curious glances, now their presence seemed to draw a certain...caution.

Conversations dimmed as they approached, faces turned carefully away, gaits quickened to scurry out of their path. It was a palpable wariness, like the waft of a foul stench on a clear breeze.

Vian wet his lips, nerves prickling. He longed to shoot a questioning look at Ulric, but held himself in check. He was supposed to be a full Inquisitor, not a green trainee. He couldn't be seen deferring to his master at every turn.

Still, the unease was infectious. Vian found himself resting his hand on the pommel of his sword, his [Danger Sense] thrumming in the back of his mind. He knew witch-sign when he saw it. Something was definitely off in this quarter of the city.

They passed through a bustling market square, where the normal sounds of shopping and gossip were muted as the citizens noted their passage. Shopkeepers paused in their hawking to stare wordlessly, city watchmen found sudden interest in their belt buckles, and more than one matronly woman made a subtle sign against evil as Ulric's gaze swept over them.

Light above, Vian thought, they look at us like we're the heretics!

As they reached the far side of the market, Vian spotted a small shop nestled between a tailor and a cordwainer. It had the look of an apothecary or herbalist - the window displayed several large glass jars full of colored liquids and unknown powders. A weathered sign above the door read "Barrow’s Simples and Subtle Arts."

Vian frowned. Subtle arts? That sounded suspiciously like hedge mage talk. He was about to point it out to Ulric when a flicker of movement in the shop's doorway caught his eye.

A young man in a plain robe had stepped out, a large wicker basket over one arm. He seemed to be scanning the square, but when his gaze fell on the two blue-cloaked riders, he froze. For a heartbeat, Vian met his eyes - wide and startled above a homely, pockmarked face. Then the young man ducked his head and scurried down a nearby alley, vanishing from view.

"Master, did you see - " Vian started, turning in his saddle. But Ulric rode on, seemingly unperturbed.

"Just a spooked shopkeep, lad," the older man said calmly. "Naught to bother about. The guilty are always twitchy around the Light's gaze."

Vian subsided, but inwardly he couldn't shake the feeling that the herbalist's reaction had been more than simple nerves. There had been something in the set of the man's shoulders, the intensity of his stare... Vian shook himself. He was jumping at shadows, seeing intrigue in the normal caution any sane commoner would show a passing Inquisitor.

They finished their circuit of the city, finally arriving at a nondescript inn near the west gate. The sign above the door depicted a black bird - a raven or a crow, Vian couldn't tell. Ulric swung down from his horse and tossed a coin to the hovering stableboy.

"We'll get settled, then take a wander, boy," he said as Vian dismounted. "Keep your eyes and mind open. Note anything that strikes you as odd - people, places, patterns. We'll compare notes tonight."

Vian nodded obediently as he began unbuckling his saddlebags. He itched to ask about their ultimate quarry, to probe Ulric for anything concrete. But he knew such queries would only earn him a cuff about the ear and an admonition to focus on the task at hand.

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The task at hand. Right. He could do this. He was a trained Inquisitor, a defender of the Light. He would root out this deviance, whatever it was, and see the transgressor cleansed in holy fire. Such was his duty, his calling, his very being.

A flicker of memory rose unbidden - a kind face, wide eyes filled with fear above simple robes. The herbalist from the market. Why couldn't he shake the feeling that the young man was important somehow?

Focus! he castigated himself. Forget the bumpkin shopkeep. You have a mission, a purpose. See it through.

Squaring his shoulders under his blue cloak, Vian strode into the inn after Ulric. The hunt was on, and he would not be found wanting. He was an Inquisitor, and that was all that mattered. Everything else was chaff before the flame.

The innkeep, a thickset man with a balding pate and a stained apron, looked up at their entrance. His eyes widened as he took in the sigils on their cloaks, and he straightened up with a servile bob.

"Your Eminences! Welcome, welcome! How may this humble establishment serve the Light's chosen?"

Ulric stepped forward, his face impassive. "We require lodging for a few nights, perhaps longer. Two rooms, preferably adjoining. We also expect complete discretion. No gossiping to the local rubes, understood?"

Vian didn’t understand why his master had asked for discretion, he was almost certain news of their arrival had spread to the farthest corners of the city.

The innkeep nodded vigorously, hands clasped at his waist. "Of course, of course! Lips sealed like the tomb, that's my motto!" He fumbled a pair of heavy iron keys off the rack behind him and presented them with a flourish. "Rooms four and five, just at the top of the stairs. Shall I have the girl bring up some hot water? Tis a long road from the Conclave..."

"That won't be necessary," Ulric cut him off. He glanced down at the man's stained front. "In fact, the less your staff is involved, the better. We keep our own counsel."

"As you wish, Your Eminence, as you wish!" the keep babbled, bowing them toward the stairs. "Let me know if you need anything - anything at all! We are at your complete disposal!"

Ulric merely grunted and took the keys. Vian followed him up the narrow steps, his boots thudding on the thin runner carpet. At the top of the stairs, Ulric unlocked one of the doors and stepped inside.

The room was plain but serviceable - whitewashed walls, a small bed, a washstand and ewer in the corner. A small casement window looked out over the stableyard. Ulric unslung his own saddlebags and tossed them onto the bed.

"Get settled, then get your head on straight," he said, already unbuckling his sword belt. "Meet me in the common room in an hour. And boy..."

He fixed Vian with a piercing stare, his brows lowered. "Remember why we're here. Keep your wits sharp and your tongue still. We're not in the Conclave anymore."

"Yes, Master Ulric," Vian said, bowing his head. "I won't let you down."

The old Inquisitor held his gaze a moment longer, then snorted. "We'll see. Now get moving. The day wanes."

Vian hurried to his own room, his mind awhirl. An hour - just enough time to get cleaned up, maybe catch a few bites of whatever slop the innkeep had on offer. Then back into the city, to scour the streets and shadows for any hint of their quarry.

He splashed some water from the ewer onto his face and raked his fingers through his sweat-matted blond hair. The face that stared back at him from the dingy mirror was drawn and pale, the eyes shadowed. He looked every inch the driven acolyte, burning with inner fire.

You wanted this, he reminded himself sternly. You fought for this, bled for this. The Light's own hand, a scourge on the wicked. This is the culmination of all your training, all your prayers.

But why, in the secret depths of his heart, did it feel more like a precipice than a pinnacle? Why couldn't he shake the twisting in his gut that whispered of doubt, of dismay?

Vian shook his head angrily. Useless thoughts, unworthy of an Inquisitor. He was steel, he was flame, he was the devouring light. He would not falter.

Slapping a last handful of water onto his neck, Vian straightened his tabard and made for the door. The hunt called, and he would answer. No matter where it led him.

As he made his way downstairs, his mind turned to his [Crusader] training. He still had so much to learn - to earn his rank as a full Inquisitor would take years of study and field work. But his masters always said the path began with the first step. That's what today was. His first step into a larger, darker world.

Ulric was already waiting by the time Vian reached the inn's common room. The low-beamed space was largely empty at this hour, only a few older men nursing drinks in the corner. The Inquisitor stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed, his eyes hooded as they flicked over the room's occupants. He didn't acknowledge Vian's approach, but Vian knew he had noted his presence.

Ulric missed nothing.

"The market square, I think," Ulric said after a moment, his voice low. "We'll start with the places where people gather. See what the word on the street is. Keep your ears open and your mouth shut - I want to hear what these folks say when they don't think the Light is listening."

Vian nodded, trying to project an air of calm readiness. In truth, his heart was hammering. This was it - his first real investigation as an Inquisitor-in-training. Light grant he didn't botch it.

They stepped out into the slowly gathering dusk, Ulric leading the way. Vian followed a half-step behind, his hand never far from his sword hilt. The streets were still busy, laborers and peddlers making their way home as the night's first stars pricked the cobalt sky. A few paper lanterns had been lit, swaying from eaves and signposts to cast pale pools at each corner.

As they entered the square, Vian forced himself to study the scene with an Inquisitor's eye. There - that knot of women by the fountain, heads bent together in whispered conversation. The furtive glance thrown their way, the sudden silence as they passed. And over by the baker's stall, a pair of rough-looking men, their faces shadowed by the brims of their caps.

Was it his imagination, or was there a certain nervous energy to their stance, a certain twitch to their hands?

It wasn't much to go on. But Vian filed each observation away like an apothecary storing herbs, hoping he could gather enough small clues to divine the larger patterns. Surely with Ulric's wisdom and insight, he could begin to piece it together...

"Psst! Master Inquisitor!"

The sibilant whisper, little more than a hiss, snapped Vian's attention to one of the alleyways opening off the square. A skinny arm beckoned from the shadows, barely visible in the gloom. Ulric held up a hand, silently ordering Vian to hang back, then stepped into the alley's mouth. Vian saw him stoop, bringing his ear closer to the unseen speaker. A few hushed words were exchanged, then Ulric straightened and tossed a coin into the dark. As he strode back toward Vian, his face was grim.

"What was that about?" Vian asked, curiosity burning. "Who were you talking to?"

Ulric gave him a sidelong glance as they resumed their walk. "One of my little birds. They're scattered all over the city, in every social stratum. They keep their eyes and ears open, and rush to tell me when anything strange crosses their path. For a price, of course."

"And? What did this one have to say?"

The old Inquisitor was silent for a long moment. Then, "There's been another disappearance. A journeyman blacksmith, well-liked in the neighborhood. Didn't turn up to work this morning. But the strange thing is, his house shows no sign of foul play or struggle. It's like he just...walked out. Leaving everything behind."

Vian felt a chill trace his spine. Another disappearance? That made, what, four in the last month? And all of them skilled tradesmen or minor nobility. Whatever this was, it wasn't chance. There was a pattern here, a dark design.

"What do you think it means, Master?" he asked, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

Ulric's face was stony. "Nothing good, lad. Nothing good. But it confirms the reports - something is very wrong in this city. And we're going to find out what."

He picked up his pace, his blue cloak swirling. Vian hurried to keep up, his mind racing. The herbalist's shop, the disappearances, the miasma of fear and suspicion clinging to the city like a shroud...how did it all fit together? What dark machinations were at work here?

Light give me strength and guidance, he prayed silently. I've a feeling I'm going to need it before this is through.

As the last bloody rays of sunset faded from the rooftops and full dark gathered, Ulric suddenly halted. Vian, lost in his own thoughts, almost stumbled into him.

"Master, what - "

"Hush, boy. Look there."

Ulric pointed up the street, where a cloaked and hooded figure was just turning down a narrow side alley. The figure moved stiffly, furtively, its head swiveling as if scanning for observers. Something about its gait, its bearing, struck Vian as odd...and familiar.

With a sudden flash of insight, he placed it. The herbalist from the market! The young man who had shied away from them like a spooked deer. What was he doing out at this hour, skulking down darkened alleys?

Ulric was already moving, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. "Follow," he hissed over his shoulder. "But carefully. I want to see where he's going."

Vian swallowed hard and obeyed, his heart suddenly in his throat. This was it. The first real lead in their investigation. The Light only knew where it would take them...but he had a feeling they were no longer merely hunting the shadow of a heresy.

No, they were on the trail of the heretic himself. And Light help them both when they ran their quarry to ground.

With a deep breath and a prayer on his lips, Vian slipped after his master, into the dark.