The air inside the castle felt just as cold, if not colder than the wind outside. The white marble walls of the palace seemed like frost-sealed fields, with high-vaulted ceilings rounding out like a winter sky overhead. Polished columns of white stone were veined with pure silver, the surfaces so smooth that they caught the reflections of every elf that passed them by. And two non-elves.

Flynn and Gostor shuffled over the smooth floors, which were sprawling mosaics of marble and blue tiles that traced beautifully traditional elven designs. The armored half-elf adjusted himself within the armor, straightening his posture. He compared the scuffed soles of his boots with the pristine floor.

“You know,” he whispered down to Gostor, “I don’t think we match the local dress code.”

Gostor grunted, his thick eyebrows narrowing as he surveyed the elven guards stationed along the hall. Each one was clad in the same armor as the knights at the gate with exact copies of the emerald capes draping across their shoulders. Every face in the grand hall was stoic, eyes coldly sweeping the room. Disdainful glances flicked toward the pair as they walked past.

Flynn attempted a cheerful wave at one of the knights but was met with a silent stare. Gostor simply snorted and trudged forward, his heavy, muddy boots thudding and squeaking overtop the marble. With every thwuck of his steps, more disapproving elven eyes clung to his position.

The grand hall was expansive, designed more like a town hall than a single room in the palace. Another fountain like the one in the Square dominated the space, only the water flowed upward from its spouts. The streams cascaded and tangled across one another, swirling into the seven-pointed star of Hirondale before spilling into the pool below. Around the edges of the room were desks and podiums, each manned by a different elven clerk in identical silver robes. Finely dressed citizens stood in neat lines, waiting to speak with them.

At the far end of the hall, a raised platform rested beneath an enormous mural of a starry night sky. Faint lines were painted between them, depicting four constellations. Flynn recognized each constellation as representing different gods.

Asyn, the Lady of the Water.

Erius, the Hand of Stone.

Braphion, the Eye of Beauty.

Ohena, the Mother of the Forest.

Beneath the mural, behind a carved marble desk, was a Regium elf with a particularly long and pointed nose. His hair was so blonde that it almost looked white. His robes were the same as those worn by the other cloaks, save for emerald embroideries around the hems and golden braided cords tied around his shoulders. A silver circlet rested on his brow, pushing his eyes down into an eternal scowl.

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Gostor stomped forward. Several guards shifted uneasily, their hands moving slowly to their swords. The clerk at the desk raised a pale hand and they stood down. He glowered down at the dwarf as he approached. His expression reminded Flynn of the time his father had stepped in something unpleasant during a visit to their stables.

Gostor came to a halt in front of the podium, crossing his arms across his broad chest. “Witches,” he said.

The clerk arched a sculpted eyebrow, the skin wrinkling beneath the circlet, “I beg your pardon.”

“Witches,” Gostor repeated. He jabbed a thick finger toward the entrance of the hall. “Where?”

Flynn jogged up behind him, laughing nervously. “Apologies, Your Majesty. My friend here is quite direct. To make a long story short, we’ve had some run-ins with practitioners of witchcraft and were wondering if you’ve heard any word of that sort of… stuff. Your Majesty.”

The clerk’s eyes darted to Flynn, narrowing.

“A half-blood and a dwarf,” he said the words as though they were insults. “You wish to sully the integrity of this hall with inquiries of such heinous matters? And I am not the King, you imbecile.”

Gostor growled threateningly, but Flynn stepped in quickly. “Sorry, Your M-” he paused, “Clerkliness. We were just following one north and seemed to have lost the trail. We thought that maybe she wound up nearby.”

The clerk leaned forward in his chair, steepling his fingers. He sneered at both of them, restraining nasty thoughts that ran across his mind.

“Witches, and all Covens moreover, are legally forbidden from residing within the provinces of the Cities of Hydraan, according to the Prohibition of Witchcraft as implemented by the Council of Hydraan at the start of the Civil War of Ayeron. There are no witches still living in Hydraan at this time as all were collected by the Consolidated Federation of Hydraan soldiers and sent away to Malimagus Prison. Now, if you are very well and good finished with wasting my time, you may leave this hall.”

He said every word as though he had rehearsed them ten times every morning without taking a breath. Gostor bristled, his hands twitching toward his handaxes. Flynn placed a reassuring hand on the leathers that sat upon the dwarf’s shoulder.

“I assure you, sir, that we encountered a witch. We read a letter that said her coven was on its way to Hydraan,” he pleaded. “Gostor, show him the letter.”

Gostor reached into his shirt and pulled out a terribly crumpled piece of parchment. He unfolded the ball of paper, straightened it out over his knee, and held it outstretched to the clerk. The elf glared down his nose at the paper.

“Well,” he scoffed, “That’s all the proof in the world, isn’t it?” A slight grin tugged at his nefariously thin lips as he shooed them both away. Guards flanked either side of them and began pushing them towards the door. “Perhaps, check in with the Gallysis Museum,” he called out. “They enjoy all sorts of idiocracies and tall tales over there.”

As soon as their feet crossed the threshold of the palace gate, the guards relinquished their shoving and returned to their stations. Gostor projected a large glob of spit at the floor and stomped ever-onward back to the Town Square.

Flynn’s perpetual cheer faltered slightly, his smile slipping as he whispered, “I don’t think he liked us.”

Gostor grunted, his fists swinging by his sides. “Elves,” he mumbled, his tone filled with contempt.

Flynn bit his lip. He didn’t disagree.