Selriph stared at the Inquisitor, taken aback by the sudden motion of the drawn blade. The torchlight shimmered on metal as the blade slipped cleanly out of its sheath, accompanied by the sound of steel on leather.

  The blade was brandished in a two-handed left plough—the presence of the armament made Selriph feel like the walls and distance pressed in by the mere brandishing of steel.

  He can’t be serious. Is this another...

  This was no bluff. The Inquisitor meant to use steel to “determine” his innocence. This very clearly violated protocol–a fact not missed by the Inquisitor’s two younger companions, who gave a silent, uneasy glance.

  Assuming Selriph’s previous assumption wasn’t wrong, there could be only one reason why the inquisitor had drawn his blade: he meant to force Selriph to defend himself with magic to expose his identity.

  Selriph swallowed, the dryness coating his tongue and palate.

  “What is this? I’m just a beggar on a street with a shitty sword. How is this going to be fair?!” he spat, the voice laced with equal parts frustration and confusion.

  The reaction was theatrical — part genuine shock, part deliberate exaggeration. The Inquisitor smiled, a flicker of amusement cutting through. The glow of the sacred sigil on his empty off-hand flickered faintly as his eyes pierced directly into Selriph.

  “A beggar with a sword? How curious.” His gaze swept over to the seemingly rusty estoc at Selriph’s side. “Perhaps you are not as helpless as you claim,” he said, gesturing to the weapon with a deliberate flourish. “Draw it. Show me what a mere beggar can do with such a shitty weapon.”

  The Inquisitor took a few steps back, broadsword held ready, every step measured as he entered his stance, a typical Eldeitian one-handed stance.

  Selriph hesitated, his voice edged with protest.

  “This is against the rules, isn’t it? You can’t harm citizens like this,” he said, directing the words not at the man before him, but more toward the two behind him, who were now displaying the slightest signs of hesitancy.

  Or perhaps it was Selriph’s wishful thinking; had he completely miscalculated?

  The knight let out a chuckle, cold and humourless.

  “Rules?” he sneered. “Unless you want to experience the painful effects of holy scrying firsthand. You will draw your weapon. Now. Or I’ll take your silence as proof of guilt.”

  Guilty until proven innocent. Great.

  With a grim breath, Selriph drew his estoc. The dirty scabbard from which he pulled the blade betrayed its pristine shine, caught in the dim tunnel light.

  A battle-lusted grin, as if long repressed, split the Templar’s face. He raised his broadsword, muscles coiled like a striking serpent, and lunged.

  The strike came as fast as any Selriph would expect, a brutal overhead swing aimed to cleave. Selriph met the blow, both hands on his hilt, knees bending as the clash of steel rang through the narrow tunnel.

  The knight-inquisitor’s strength was overwhelming. A jolt shot through his arms, all the way into his shoulders. Before he could steady himself, the blades parted, and another strike came from the side.

  A faint yellow glow pulsed through the knight’s broadsword, the glyphs on the blade catching Selriph’s vision as it swung toward his torso.

  But instead of swinging his estoc down to meet it, Selriph pivoted anticlockwise as an ingrained reaction took over. He pulled a dagger from his belt, parrying the blow with his offhand. The dagger sparked against the broadsword’s edge.

  He had practised this move to provide an opening for a main-hand strike, but the last-minute drawing of his second blade in reverse grip left the boy unbalanced, his back foot not quite centred. The knight’s blade bounced off the dagger, and it changed its trajectory, its cutting edge now headed straight for Selriph’s neck.

  This strike—a feint or a true lethal blow—forced Selriph to react.

  Desperation and adrenaline sharpened Selriph’s reflexes. He desperately backstepped to give the distance to react to the blow, then raised both weapons into an X-guard to shield himself from the plane of his throat.

  If I could just catch the blade, I could...

  The clash sent another set of shockwaves through his arm, and the subtle yellow glow on the blade flared brighter on impact. But the backpedal meant the knight’s blade caught his own weapons near its tip, giving Selriph much-needed leverage.

  This was his chance, perhaps his only chance. With a grunt, Selriph ducked his head as he extended both arms, drawing both blades halfway down to the broadsword’s base. He twisted the dagger and estoc. The motion wrenched the broadsword free from his assailant’s grip, sending the blade clattering to the ground.

  Selriph saw the opportunity. The inquisitor was all but open; he wanted to follow through, to deliver a counterstrike right at the Inquisitor. It would be cathartic to strike down a representative of the system that had suffocated him for this long.

  But his better judgment prevailed; striking the Inquisitor now would only cause the other two knights to jump in. Even if he landed a killing stroke now, he would be struck in mere seconds after.

  There remained only one logical choice: appeal to reason.

  “There! Your weapon is out. I don’t want to have Templar Inquisitor-y blood on my hands, or whatever you call yourself. I am just trying to survive!”

  The knight’s face twisted with fury and clear surprise at being disarmed by the young, ragged boy. His free hand ignited with a faint golden pulse of light.

  “You dare? You cannot deny the justice of the Empire. Wrenching my blade is the last thing you will do, you little rat!” Any semblance of calculated composure vanished as frustration tore through, likely spurred by the incredulous notion of being disarmed by a mere tramp with a sword.

  With his fingers, he wove a gesture in the air as he muttered an incantation, the casting of a spell.

  Selriph knew he could not match whatever magic was coming with his own. That would reveal his true identity.

  One option remained, the only other projectile he could muster.

  Just as golden magical energy coalesced around the Inquisitor’s palm, Selriph’s arm shot out, hurling his parrying dagger at the Inquisitor.

  A split moment before the golden bolt could fire, the blade struck the Inquisitor’s shoulder, causing the spell to falter in a sizzling hiss. The radiant energy dissipated, and the knight stumbled back, cursing under his breath as the dagger bounced off the back wall and clattered on the floor.

  “Stop it, please!” Selriph shouted, the voice ringing with unexpected vigour. “You there, other knights. Don’t you swear an oath to protect the citizens? This isn’t right. This is against your oath!”

  From beyond the torchlight, a young knight stepped forward, stern and cautious. Selriph noticed the same sigil on his outstretched palm as he reached for the Inquisitor.

  “Stand down, Brother Inquisitor Varos,” he said firmly. “The oath binds us to protect the innocent, not to slay those we swore to protect.”

  The intensity of Varos’s glare was palpable. “You question me, Brother Yuldric?!” he snarled. “This rat has to be the mage. Your senses may not be attuned, but mine are! All we need is proof of his heretical sorcery.”

  Brother Yuldric shook his head, his voice steady. “The Light guides our hands, not blind fury.”

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  A flicker of recognition passed Varos at the words, which seemed to stymie any further well of emotion from Varos, although his stance still coiled with tension.

  Yuldric extended his hand, as if cautioning Varos from lunging at the boy. His gaze then turned to Selriph.

  “You there, mage or not, stand and be recognised!”

  Selriph dropped his remaining weapon, the estoc, clattering to the cold stone floor. He straightened, attempting a posture that was mixed with dignity and forced tallness in an attempt at a genuine reaction to match his ragged clothes. A subtle tilt of his head conveyed confusion.

  Brother Yuldric’s eyes narrowed. “You claim innocence, yet there is something about you that reeks of deceit. Speak the truth now, or we will subject you to the flames of scrying.” His remark was met with a silent nod from the other young knight, who was all but a silent observer.

  Clutching his wounded shoulder, Varos’s breathing was heavy but slowing, and he offered no immediate protest as his younger colleague stepped forward to take charge of the situation

  “As I said, I thieve, I lie, and con my way through life. If that’s the deceit you speak of, that’s all I’ve got down here on the streets,” he gestured expansively, arms wide.

  “But if you think I am a friend or even the person you are seeking, you are dead wrong. If I saw him, I’d turn him in for some coin. Might give me a decent room for a year or two.”

  Yuldric’s gaze sharpened. “You expect us to believe a thief, a liar, and a con artist like you would act altruistically for mere coin?”

  “Altru—? Money is what matters down here, knight-sir,” Selriph said, playing dumb at Yuldric’s word choice. “I’m sure there’s a bounty on your mage friend, and that coin can easily set someone like me up for a while. Who wouldn’t want that?”

  Yuldric’s expression hardened. “True, there is a bounty. But still, something does not add up.”

  His gaze glided up and down Selriph, trying to search for and ascertain the cause of his gnawing suspicion.

  Then, his gaze landed on Selriph as he stepped closer. “You claim to be destitute, yet you wield steel.”

  “Found them lying about.” Selriph’s voice was plain, almost factual.

  “On the streets?” Yuldric asked, mirroring Selriph’s flat reply.

  “Where else?” Selriph’s voice was dry, almost mocking the obviousness of the question

  “Then show me proof. “

  “Excuse me?” Selriph intoned, confused as he gestured to his fallen weapons.

  Inquisitor Yuldric gave a subtle shake of his head before he continued. “Present the marks that prove you’ve truly lived a life on the streets.”

  Really? You want marks, I will give you marks.

  Selriph lifted his ragged shirt, revealing a canvas of scars, some faded, some fresh, all etched into his skin like grim proof of a life battered and bruised, ironically at the hands of knights like these.

  Brother Yuldric’s expression visibly softened, a flicker of compassion, or perhaps pity, in his eyes. Either way, there was a clear reaction to the canvas of wounds.

  “These scars speak of struggle,” Yuldric murmured, “but they do not prove innocence, only that you suffered.” Scepticism still laced in his voice and expression.

  Selriph’s voice rose, equal parts frustration and exasperation.

  “What else do you want me to do to prove my innocence? Your brother over there just pulled his sword on me! If I had any magic, why would I use my weapon?!”

  Yuldric’s eyes widened, a true flicker of doubt finally surfacing. He glanced at Varos, who still clenched his shoulder, the graze of the blade evident on his cloak.

  “A valid point…” Yuldric admitted softly. “If you were the fugitive we were searching for, you would not hesitate to use magic to defend yourself. You would have used it against my brother."

  Varos, who had finally regained some level of composure, grunted in unexpected agreement. “The boy may have a point, Yuldric. If he were the mage, our fugitive, there would have been no hesitation.”

  Yuldric’s gaze flickered between them. “Yet Varos detects the scent of magic on you. You could be using that to deceive us—illusions that may fool our senses into believing your lies.”

  Selriph took a step back, his hands gesturing in a casual wave. “The only way I know to deceive is through words. Hardly magical, eh?”

  Yuldric considered carefully, brows furrowed. “That…” as he turned back to Varos. “Brother, has he shown any signs of conscious use of magic?”

  Varos shook his head reluctantly, his voice rough. “He reeks of it. But he has not used it. I would sense it. ”

  Just a little more. Surely they are starting to see reason. Keep calm, keep casual... keep in the act.

  “And think about it, when you nearly made my head roll on the floor, wouldn’t I have used magic–fire, a boom, or something? To blast you away?”

  The two inquisitors exchanged a silent look, its meaning lost to Selriph, though what mattered was the lack of any further stir from them.

  Yuldric’s voice sharpened, mixing scepticism with grudging respect. “You are proving yourself more ... perspicacious than anticipated.” He glanced at Varos.

  Selriph frowned. “What does percipca... mean?” Another act of ignorance, all part of the performance.

  “Perspicacious thief,” Yuldric said, voice edged. “It means you have an uncommon ability to understand complex situations quickly and clearly. A trait that is commendable and, in our circumstances, unsettling.”

  Varos gave an affirmative nod. “Indeed, Brother Yuldric.”

  Selriph grinned. “So you’re saying I’m smarter than I look? I’ll take that, even if it’s from a couple of Templars who just tried to kill me.” The gradual de-escalation enabled him to finally speak with a lilt of natural casualness.

  Yuldric’s lips thinned, displeased. He stepped forward, hand near his sword. “Your wit is noted, thief. But remember, we still hold your fate in our hands.”

  Varos winced, adjusting his stance. “Our questions aren’t finished. You’ve made a compelling case, but we must verify your truth.”

  Here it comes…the last hurdle. If I can just convince them here…

  Yuldric nodded gravely. “The Order has divine means to uncover deceit. If it comes to that, we could bring him in for—”

  Selriph shot off his timed interjection, “I have nothing to hide... just don’t thrust your sword at my neck again.”

  A bluff. If he were brought in for questioning, someone from his unit would spell the end for him.

  Anything but that, not when I am this close…

  Yuldric’s eyes narrowed, his voice cold. “Your levity is ill-advised.”

  Selriph met his gaze calmly, maintaining a half-casual lilt to his stance. "What? it happened." his eyes flicked to Inquisitor Varos.

  Varos’s face hardened, who found the remark far from entertaining, his knuckles tightening hard around his shoulder, almost threatening to send him back into uncomposed fury.

  Yuldric’s eyes flashed to the side as he stepped forward, placing a hand on Varos’s shoulder. “Peace, brother,” he muttered, voice firm.

  Varos gazed up at his junior fellow, his grip loosening on his shoulder as he turned. They both turned their attention back to the supposed boy in rags.

  Selriph shrugged. “Look, haul me off if you want, but I suspect the good men on night duty would have their hands full with many others who look like your runaway friend.” His head jerked at the parchment that hung at Yuldric’s side.

  The two inquisitors exchanged a glance.

  “Or perhaps our quarry stands before us.” Yuldric’s voice came briefly, although it trailed off with uncertainty.

  “Not this again…we could go in circles all night. But it sounds like you have someone you need to be finding,” as Selriph gestured to the ceiling, towards the city above.

  For a moment, he paused, said nothing, deliberate. Selriph prepared his last plea, his final say, to placate the suspicion of these would-be capturers. At least, enough to convince them to leave him well enough alone.

  “Look, if you want to come after me, it won’t be hard, given Sir… Varos’s godsent ability to find me. I’ll be here in these tunnels, as I have always been. Where else would I go?”

  The two younger knights exchanged a silent question with the senior inquisitor, receiving a curt nod in return.

  Yuldric’s grip loosened, though his expression stayed stern.

  The silence hung for what felt like an eternity, an oppressive quiet that belied the maelstrom of thoughts surely churning in the inquisitors’ minds.

  Then the fateful answer came through, articulated just beyond the precipice of doubt. Yuldric’s voice, calm and quiet. “Very well. We won’t detain you tonight. We have justified reason to believe you are, by all accounts… innocent.”

  He took a step forward, his voice taking a barest edge. “But mark my words: if we find out you are associated with this fugitive or we get a whiff of you practising the forbidden arts, we will find you, and our reckoning will be thorough.”

  Selriph bent down casually, retrieving his estoc and pacing over to his dagger.

  “Of course. And sorry about your shoulder,” he said, turning back and nodding at Varos. “I didn’t want to do that.”

  Varos gave a small nod, the pain still etched on his face. “Apology… accepted, thief. Though it brings me no comfort that you landed a hit like that,” he said, shifting with a wince. “You won’t be so lucky next time.”

  Hopefully, there will be no next time.

  Yuldric’s voice cut sharp as ice. “Don’t mistake this mercy for weakness. We are the Inquisitors of the Knight Templars, touched by Vireon’s light. It is only by the grace of our oath that you have tentatively proved your innocence to us.”

  Varos nodded grimly. “Indeed.”

  Selriph turned away, weapons in hand, a barely concealed tremor in his arms—the only remaining sign of his guilt as he paced off into the shadows.

  He turned slightly to the knights, his lips trembling out of sight, concealed in the gloom. “Of course. If that is all—good night, gentlemen.” And then he walked towards the city’s underbelly.

  Towards the next act of his escape.

  *Checks notes*

  third inquisitor should have done the check, according to my character sheets, his insight/investigation is the highest… too bad he was silent for whatever reason…