Chapter 2: The Inquisitor's Watchful Eyes

Chapter 2: The Inquisitor's Watchful Eyes

The list felt like a death sentence he was writing for himself. Quicksilver for malleability, brimstone for binding, belladonna for obscuring the Aetheric scent, and a dozen other reagents, each more obscure and damning than the last. Caelen sat at his desk in the pre-dawn gloom, the unmarked leather book from his benefactors lying closed beside him. He had spent the night poring over its ethereal script, memorizing the complex ritual for crafting a homunculus.

His greatest obstacle, however, wasn't the arcane chemistry. It was the first item on the list, the one he’d written in a slightly shakier hand: Sanguis Silus Croft. The blood of Silas Croft. Without it, the entire plan was impossible. The underground had promised to procure it, but the logistics of obtaining a blood sample from an Inquisitorial functionary were staggering. His part was to be ready, to have everything else prepared for when the key ingredient arrived.

A sharp, authoritative rap on the manor's heavy oak door shattered the morning's silence. It wasn't the familiar, hurried thud of a delivery courier. This was a sound that demanded entry, a sound that brooked no delay.

Caelen’s blood turned to ice. He quickly slid the list of reagents under a stack of approved, mind-numbingly dull theological treatises. His heart hammered against his ribs as he walked to the hall, each footstep echoing with a dreadful finality. He pulled the bolt and opened the door.

The man standing on his doorstep seemed to suck the very light from the morning air. He was breathtakingly, unnervingly handsome, with sharp, aristocratic features framed by immaculate silver hair pulled back from his face. But it was his eyes that seized Caelen’s attention—piercing, intelligent, and the colour of molten gold leaf. He wore the severe, impeccably tailored black and silver uniform of a High Inquisitor, the symbol of a holy flame embroidered over his heart. This was not one of the dull-witted guards who patrolled his street. This was a predator.

"Caelen McDowell," the man stated, his voice a smooth, cold baritone that held no room for question. "I am Lord Inquisitor Valerius Thorne. By order of the High Council, your wardship is now under my direct authority."

Behind him, four guards in polished steel armour stood at rigid attention, their presence turning the decaying manor into an official prison. Valerius stepped across the threshold without waiting for an invitation, his gaze sweeping over the cobweb-draped portraits and dusty floors with an air of detached assessment. It was the look of a man appraising property he had already acquired.

Caelen forced his expression into one of weary resignation, a mask he had perfected over years. "Lord Inquisitor. I wasn't aware my accommodations required a change in management. Has the dust finally been declared a heretical entity?"

A flicker of something—not amusement, but perhaps appreciation for the defiance—passed through Valerius’s golden eyes. "The Church believes in thoroughness. Your family’s legacy is a stain that requires vigilant scrubbing." He began to walk through the ground floor, his polished boots silent on the threadbare carpets. It was an inspection, a claiming of territory. Caelen had no choice but to follow, feeling like a ghost in his own home.

The tour inevitably ended in the library. Valerius ran a black-gloved finger along the spine of a book, leaving a clean streak in the thick dust. His gaze was sharp, missing nothing.

"House McDowell's collection was once the envy of the Empire," Valerius murmured, his back to Caelen. "The greatest repository of alchemical knowledge in the known world. Most of it was… purified. I'm surprised they left you with so much kindling."

"They left me the dregs," Caelen replied, his tone carefully flat. "Harmless theoretical works. Agricultural alchemy. Paracelsus’s lesser essays on metallurgy. I assure you, you'll find more heresy in a cookbook."

Valerius turned, his eyes locking onto Caelen's. The intensity of his stare was a physical force, pinning Caelen in place. "Heresy is not always found in grand rituals, McDowell. It often begins in the quiet places. In the turning of a single page. In a single, curious thought."

He took a step closer, invading Caelen’s personal space. The air between them crackled. Caelen could smell the faint, clean scent of sanctified oil and cold steel clinging to the Inquisitor's uniform. It was the smell of his own execution. Yet, beneath the fear, a strange, unwelcome current flowed—a flicker of heat in the pit of his stomach. It was the dangerous recognition of a keen intellect, an equal standing before him in the trappings of an enemy.

Valerius’s gaze dropped to the desk, landing on the stack of theological texts where Caelen had hidden his list. He reached out, his movements precise, and slid the top volume off.

Commentaries on the Divine Flame. Caelen held his breath.

The Inquisitor didn't open it. Instead, he looked at Caelen, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. "I am to understand you spend your days in quiet contemplation of the Church's wisdom?"

"I have little else to occupy my time," Caelen said, the lie tasting like ash.

"Good." Valerius’s eyes drifted around the room again, as if committing every shadow to memory. "Because your time is about to become even less occupied. From this day forward, all deliveries will cease. Any materials you require, from parchment to sustenance, must be requisitioned directly through my office. Your gilded cage, McDowell, has just had its bars reinforced."

Caelen’s carefully constructed facade nearly cracked. No deliveries. The words struck him like a physical blow. The alchemical underground, his only lifeline, had planned to smuggle him the reagents—and Croft's blood—in the monthly supply crate. That path was now closed. Valerius had, in a single sentence, rendered his entire escape plan moot.

"Is such scrutiny truly necessary?" Caelen asked, unable to keep a sharp edge from his voice. "Or are you simply bored, my lord?"

Valerius stepped closer still, his golden eyes boring into Caelen's. He was so close Caelen could see the faint, holy brand on the back of his gloved hand, a symbol that pulsed with a soft, white light. "I am never bored. And I find your case… uniquely fascinating." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "For instance, I was reviewing the Inquisitorial rosters just this morning. So many functionaries, scribes, couriers. Men like Silas Croft, for example. Utterly insignificant cogs in the grand machine, yet without them, the entire edifice would grind to a halt. It is a lesson in how even the smallest, most overlooked part can have a purpose."

The casual, deliberate way he spoke the name—Silas Croft—was a perfectly aimed arrow. Caelen’s blood roared in his ears, but he forced his expression to remain impassive, a mask of stone. He met the Inquisitor’s gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a flinch.

It was a test. And he had, he prayed, passed.

Valerius held his gaze for a moment longer, a silent battle of wills waged in the dusty air of the library. Then, with that same infuriatingly small smile, he turned to leave. "I will be watching, McDowell," he said over his shoulder. "Do try to remain harmless."

The heavy front door clicked shut, leaving Caelen alone in the suffocating silence. He stumbled back to his desk, his legs weak, and sank into the chair. He hadn't just been observed; he'd been dissected. Valerius Thorne wasn't just a zealot; he was a hunter who enjoyed the chase, who savored the scent of his prey's fear.

His plan was in ruins. His cage was now a sealed tomb. And his new jailer was not only his judge and executioner but a man whose piercing golden eyes saw far too much, awakening a terrifying, forbidden spark in the dark. The game had changed, and he was no longer just fighting for his freedom. He was fighting for his life against an opponent who seemed to know his every move before he made it.