We climb up a set of stairs, although Arthur had to support me, so I don't crumble under my exhaustion.
We make it to the second, but the right corridor has collapsed. Parts of the ceiling caved in, leaving wood, debris, and… burnt furniture? It all seems fresh. I stop climbing the stairs. "What happened here?" I ask Arthur.
"Oh, an incident occurred there."
"What kind?"
"Simply the spark that caused the Inquisitor to call for Martial Law. If the corridor were free, it would lead to the commander's office, where he and the Inquisitor were conversing when a spy, an anarchistic rebel, attempted to assassinate both the commander and the Inquisitor in one go, bombing the office. Somehow, he escaped the wreckage as there was no body left at the scene. Since then, the city has been on lockdown. We're still looking for the rebels as we speak. Now let's continue."
I don't move for a moment. There's a familiar sense coming down the corridor. It's faint, but it lingers. Soon after, I lost my concentration and followed Arthur up the stairs to the third floor.
The halls of this building weren't the most grand or ornate. It has some doors, but Arthur tells me they're mostly bedrooms except for the few with etched symbols, which meant something else. Arthur didn't go into detail.
There were a few decorations besides the red carpet with a silver lining, and various paintings of mayors and commanders who had once been in charge of Bruis.
Arthur hasn't said much during our walk to the Inquisitor, unless I asked him about something.
The third floor had much more in its corridors: bookshelves containing maps and charts, papers on top drawers and walls, carpet, lanterns lining the walls, and thin windows.
After a few minutes of walking, Arthur leads to a short corridor with one plain door at the end. As we got closer, I notice some markings etched into the wood. It was the symbol I saw in the church and the pin the Inquisitor wore on one of his lapels.
"What is that symbol?" I ask, halting a few feet away from the door.
Arthur places a hand on the marking before moving it toward the door's handle. "It's the sigil of the Inquisition. Now, if you don't have any other questions, please enter the room. Inquisitor Quin is excited to meet with you."
Before I could ask any more about the symbol, Arthur opens the door suddenly, motioning to me to enter.
I give him a nod and step into the room. Arthur closes the door softly as I fully enter the room.
It's warm. The air shifts behind me as the door shuts with a gentle click. Fire crackles from the hearth in the far wall, casting a soft gold light along the dark walls. Shadows stretch long and smooth across the room, painting the corner in amber.
There's a subtle scent of apples and a hint of cinnamon.
My eyes shift toward the center, to a polished round table set for two, with roasted meat, bread, and fruit. A pair of silver forks sits beside the plates almost ceremoniously. There are only two chairs: one for me, and the other for the Inquisitor.
The Inquisitor stands near the fire, collecting the heat. In one hand, he holds a plain leather-backed book, and in the other, a glass of water. He doesn't look up right away. The Inquisitor finishes the page he's on, slowly turning the page, before shifting his gaze towards me. Right after, he creates a welcoming grin.
"Ah, Mr. Sear, nice to meet you. Come, come, sit. We have much to discuss," The Inquistor tells me. He moves away from the hearth and towards a seat, where he hovers for a second.
I hesitate. My eyes shift around the warm room, taking in my surroundings, before I stroll to the chair.
The Inquisitor gestures for me to sit, and we both take our seats at the same time.
The chair is softer than I thought, the cushion sinks under my weight. The Inquisitor sets his book on the edge, taking a seat across from me.
His eyes drift over me, cataloging my bruises, scratches, and makeshift bandages. He studies me as if he were an artist looking over his work. The Inquisitor makes a tiny grin. "You've had quite a day, my boy," he chuckles. "Come, eat up. You must be tired."
My eyes flick to the food: thick slices of roasted beef glistening with fat, a steaming loaf of bread still hot from the oven, and pale, sweet apple slices dusted with cinnamon. There's even a small side of honey.
I don't touch the food yet. My eyes hang over them, unsure of whether I should or shouldn't.
"Is there something wrong? Is the food not to your liking?" The Inquisitor asks.
I shake my head. "No, sir, nothing is wrong. It's just a meal like this is… It's too much. I've never had beef cooked in such a way before."
"Ah, I understand. It's quite all right, young man. The chef is wonderfully adept at preparing steak. It would be rude to his skills not to eat."
The Inquisitor picks up the silver fork and knife and begins cutting the meat on his plate. But before he starts cutting, he suddenly puts down the utensils in his hands, shaking his head. "How could I have forgotten? We have yet to give thanks. Do you know your prayers, Mr. Sear?"
I shake my head. "No, I don't. My mother never taught me."
"Oh, that's a shame. It's fine, I shall say the prayer for both of us. Merely cup your hands together as you close your eyes. When I speak this prayer, recite my words in your head. The Interceder knows when you're not participating. You understand?"
I nod yes.
"Wonderful. Now let us begin."
The Inquisitor waits for me to cup my hands and close my eyes. I hear him do the same after me. Then the Inquisitor speaks:
"Interceder," he begins. "Man of the Saints, eye between the Veil and waking world. I call on you, not as one of the lost, but as one of the entrusted. Take my words, carry them up the Sevenfold Path, and lay them before the Seven Great Saints."
I repeat his words in my head as he told me to. But, something stirs behind my eyes—a faint pressure drumming lightly on my skull.
"We give thanks to the hands of labor that provide us both fruit and beast. For it's the bread that sustains the flesh, and the meat strengthens the bones—it gives us life. But both bread and meat come from dust and will become dust, and such dust will return to dust."
I can hear the Inquisitor's voice echo softly.
"So we ask now, Interceder, to bless this food, to let the Saints gaze upon it and sanctify it. So that when we consume, it may not only feed our mortal bodies, but fuel the Essence that lives beyond flesh.
The air thickens, and my finger twitches in my cupped hands—the pressure before becomes heavier as if a graceful hand touches my shoulder.
"And finally, we ask for the Saints to guide us, strengthen our souls, and protect us from corruption. Interceder, carry our prayers to the Saints as you have done before. And in the name of the Seven Great Saints, Amen."
"Amen," I repeat as I reopen my eyes, looking toward the Inquisitor. He's still grinning.
He gestures to my plate. "You may eat, Seer."
"Thank you, sir," I reply as I pick up the utensils next to my—
Seer?