CHAPTER 8: THE INQUISITOR'S SCALE
The inquisitor arrived three days later on a horse the color of fresh bone.
Her name was Veyra Sol, rank A—, black coat, silver clasp shaped like an open eye. No escort. No greeting. She walked into Branch 17 like she already owned the place and had come to see which parts still needed burning.
Captain Rhen met her at the door, spine straighter than Kael had ever seen it.
"Inquisitor. Party's in the back hall. Healer's on standby."
Veyra's eyes (pale gray, almost white) swept the room and stopped on Kael.
"You're the one who punched a name-eater to death."
It wasn't a question.
Kael inclined his head. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Saves time."
She didn't wait for permission. She walked straight past Rhen, coat snapping like a flag, and the entire guild parted without thinking about it.
The back hall had been cleared. One table. Two chairs. A single iron lantern burning cold blue. A circle of salt and silver filings on the floor. Wards etched into the beams overhead that hurt to look at directly.
Veyra sat. Didn't invite him to.
"Strip to the waist and stand in the circle."
'Well ain't she bossy,' Kael thought.
Kael did it. The air inside the ring tasted metallic.
Veyra studied him the way a butcher studies a carcass (clinical, measuring).
"No scars," she said. "Interesting."
She drew a thin silver knife and, without warning, slashed across his chest from collarbone to nipple.
The cut was shallow but perfect. Blood welled, bright and immediate.
Kael was slightly perplexed but he didn't flinch.
Twenty seconds later the bleeding slowed. Forty seconds and the edges knit. Ninety seconds and the line faded to pink. Two minutes and there was nothing but smooth skin.
Veyra didn't blink.
"Again."
She cut deeper this time, angling across the ribs. Same result, only faster.
She kept cutting, each wound a different depth, a different angle. Kael stood still and let her. The pain was useful data. The blade's edge, the temperature of silver, the exact pressure she used; everything filed itself away.
When she was satisfied there wasn't a mark left on him, she sheathed the knife and took out a small glass vial filled with something that moved on its own.
"Open."
Kael opened his mouth. She poured three drops onto his tongue.
It tasted like rot and bells.
Normal men would have convulsed, foamed, died. Kael felt his stomach knot, his vision tunnel, then the poison hit the invisible wall his body had already built from every bitter thing he'd ever swallowed. Thirty seconds later he spat clear fluid onto the floor.
Veyra actually smiled thin, approving, and slightly predatory.
"You seem to have some sort of healing or rather some sort of adaption to damage of the same kind, maybe?," she said. "Unregistered. Unregulated. Potentially catastrophic."
She set the empty vial down like a judge's gavel.
"The guild wants to throw ranks at you. I'm here to decide if we throw chains instead."
She stood and walked a slow circle around him.
"Tell me, Kael Varin, what happens when you adapt to orders? To pain? To loyalty? To love?"
She stopped behind him. He felt the silver clasp of her coat brush his spine.
"Will you wake up one day and decide the guild itself is something you can endure until it no longer binds you?"
Kael met her eyes indifferently in the reflection of the lantern glass.
"I haven't adapted to stupidity yet," he said. "Still working on it."
A huff, maybe laughter, maybe not.
Veyra stepped back into his sightline.
"Here's what's going to happen. You will accept promotion to D-minus, effective immediately. You will wear the blue band. You will take contracts above your pay grade because the guild needs a blunt instrument that doesn't break. And you will report to me, personally, every ninety days for re-evaluation.
However...
If I decide you've become a threat, I will end you myself. No trial. No appeal. Silver through the heart and fire until there's nothing left to adapt."
She leaned in until her breath touched his ear.
"Do we understand each other?"
"Perfectly," Kael said.
"Good."
She tossed a folded blue armband onto the table. Single white stripe.
"Put it on. Then get out of my circle before I decide to test how fast you adapt to decapitation."
Kael stepped out, pulled on his shirt, tied the new band over the place where her knife had kissed him a dozen times and found no purchase.
Veyra was already writing something in a black ledger. She didn't look up.
"Captain Rhen will have your first D-rank contract waiting. Something with teeth. Try not to disappoint me."
Kael left the hall.
'Hmm, how do I get out of this mess? Should I do something drastic or just let it be?' Kalen pondered leisurely.
You might be wondering who in their right mind would be so nonchalant and indifferent to what just occured?
The answer is no one... except Kael of course. You must remember his gift, ADAPTIVE HABITATION is not limited to just injuries, but to practically anything you can think of, including spontaneity or stressful situations.
The common room had tripled in size or felt like it. Every eye tracked him. Torven raised a mug from the back, face unreadable. Lysa gave a small nod. Dren just stared like he was trying to count how many times a man could die and keep walking.
Kael walked straight through them and out into the yard.
The air tasted like snow coming.
He flexed his hand, felt the ghost of silver cuts that weren't there anymore, and started toward the contract board.
D-rank contracts were posted on the right side, written in red ink. Most had been up for weeks.
One was fresh, stamped with the same open-eye clasp Veyra wore.
Contract 17-D-03
Task: Hunt and eliminate the entity designated "Whisper-at-Cragmere" and any associated cult activity in the Ironspine region.
Party size: 1–5
Reward: 800 silver base + land grant upon confirmation of kill
[Note: Survivor testimony required.]
Kael took the tag before anyone could stop him.
Torven appeared at his elbow, voice low.
"That's not a contract, mate. That's a death warrant with better handwriting."
Kael turned the tag over in his fingers.
"Maybe," he said. "But it's got a name."
He looked up at the ridge line, black against the low clouds.
"And I've got a question it still owes me an answer to."
Torven followed his gaze, then sighed the sigh of a man who already knew he was coming along.
"Give me ten minutes to sharpen everything I own," he said. "And maybe write a letter to my mother."
Kael nodded.
Ten minutes later they stood in the yard with full packs. Lysa and Dren joined without a word. No Selene. She was already gone, horse tracks still fresh in the mud heading south.
Four bodies again.
Veyra watched from the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable.
'I bet he's gonna bark back soon, dogs like him are never obedient... But that's what makes them fun especially one like him, hehe...'
Kael met her eyes across the yard and lifted the contract tag in salute.
She didn't salute back.
The gate opened.
They walked north, toward the Ironspine, toward whatever was left of the thing that had learned his name and decided to keep it.
Behind them, Branch 17 started taking bets on whether the new D-rank would live long enough to spend his eight hundred silver.
No one bet on how long the mountain would last.