In the backseat of this unfamiliar boiler—with its metal barrier separating the front and rear cabins and vertical bars covering viewing windows to keep prisoners locked tight—Silas was driven deep into the belly of central Droswick. Each turn of the boiler's wheels carried him closer to the Imperial Crownhold: the city's judicial headquarters. The boiler slowed to a halt at a massive set of twin portcullises of brass and black steel, the rightmost of which admitted boilers and carriages into the stronghold, the leftmost opening and closing periodically to liberate exiting vehicles and pedestrians. A heavily armored Warden, wielding a stout cudgel, jumped from behind his sentry box and marched over to the boiler, his visor raising to peer at the vehicle's inhabitants. As the Guards—two in the front cabin and one riding in the back with Silas—flashed their badges to the Warden, Silas peered upward at the bluff of black stone that constructed the Imperial Crownhold's foundation, the structure jutting ominously into the indigo sky to loom over Droswick like a sentinel. Steam from the boiler mingled with haze from Droswick's steamstacks, thickening into a murky fog over the cobbles. Satisfied with the Guards' badges, the Warden nodded and hopped back into his sentry box to work the mechanics of the portcullis. With a metallic groan and rattle of chains, the portcullis slowly rose to admit the boiler into the somber depths of Crownhold.

  Over a sloping bridge set at a sharp incline, the boiler bubbled, passing below the raised portcullis. Silas had the sinking feeling of being fed into a giant's hungry maw, the spiky underside of the structure's grille like teeth ready to chomp down. At the crest of the incline, a wide courtyard of black flagstones became visible. The boiler bumped and shook as its wheels crunched over the uneven ground. People milled around, striding along the flagstones to cross the courtyard. Most of these individuals were Wardens and Guards, but several groups of civilians milled about, too, perhaps visiting friends or family held within Crownhold's fortified confines.

  The boiler rattled across the courtyard, eventually pulling through a decorated archway that led into a foreboding tunnel. Only the entrance of this corridor allowed light in. The farther the boiler journeyed, the more oppressive the darkness grew, until only pitch-blackness surrounded the vehicle. The Guard driving wound a crank to illuminate the boiler's starbloom headlights before the gloom swallowed them whole. In the resulting faint dim, the downward slope of the pathway became evident, the gutter running parallel to the path carrying water and debris down deep beneath Crownhold's foundations. Finally, the boiler bubbled to a halt before a large fortified door at the end of the path, the ground leveling out at the end of the slope.

  The Guards exited the vehicle and knocked on the door, leaving Silas to wait in the back seat, clenching and unclenching his fists against the numbness settling in from the choking manacles. After several rounds of knocking, the door swung inward, the dark beyond obscuring the view within. The Guards spoke to someone behind the door animatedly, pointing at Silas waiting in the boiler. A heavy pause ensued as the Guards listened to the figure hiding in the shadows. Finally, the Guardswoman who manacled Silas saluted to the darkness—her right arm bent across her chest with a clenched fist while her left hand grasped her right wrist to form a cross over her sternum—in Imperial address before turning sharply on her heel and marching back to the boiler. Silas's heartbeat—already dizzyingly rapid—fluttered in his chest as a queasy sensation crawled up his throat.

  Silently, the Guardswoman pulled Silas from the boiler by the chain of his manacles. On wobbly legs, he staggered out, nearly tottering over before his legs steadied. Barely allowing him time to get his bearings, the Guardswoman led Silas beyond the door and deep into the gloom, leaving her Guard colleagues waiting by the boiler. He blinked against the weak light of a lantern held by a young apprentice Warden who led them down the dreary, damp corridor. Condensation dribbled from the ceiling high above, the droplets hitting Silas in the eye and cascading down his cheek like a teardrop. They came to a second heavy door at the end of the passageway. A viewing slot slid open to reveal a pair of glistening eyes squinting downward. The eyes glanced from the apprentice Warden to the Guardswoman before settling on Silas, who resisted the urge to squirm under their unblinking scrutiny. The viewing slot slid closed, and the door clicked open. Light—blindingly bright compared to the tenebrous darkness Silas's eyes had grown accustomed to—seared out. Silas squeezed his eyes shut against the glare.

  "We were not anticipating any new arrivals this eve," said the Warden, standing in the doorway, his voice echoing back in a hollow reverberation. He shifted from one foot to the next testily.

  "We were also not anticipating the unforeseen circumstance of an Unspoken attack during guardianship time at the Foundry School, yet here we are," replied the Guardswoman as her fist tightened its grip on Silas's chains.

  The Warden stepped forward. "A sentry did bring this to my attention recently, but he said nothing about human perpetrators involved in the attack." The Warden's face twisted in disgust as he beheld the blood and gore soiling Silas's coat and clumping his hair in tangled knots. "I am sure Arbiter Stroud will be thrilled to add another case to her plate so late in the eve." At this, his disgust was transformed into mirth, and he cocked his head toward the bright doorway.

  "Bring him in then," he said as he turned and walked past the door. "After you deposit the accused in his holding cell, promptly submit your report so Arbiter Stroud can begin her investigation."

  At the tug of his chain, Silas jerkily followed the Guardswoman into the radiance, the apprentice Warden trailing close behind.

  "While she may not be pleased, I at least am interested to hear the narrative behind tonight's unfortunate circumstances." The Warden peered over his shoulder at Silas, the disgust again masking his face. "And boy, please bathe yourself before Arbiter Stroud sees you; she is very fastidious about cleanliness."

  Eyes finally adjusted to the light, the dungeon stretched before him—long and wide—lined with iron-barred cells. Circular starbloom lanterns fizzed on either side of each cell, the murky light casting looming shadows as the group marched along. Silas made the mistake of peeking into one of the cells before quickly fixing his stare forward, shivering against the sensation of being watched.

  Stopping before an empty cell, the Warden fiddled with his belt, producing a large ring overburdened with heavy keys. He bent low to fit an impressive key into the cell's lock and then bowed sardonically as the door creaked open. The Guardswoman nodded to the Warden and ushered Silas in by his chains. The boy was shown to the rusty sink in the far left corner of the cramped space. He considered the molding sliver of soap resting on the basin incredulously. Behind him, the cell clanged closed. After locking him in, the Warden, apprentice, and Guard disappeared from view, leaving Silas alone, his fists still manacled at his front, clenching and unclenching to pump blood into his fingers.

  Silas stood unnaturally still, his empty gaze locked on the mildewed soap. The journey from the Foundry School to the Imperial Crownhold floated by like a dream, Silas barely aware enough of his surroundings to remember the scenery or conversation shared between the Guards accompanying him. But as the fugue began to wear off deep below Droswick's surface, a sickly claustrophobia rose, and panic took hold of his soul and squeezed. Clutching at his heart as unbearable grief overwhelmed him, Silas collapsed to his seat, tears pouring from his eyes and shuddering, convulsive sobs tormenting his body. He sank to the cold, moist stone floor and curled into the fetal position, his emotions discharging violently. Eventually, grief bled away into a numbing hollowness that anesthetized all emotion. Silas remained curled in a tight ball, emptiness settling over him. He soon became aware of brisk, echoing bootsteps that slowed and finally halted before his cell. He remained motionless, even when the door to his cell rattled open and the boots stopped in front of his face.

  "My, my, what have we here?" murmured a stern, feminine voice above him. The boots shifted and the woman bent low, her face now in line with Silas's.

  Keeping his unfocused gaze trained on the floor, his peripheral vision glimpsed an olive-skinned woman studying his huddled form with pursed lips, dark brown eyes squinted in concentration. Her chestnut brown hair was pulled into a tight bun in the center of her head, with not a strand of hair out of place. Clad in Imperial red and gold, the woman wore a fitted coat of crimson wool polished with brass fastenings that caught the light with her every movement. The coat's high mandarin collar bore the Imperial sigil of the Empire: the star and crown motif embroidered on the wool in gold thread. Upon her shoulders, stiff epaulets and stitched bars of chevrons marked her high rank. She clicked her tongue.

  "You sure are filthy," she noted and stood, focusing on the rusty sink. She pinched the sliver of moldy soap between her forefinger and thumb, stretching out her arm so the object was as far from her body as possible. "Well, this simply will not do." Dropping the soap in the sink with a quiet ping, she turned her head to the open cell door and shouted, "Oscar! Would you be a dear and take him to the showers?"

  In moments, Oscar—the Warden who had greeted Silas's group at the entrance to this underground dungeon—arrived, breathless from the jog over.

  "Of course, Arbiter Stroud," he said, bowing several times apologetically.

  Stroud turned and strode across the cell, pausing to glance over her shoulder once in the hallway. "Did you really think I would interrogate one so…" she paused, groping for the right word, "unclean as he?" She turned, posturing with hands on her hips, a repulsed look on her face.

  "I-I assumed the soap and sink would be sufficient." Oscar tugged upward on Silas's chain, grunting with effort when the boy refused to move.

  "They would have been sufficient—good Warden—if the soap was not covered in fungi." With these words, Arbiter Stroud left, her boots echoing down the corridor with her departure.

  Warden Oscar wrestled with Silas for several moments until he got the boy seated and, from there, standing, swearing under his breath during the struggle. The Warden then dragged him from the cell—one arm wrapped in manacle chain and the other hooked under Silas's armpit—and from there down the corridor, struggling all the way. They shuffled past several other Wardens who snickered at Oscar's plight before ambling away, none offering to help. Exasperated and out of breath, Oscar finally pulled Silas through a doorway and seated him on a stool situated above a drain. A single showerhead hung from the ceiling, a steady dribble of water raining down and collecting in Silas's fouled hair. With a frustrated grunt, Warden Oscar raised his palm and slapped Silas on the cheek, snapping the boy's head to the side but otherwise eliciting no response from him.

  "Cease this feeble act at once, boy!" Warden Oscar growled, his palm still raised.

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  In response, Silas blinked slowly but did nothing, a red welt rising on his cheek where he was struck. Oscar scowled, indignant heat coloring his cheeks. Muttering profanities under his breath, the Warden pulled a valve connected with a chain to the showerhead. Icy water flooded down to drench Silas, his clothes darkening as the fabric absorbed the flow. Rivulets of blood seeped from his hair and attire, spilling down the drain under the stool and dyeing the tiled floor red. When the water draining off him turned clear, Warden Oscar pulled the valve again to stop the water and threw a towel at Silas. It billowed as it caught the air and then wrapped around his head, coming to rest over his face and chest. Silas still did not move, even as the towel suffocated his face and made it difficult for him to breathe. Warden Oscar stood in the corner of the shower, tapping his foot impatiently and watching Silas's still form until no more water droplets dripped from his stool. He then yanked the towel from Silas's head and heaved the boy upright, dragging him back into the corridor.

  Halting before a heavy metal door, Warden Oscar procured his keyring from his belt and fiddled with it until finding the correct key. Before he could stoop to fit the key into the lock, the door swung inward. Arbiter Stroud stood on the other side, shifting her weight from heels to toes. She raised her eyebrows at Silas—his wet hair limply plastered to his face and his drenched clothes sticking to his skin.

  "Warden Oscar, I interrogate my suspects; I do not waterboard them." Arbiter Stroud peered at the Warden through her lashes, which fluttered with each languid blink.

  "There were some… technical difficulties in the shower, Arbiter," replied Warden Oscar, his hand clamping down on Silas's shoulder. Silas continued to stare at the floor, his head lolled forward.

  "I am sure." Stroud opened the door wider and stepped aside to allow Warden and prisoner into the interrogation room.

  Oscar shuffled in, dragging Silas after him. The boy was deposited at the end of a long metal table in a rickety chair that croaked under his weight. Opposite him sat Arbiter Stroud, who crossed her left leg over her right and leaned forward in her seat, resting elbows on the table and chin in her hands. Between her elbows lay a neat stack of parchment, which shifted slightly each time she exhaled.

  "You may leave, Warden," she said, shooing the man with the wave of her hand.

  Warden Oscar hesitated. At the sound of Arbiter Stroud's throat clearing impatiently, he bowed jerkily and extricated himself from the room, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary. Arbiter Stroud watched the door for several moments as though expecting more interruptions. Satisfied by the silence, she fixed her attention on Silas, who sat flaccidly in his chair, his gaze downcast and unfocused. He shivered slightly from the cold as his damp clothes clung to him, still waterlogged from the frigid shower.

  Suddenly, Arbiter Stroud reached out a hand and snapped her fingers, the decisive pop deafening in the confined space. Silas did not indicate that he heard it; his unseeing gaze remained focused on nothing. Arbiter Stroud screwed up her face in deliberation, considering her next move. She sighed and began leafing through the stack of parchments, skimming their contents hurriedly. Abruptly, she paused on a particular page, and she hummed to herself.

  "Alastair Carrow, your… grandfather, it says here." She scrutinized the page, chewing on the nail of her thumb in concentration. "He's alive, you know."

  Silas blinked, his lips parting slightly as focus began to brighten his eyes. He looked up at the Arbiter and then swiveled his head around the room like he was seeing it for the first time.

  "That got your attention, I see," Arbiter Stroud grinned playfully, throwing down the parchment and leaning forward.

  Silas met her gaze for an instant and then looked away shyly.

  "How about we make a deal?" said Arbiter Stroud, pressing steepled fingers to her lips to hide her grin, not that Silas was looking anyway. "If you answer all of my questions honestly and promptly, I will take you to the Sanctorium to visit him. The physicks doubt he will survive till morning, so I would agree to these terms quickly if I were you."

  Silas's attention shot upward to observe Arbiter Stroud's cocky half-smile. She raised a single eyebrow expectantly. Silas nodded rapidly in agreement.

  Arbiter Stroud lounged back in her chair. "Beginning with formalities, please state your full legal name. I will begin." She pressed a palm against her breast. "I am Imperial Arbiter Vera Stroud, lead investigator on matters concerning the Unspoken and treasonous acts against the Empire." Finished, she nodded her head, urging Silas to speak.

  Brain still muddled, Silas signed his name to her and then placed his manacled hands on the table, the chains clattering as they came to rest upon the metallic surface. Arbiter Stroud narrowed her eyes.

  "Sign language?" she asked, picking up the pile of parchment and reading, slowly this time, from the first page. She stopped reading, her eyes squinted on a particular line. "You don't speak," she deadpanned, her attention flicking between the parchment and Silas, whose cheeks and ears reddened in shame. Arbiter Stroud leaned back in her chair and sighed, covering her face with the stack of parchment. "Nobody ever tells me the important details," she grumbled as she slammed her chair back down and rose.

  Silas cowered, his shoulders bunched up to his ears protectively, but the Arbiter didn’t approach him. Instead, she stormed past him and out the door, leaving Silas alone in the interrogation room.

  For several dilated moments, Silas waited, straining his ears against the quiet for Arbiter Stroud's bootsteps. His thoughts buzzed—mind slowly focusing, clarity washing away the numbness at the news of Pa's survival. A glimmer of hope dared to rebel against the crushing grief, ascending from somewhere deep within and calming his fluttering heart. He beamed at the thought of seeing Pa again, if only to say goodbye properly. Silas urged Arbiter Stroud to return quickly so she could finish her interrogation and take him to Pa's bedside.

  The door banged open, causing Silas to gasp and jump in his seat. He swiveled in his chair as Arbiter Stroud marched back into the room, her lips pulled into a frustrated frown. She tossed a bundle of parchment and a stylus—filled with ink—in front of him before striding to the other side of the table and flinging herself into her chair.

  "Marvelous. A mute. Just what I needed tonight. Mouse boy, you'll write instead." She huffed her frustration as she lounged forward to again rest her head in her hands.

  In response, Silas nodded slowly and picked up the stylus. He scrawled his name across the top and turned the parchment around so the Arbiter could read it. She drew her frowned lips into a tight line.

  "Well, then, Silas Carrow. I hope you can write quickly."

  "Eighteen casualties and forty-seven injuries—eight of which are not expected to survive." Arbiter Stroud enumerated the fallen, the gravity of her words slamming into Silas and pinning him to his chair.

  He winced, shrinking against her words, his thoughts pulling him back to the catastrophe that had happened only hours previously. His mind lingered on the image of Ms. Adlewood and Charlotte, cradling each other in the eternal embrace of death. He breathed deeply and evenly, fighting back the growing panic.

  Arbiter Stroud watched his reaction and jotted down a few notes in a pocket-sized notepad before continuing, "Eyewitness reports put you at the scene, apparently communicating with the Unspoken and never falling victim to their attacks." She put down her stylus and leveled a searching stare at him. "How do you respond to these testimonies?"

  Silas picked up his stylus with a trembling, shackled hand and sloppily wrote, "I went outside for fresh air during guardianship time. I did not feel well and wanted to clear my mind. I stood outside by the succulent forest for some time, and when I turned around to go back in, an Unspoken was standing between me and the school."

  As he wrote, Arbiter Stroud rose from her chair and sauntered over to him. She stood behind him, reading over his shoulder. When he had finished, he looked up at her. She grunted and turned, walking back to her seat.

  "Elaborate. I care little for what happened before the attack." The Arbiter circled something in her notepad, waving at Silas to continue with her free hand. "I am interested in what you were doing standing face-to-face with one of those heathens, seemingly talking to it." She stopped her scribbling and compared her notes to the pieces of parchment spread out on the table before her, each page in its own spot. "And I am especially interested in why you are unscathed despite—according to eyewitness reports—being in the center of the fray."

  Silas hesitated, deliberating with himself. Did he tell Arbiter Stroud about the Voices he heard, and how, after tonight, he was convinced their source was the Unspoken? Would she even believe him if he did? The possibility seemed minimal, so he brushed the thought aside for now. "I honestly have no idea," he finally wrote, hanging his head in defeat, guilt creeping in at withholding the truth. He turned around his parchment so Arbiter Stroud could read it. By her face, he could tell that she was less than convinced.

  "I told you to tell me the entire truth, boy," she reprimanded, her tone threatening.

  Silas bristled, scouring his thoughts for an excuse. His brain—drained from sleep deprivation and trauma from the day's happenings—failed to muster up an erroneous explanation. Gritting his teeth, he once again took up his stylus and wrote, this time explaining everything in detail. Arbiter Stroud, impatient, moved to Silas to read over his shoulder as he wrote—this time dragging over her chair so she could sit while she read. She made little grunts and sighs in the back of her throat in reaction to his words, but said nothing until he was done. Finished, he gently placed the stylus down on the metal table, his fearful gaze darting everywhere except the Arbiter’s unreadable expression.

  "What a splendid mess this is," she finally stated, leaning across the table so Silas was forced to look at her. "Your paperwork from the Foundry School went into great detail about your—as one Dr. Strath dubs them—'bouts of auditory hallucinations.'"

  Silas stared at her but said nothing, finally looking away as the embarrassment became unbearable.

  "Personally, I fail to see the connection between your psychosis and this Unspoken attack, but I do believe this warrants further investigation." She reached into her pocket and produced a key, with which she unlocked Silas's manacles.

  He flinched at her touch as though her skin burned him, pulling his hands back once freed from the metallic confines. Red welts circled each wrist where the too-tight metal had bitten into his flesh.

  "Do not assume that I am dropping you from suspicion, boy," said Arbiter Stroud as she returned the key to her pocket. "However, I fail to see how confining you in a cell will solve this case any quicker." She cleared her throat. "Well, a deal is a deal. You answered my questions, so I will take you to visit this grandfather of yours." She stood and stretched, groaning in pleasure as her spine crackled and snapped. "Warden Oscar and I will accompany you. We can't let you out of our sight, now, can we?" She chuckled to herself and walked to the door, muttering, "Auditory hallucinations, a survivor of an Unspoken attack—oh, the physicks will be thrilled to hear of this," before turning to wait for Silas who stalled, staring dumbly after her.

  Collecting himself, he stood and followed Arbiter Stroud out the door, excitement mixing with fear at the thought of seeing Pa again, possibly for the last time. But in the hallway, he stopped short, recalling Pa's frantically signed message as he lay dying. Staggering back to the table, Silas seized the stylus and scrawled atop a piece of parchment, writing in jagged strokes:

  47 Brimthorne Lane, East Gloam

  The letters bled from the stylus, his hand smearing the ink in his haste. Finished, he tore the parchment to separate the address from the rest of the page and shoved it at Arbiter Stroud with a force that startled her. She took the piece of parchment and studied it, brow furrowing.

  "And what, pray tell, is this supposed to be?"

  Silas did not answer, only meeting her bemused expression. For a moment, her scrutiny lingered on the ink. Then, with a huff, she folded the scrap and placed it in her breast pocket.

  "Well then," she muttered, her voice low, sardonic, "looks like we've got ourselves a trail." She turned on her heel, crimson coat swaying, and exited the room. Silas trailed along behind her.