The ride back to central Droswick was steeped in silence. The words Stroud and Ravelin refused to say pressed against the walls of the boiler cabin, heavy and unshed. Silas kept his attention on Ravelin, watching her for any sudden movements. Her behavior in the cellar confused him, and he wondered when she might strike next. But the young Arbiter never gave Silas reason to doubt her intentions; she sat rigid, knees pinned tight, fingers twisted together in her lap. Occasionally, she adjusted her mask with a gentle poke, ensuring it was still in place, before twining her fingers back together and wringing her hands to calm her nerves. Silas recalled catching a brief glimpse of Ravelin's face, a harsh scar dragging from the corner of her lip down to her chin, as if something had tried to tear her face in two. The scar begged the question of its origin, but he knew he would never ask, especially not after her parting words with Stroud back in the hallway.

  Silas flattened his cheek against the glass—smudging its clear surface—and watched the haunting gloom of East Gloam metamorphose into the hustle and bustle of central Droswick. The familiarity of the city comforted Silas. Its bright starbloom lamps, illuminating streets and buildings, were a welcome sight compared to East Gloam's impregnable darkness. Silas tried to block out the memory of the Unspoken seen darting between the shadows of East Gloam's suburbs, but the fear refused to weaken its hold on his heart. He quickly scanned the scenery passing outside, his gaze dancing from shadow to shadow, searching for hidden figures. How many of them are out there? He wondered, his pulse quickening. Where do they hide themselves when they stalk from the shadows?

  Crownhold materialized on the horizon, its black spires and twin portcullises unmistakable as the boiler crested a hill. Silas breathed deep, forcing his lungs to slow the gallop in his chest. He tried to convince himself that this time, he was arriving as a guest, not a prisoner. But his thoughts kept straying to Ravelin's accusatory tone, declaring him a threat to the Empire. Perhaps she is right, he thought, sinking into his seat, trying to drown himself in the sturdy leather. He trembled, picturing the face of the dead Unspoken lying on the ground, its body sprawled in a puddle of spilled hemolymph. If I can do that to an Unspoken, what can I do to a human being?

  Stroud slammed the brakes, the boiler screeching to a halt a breath before it struck the portcullis. She cursed, her expression wild, realizing she had almost damaged Imperial property. Groaning, she closed her eyes and leaned forward, resting her forehead on the steering disc. Ravelin cleared her throat, unbuckling her harness and opening the door, leaving the vehicle without a word. Stroud did not acknowledge her departure. Instead, she kept her head pressed firmly against the disc, even when a Warden jumped from his sentry box and knocked on her window.

  "Senior Arbiter Vera Stroud, is that you in there?" the Warden asked, raising his visor to get a better look. "I think I just saw Junior Arbiter Ravelin get out without showing me her identification. Is everything all right?"

  There was a pause. Then, Stroud raised her head, turning to face the Warden. He paled, noticing her injured ear.

  "Everything is peachy, good Warden," Stroud intoned, her voice strained. "Go on, now. Scurry back to your little box and raise the portcullis for me. I have no patience for formalities this evening."

  The Warden gave Stroud a hasty Imperial salute before running back to his sentry box, tripping over his feet in a slapdash trot. Stroud drummed her fingers on the steering disc, a twitching eyebrow betraying her impatience. Silas dropped his head, bunching his shoulders to his ears. The moment the portcullis was sufficiently elevated, Stroud slammed her foot down and the boiler accelerated forward, the inertia flinging Silas against his harness.

  Stroud flicked her attention to the rearview mirror, her expression softening while she watched Silas fumbling around clumsily, a snarky amusement curling the corners of her lips. She returned her gaze to the road, the positive shift in her temperament reflected in her proficient driving. Stroud piloted the vehicle into a boiler park, where a sign at its entrance indicated that only Crownhold employees were permitted to park there. Silas observed the array of vehicles stationed here: compact boilers without rear cabins to transport Guards quickly to their destination; large, heavily-armored boilers for vectoring groups of prisoners between detention centers; boilers with metal grilles separating front from rear cabins, ferrying single prisoners to Crownhold; and personal vehicles like Stroud drove, each with their own unique flair.

  Stroud navigated her boiler into a snug spot between a curb and another vehicle. She then quickly tore the starter rod from its slot and unfastened her harness, avoiding Silas's gaze as she exited, slamming the door so hard the vehicle rocked on its wheels. Silas was unsure if he should get out himself or wait for Stroud's permission, so he remained seated, watching her through the windows. She stood off to the side, tapping her heel in a hyperactive march. Silas flinched when she swiveled her head, fixing him with an impatient glare. As quickly as he could, he fumbled with his harness, failing to unlock it several times in his haste. Suddenly, the door was flung wide. Silas froze, slowly turning his face to see Stroud standing before him, her arm outstretched, resting on the ajar door. Her face was obstructed by the boiler's roof, preventing Silas from reading her expression.

  "Oh, mouse boy, perhaps a snail is a more appropriate personification of your likeness." Stroud folded at the waist, bringing her face in line with Silas's. Her lips were drawn tight, and her eyebrow twitched again, its syncopation fluttering a stray lock of hair that escaped her bun and snagged in her eyelashes. "Maybe another time we can entertain this idea, but now I'd prefer if you hurried on out of your hidey-hole before I rip you out of there myself."

  A terrified squeak sounded from Silas's throat. He scrambled out of the seat, nearly slamming his fingers in the boiler door in his clumsy exit from the vehicle. Keeping his eyes trained on the ground, he followed at Stroud's heels as she walked, leading him toward Crownhold's brooding stonework.

  With chin tilted toward chest—attention trained on the ground—Silas entered Crownhold's main entrance, watching as the dry, dusty ground outside became the polished, dark stonework of Crownhold's interior. Occasionally, he chanced an upward glance, his gaze flicking down each time he encountered the scrutiny of a Guard or Warden. Several of Stroud's colleagues attempted conversation in passing, bidding her a quick "hello" muttered under their breath or asking about her jaunt to East Gloam. Stroud ignored everyone, her thousand-yard stare shielding her from further attempts at small talk.

  Stroud stopped before a desk, behind which sat Warden Oscar. The man glanced up from the paperwork he was reading, blanching as he observed Stroud's ear and uncharacteristically sour mood. He released the paperwork—letting the parchment float down to the desk—and stood.

  "Senior Arbiter Stroud…" His voice faltered, lips trembling. He coughed and took a sip of water from a glass resting on the desk, his hand shaking as it lifted the glass to his lips. "I take it East Gloam was more arduous than originally anticipated?" Oscar refused to look at Silas. He clasped his hands at his front, wrapping his right fingers over his left wrist.

  Stroud cocked her head and began walking in the direction she indicated. Silas moved to follow, afraid of another impatient outburst. But Stroud stopped him, shaking her head until he faltered, staring at her in confusion.

  "You stand there for a minute," she told him, nodding at Oscar, who now stood beside her. "I need to exchange a few words with the Warden in private."

  They turned, slowly marching down the hallway. Stopping halfway down, Stroud watched Silas from the corner of her eye as she began to speak. Warden Oscar listened attentively, the veins in his neck bulging when her words hit home. Unsure what to do with himself, Silas lingered awkwardly, his gaze darting everywhere except to meet the scrutiny of passersby, whose noses wrinkled in disgust at the blood smeared upon his cheeks and chin.

  He observed Crownhold's interior architecture. This upper level was brighter and more congenial than the lower dungeon. The space was amply lit by a grandiose chandelier suspended from the ceiling by intricately woven chains. The fixture hung like a spider's web, its starbloom bulbs dangling on thin metal arms like hunting arachnids. Several other desks lined the left and rightmost walls, Wardens working studiously behind their workstations.

  Affixed to the wall above the corridor was a large, gold-framed portrait of a grim-faced man. His ginger hair was combed back, flattened so tightly against his skull it outlined his cranium. Haloed by fiery lashes, his severe grey eyes seemed to follow Silas wherever he stood, seeing everything from everywhere. While he wore the crimson and gold of Imperial attire, the glistening epaulets embellishing his shoulders and the ebony cape that flared from his neck like an inky shadow signified his advanced rank. While there was no placard to name the portrait, Silas knew this must be the face of Archarbiter Malrick Sorne.

  Silas turned at the sound of heavy bootsteps. Warden Oscar approached him slowly, cautiously. He halted several paces away, his arms stiff at his sides, his eyes nervously darting about. Silas craned his neck, peering behind the man. He saw Stroud's retreating figure, her form shrinking as she walked farther and farther down the long hallway. Eventually, she disappeared, her image swallowed by shadows. Silas's heartbeat galloped, uncertainty clutching at his throat.

  "Arbiter Stroud has left you in my care for the evening," Oscar explained, his monotonous tone betraying his aversion to the situation.

  Silas dropped his head, mood plummeting. He tightened his grip on his bundle of belongings, strung across his shoulders and back.

  Oscar watched him, his tense posture slackening. Taking a step forward, he said, "However, she asserted her desire to speak with you in the morn. The Arbiter is true to her word; you can be sure of that."

  Silas lifted his head. Warden Oscar smiled briefly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling amiably.

  "Come along, then," he said, waving down the hallway. "I'm sure you are as tired as she is. Try to get some rest tonight." Oscar took off, his footfalls echoing as they bounced along the walls of the corridor.

  Silas huffed and followed, jogging to catch up. The novelty of Oscar's affable personage puzzled Silas. He cupped his hand over the cheek Oscar struck, remembering the sharp pain when the Warden’s palm stung his flesh. Why the sudden change of heart? Did Stroud's cursory conversation with him have such a dramatic effect?

  Oscar stood before a door, pushing it open to reveal a descending stairwell. Silas gulped, his breath quickening. He took a skittish step back, scurrying away from the door. Returning to the depths of Crownhold was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Warden Oscar paused, holding the door open with his boot. He appraised Silas's anxious comportment with a blank expression. After a moment, he stepped back into the hallway, letting the door shut behind him with a heavy click. He took a step forward, the keys on his belt jingling. Silas took a step back, his legs poised, ready to flee.

  "It's only for tonight." Oscar puffed out his cheeks, letting the air burst from his mouth in an audible pop. "How do I frame this…" He unlocked his knees, rocking back and forth from heel to toe as he thought. "Oh! How about this?" He darted back to the door, holding it open. "I'll keep the cell unlocked. You are free to come and go as you please. Does that calm your nerves?"

  Silas gaped at the Warden. No, it does not, he thought, but his feet were already carrying him forward, his head hung in defeat. An electric jolt of fear shot through him as he remembered the hungry stares of the prisoners watching him from their cells. But I have no other choice.

  Silently, Warden Oscar led Silas down, descending deep into Crownhold's abyss. There was a marked drop in temperature the farther they climbed, and Silas shivered, gooseflesh prickling along his skin. Droplets of condensation rained down from overhead pipes, the sound of water rushing through their hollow lumens otherworldly against the rigid stone walls of the shaft. Several times, Silas was convinced Oscar would stop at the next landing, but he kept going, his pace even. Finally, they reached the bottom, stopping before a thick metal door. Oscar procured a key and inserted it into the lock, turning until there was a click. The door creaked open, revealing the familiar, dreary hallway Silas recognized from his first visit to Crownhold. He exited the stairwell after Oscar, who locked the door behind them. Oscar pivoted on his heel and trudged onward, leaving Silas staring at the locked stairwell door with longing.

  Silas steeled himself, attempting to soothe his hyperactive nervous system. The Warden waited for him, continuing his walk as Silas trotted along behind him. Silas kept his attention fixed forward, watching Oscar's feet. Don't look at them, he told himself, his neck prickling with the sensation of ravenous stares glaring at him from behind cell doors.

  Oscar paused before a cell, its cage door gaping open. Silas peered at the Warden through his lashes, his chin digging into his chest. Oscar flicked his eyes, jerking his head into the cell's entrance. His shoulders drooping, Silas relented, dragging his feet as he languidly shambled inside.

  Oscar closed the door, shutting it with the jarring gong of metal hitting metal. True to his word, he left the door unlocked, returning his key ring to its place on his belt.

  "I changed the soap bar, by the way," Oscar said with a chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest. He grinned, his gaze at his feet, as he rubbed his neck awkwardly. "Uh, shout if you need anything. Or, you could—you know—open the door. Since… Since I left it unlocked." Without sparing Silas a parting glance, Oscar left, leaving Silas alone with his thoughts and small bundle of belongings.

  Silas sighed, slinging his bundle off and tossing it onto the thin, unfolded futon resting beside the wall. He stepped to the sink, considering the fresh soap bar with pursed lips. He looked up, breath hitching in his throat as he observed his reflection in the small, cracked mirror. Dried, flaking blood wept from his eyes and nose in ruby rivers. The streams met at the confluence of his chin, trickling down his neck. His bloodshot eyes swelled red, as if he'd been crying for days. Silas stooped over the sink's basin, cranking the handles full blast and thrusting his face into the raging torrent. He allowed the icy water to calm him, washing away his jumbled thoughts along with the blood.

  Finished, Silas unfolded his futon and came to rest upon it. He plopped onto it from a standing position, expecting it to absorb the force of his fall. Yet its meager material offered no support, and he grunted as his rear painfully slammed into the hard ground. Silas unwound his bundle, setting his belongings on the ground before him. With unsteady hands, he grasped the single bottle of Powder he packed, considering its contents.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Would the Powder make me less noticeable to the Unspoken? He swirled the bottle, listening to the gentle murmur of the Powder shifting in its container. He wondered why, as he aged, the Voices grew louder and clearer, their episodes becoming more frequent until culminating in physical altercations with Unspoken. He stopped, gripping the jar so tightly his knuckles paled. Would the Powder make me less dangerous?

  Silas set the Powder down. He pressed his palms into his eyes until colors burst behind his lids. He tried to forget, to purge the dead Unspoken—the one he killed—from his memory, but his mind wouldn't let it go. He raised his head, rocking back and forth soothingly as he wrapped his arms around his legs.

  What if I do that to a human?

  His thoughts turned to Pa, focusing on his likeness in startling clarity. Silas's eyes widened, spilling over with tears. His body shook, emotion erupting from his throat in a sob.

  What if I hurt someone I care about?

  Silas sat like that for some time, curled into a tight ball on the cold, unyielding floor of his cell. Eventually, his tumultuous thoughts simmered down, leaving him exhausted. Yawning, he stretched out on the futon, falling into fitful sleep atop its paper-thin blanket. His coat was sufficiently warm, keeping him comfortable as he dozed, jolting awake frequently from nightmares. In the worst dream, it wasn't the Unspoken—it was Pa, sprawled in blood on the floorboards of 47 Brimthorne Lane. The imagery was startlingly clear, most of it borrowed from Silas's memory of Pa bleeding out in front of the Foundry School. He shot awake, flying into a sitting position. Sweat coated his face, his hair sticking to his moist skin in limp tendrils. Oscar stood above him, wearing a dumbfounded expression. Silas blinked rapidly, forcing the terrible image from his mind. He breathed hard and shallow, trying to calm his racing heart.

  "Bad dream?" the Warden guessed, looking at Silas's belongings littered upon the floor.

  Silas must have been tossing and turning in his sleep, for everything was strewn haphazardly on the ground. His heart sank when he noticed his bottle of Powder had fallen on its side. Its cap was missing, lying in the center of a pile of white dust. Silas sat on his knees and bent forward, using the edge of his hand like a broom to scrape the Powder back into its bottle. He frowned, noting the bits of dirt and hair entering the bottle along with it.

  Oscar watched this with lips pursed in contemplation. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word in, Silas stood, staring upward at the Warden eagerly.

  "You're that excited for another interrogation with the Arbiter?" Oscar asked incredulously. He shrugged and turned on his heel, not waiting for Silas to offer a response.

  Silas followed behind, exiting the unlocked cell, leaving the door cracked open behind him. Oscar walked too slowly for Silas's limited patience. He hopped along beside the Warden, a giddiness electrifying his limbs with energy. Oscar appraised him from the corner of his eye, his face forward.

  They came to a stop in front of a lone door. Silas recognized it from the first time he spoke with Stroud. It had only been a few days ago, but so much had happened since then. Thoughts elsewhere, Silas absent-mindedly stumbled into the room after Oscar unlocked it, tripping over an untied bootlace. He took an unsteady jump-step forward, catching himself with extended arms like he was balancing on a beam.

  "Your usual incoordination is a welcome sight, little mouse," Stroud said from her seat.

  Silas blushed, bunching his shoulders toward his ears and offering Stroud a shy glance. She cocked an eyebrow and gave him a lopsided grin, resting her head in her hands, her elbows digging into the table. She reached for a steaming mug of coffee that was perched at the end of the table, precariously close to falling over the edge. A half-full pot sat within her arms' reach, ready for another refill. The bitter, earthy aroma filled the room, causing Silas to scrunch up his nose in distaste. By her bloodshot eyes and jittery, trembling fingers, Silas wagered Stroud had spent the night caffeinating herself instead of sleeping. He dragged his attention to her ear, which was covered in a thick white bandage. Stroud saw him staring and shifted in her seat, tilting her head so her untied hair covered the wound and cascaded down her shoulder.

  Oscar cleared his throat behind Silas. He bowed before exiting, shutting the door gently behind him. Silas stood in the middle of the room, shifting on his feet and fiddling with the material of his coat. Stroud took a long, noisy slurp from her mug, watching Silas squirm over the brim. His eyes flitted between her and his feet, never focusing on one spot for more than a second.

  "Take a seat, Silas." Stroud waved her mug, indicating the chair on the side of the table opposite her. The coffee sloshed with the sudden movement, splattering the sleeve of Stroud's coat. She didn't seem to notice, setting the mug down forcefully and leaning back in her seat.

  Silas hesitated, his knee half-bent, before taking a step toward the chair. He seated himself behind a stack of plain parchment. His fingers curled around a stylus, full of ink and ready to use.

  "I trust Warden Oscar treated you well last night?" Stroud asked as he settled in, a wry grin twisting her lips. "The warning I gave him left no room for interpretation."

  Silas nodded, his lips parted in awe. He was shocked that Stroud went out of her way to do that for him. He bowed his head in thanks, an appreciative smile alighting his features.

  "Before we begin," Stroud said, taking a deep inhale to ground herself, "the one piece of information I will not share with you is what was found in your pa's study." Stroud watched Silas, daring him to argue. She placed her hands on the table, both palms pressed into the surface. Her spine crackled as she sat taller, her back rigid.

  Silas nodded, expecting this. While frustration tickled the back of his mind, he ignored it, willing the sensation to wash away. If he were argumentative with Stroud, the conversation would go nowhere.

  Stroud visibly relaxed, her shoulders drooping and a relieved sigh escaping her lips. "Thank you for your understanding," she said, taking a sip of coffee. She reached into her breast pocket, pulling out a distorted piece of parchment between her index and middle fingers. She slid the parchment across the table; the metal squealed under it.

  "I found this in the cellar," Stroud explained, wrapping her fingers around her mug. "I need you to tell me if anything about this rings a bell." She tapped her forehead with her index finger, nodding as Silas unfolded the parchment and flattened it out in front of him.

  He read, his eyes narrowing as they flew across the page. Printed on it in unfamiliar handwriting was a succinct message:

  Phase II supplies moved to the Coldspire Depot, under cover of nightfall

  Silas read the message several times, hovering over each word, willing his mind to understand, to connect lines between dots that were not yet drawn. He shook his head and frowned, setting the parchment down. He sagged back, his chair creaking in protest. Stroud watched him, studying his body language with unblinking surveillance.

  "Huh," she said curtly, her disappointment clear. She folded her arms and leaned back, tilting her chair until it balanced on its two back legs. Her focus drifted as she considered her next words.

  Silas waited patiently, alternating glances between the table and Stroud. He jumped—startled—when Stroud slammed her chair back down, a percussive thud echoing back from the walls. She steepled her fingers, pressing them against her lips.

  "You know nothing about Coldspire?" She framed it as a question, yet her monotone suggested she already knew the answer. She huffed when Silas confirmed her suspicions with a slow head shake.

  Clearing her throat after mumbling something indecipherable, she blinked at Silas and said, "Splendid. Allow me to give you a brief history lesson, then."

  Silas put down the stylus he had been tinkering with, placing it neatly atop the pile of parchment. He sat at the edge of his seat, leaning with his torso hovering above the table. As Stroud spoke, he listened attentively to her every word.

  "Coldspire Depot was—still is, depending on who you ask—a transport hub. It's located north, about thirty miles—give or take—from Droswick and equidistant to Ashmere." Stroud waved her hands while she explained, hovering her fingers in the air to map out relative distances between points. "It ferries people and cargo on barges down the Great Canals. It did, at least, before it faded into oblivion when boilers became popular and Imperial funding diminished. Now barely one barge passes through per day, usually carrying ore south to the mills.

  "I've been once, maybe twice. People tend to avoid the place because vagrants and the like frequent it for looting and pillaging. Naturally, my career led me there in my Junior days, when my Senior and I worked on petty crime cases. I never found it to be especially riveting. Perhaps you can hypothesize why your pa or his affiliates would send you to a place so…" Stroud paused, squinting upward at the ceiling, grasping for the right word. "So derelict. I can't contrive a reason for this, unless the Depot itself symbolizes a need to travel farther…"

  Stroud chewed her lip, her thoughts elsewhere. Silas waited a few moments to give her a chance to continue, but she said nothing more. Instead, her gaze snapped back and landed on him, prompting an answer to her question. Silas gripped the stylus, his attention darting across the empty parchment, his thoughts scrambled.

  Silas was familiar with the Great Canals. They were a network of man-made waterways, flowing with groundwater pumped from beneath the planet's surface. Many large cities supplied their citizens with water by pumping directly from the ground, but smaller settlements often relied upon artificial sources of surface water, such as the Great Canals. He knew how the Great Canals functioned, but he had never heard of Coldspire Depot, most likely for the reasons Stroud mentioned. Or because he had never left the city. His journey to East Gloam was the farthest he had ever ventured. While he knew it was a meager distance for the well-traveled, thirty miles sounded alien to Silas. Pa kept Silas sheltered in Droswick his entire life, never letting him travel beyond its borders. Pa claimed the city had everything they needed, so leaving it would be frivolous. But Silas wanted to know what the world outside was like. Reading about it in books was fine, but journeying to a new place on your own two feet was unmatched.

  "I know nothing about Coldspire or why Pa would want me to go there," Silas wrote. "In fact, I am not convinced Pa would permit me to go at all. He has never taken me outside the city before." Silas paused, thinking. Something about this wasn't adding up. He racked his brain, sorting through his scattered memories of 47 Brimthorne Lane. "Was there nothing else in the cellar that provided more insight? What about that symbol written all over the crates down there?"

  Stroud quickly read Silas's parchment after he handed it to her. She clicked her tongue, tossing the page back to him. "What a weird man Alastair Carrow is," she said, picking at her thumbnail with her index finger. "But you do have a good point, Silas." Stroud downed the rest of her coffee, leaning her head back to lick up the last drop. Slamming the empty mug down, she said, "I suppose it's time for me to explain what Ravelin and I experienced yesterday."

  Silas's heart skipped a beat. Finally, Stroud was addressing the questions he desperately needed answered. He began frantically scribbling down his queries, but Stroud stopped him, shaking her head listlessly.

  "Hold your questions till the end of my spiel," she said. "If you're still unsatisfied by then, I will entertain them. But for now, just sit there and listen. Does that sound fair to you?"

  Silas's head bobbed up and down enthusiastically. Stroud snorted out a laugh, sighing contentedly.

  "Okay, then. Here's the story. At first, there was nothing unusual about the cellar. Yes, the chalkboard sketch lent the place a sinister air. The even creepier crates with their cryptic little symbols also had a particular appeal. But I've been at this job for long enough now that I've seen weirder and creepier, so that's not what put me off."

  Silas attempted to write a question, but Stroud kept going, scowling at the stylus in his hand. He gingerly set it down, folding his hands together. Satisfied, Stroud continued where she left off.

  "No, I don't know what those symbols mean, if that is what you were going to ask." Stroud's lips twitched in amusement as Silas's cheeks filled with heat. "However, I wager they have something to do with the classified information I am not of sufficient rank to access. I'm having Ravelin work on that as we speak."

  Silas shifted in his seat at the mention of Ravelin. Stroud nodded, mumbling an "Mhm."

  "About that," she said, confusion marring her features. "Your little freak-out episode had extremely coincidental timing. I still struggle to put this into words, but I will try my best. While you were rolling on the ground, screaming your head off, this indescribable sensation permeated the air." Stroud rubbed her temples, massaging them with her first two fingers. "It… It was this palpable feeling of anger and resentment. It was pure violence. It affected me little; I shook it off fine. Ravelin, on the other hand, was overwhelmed by it and went into a craze." Stroud barked out a sour laugh from her clenched throat. "I truly believe she meant to kill me. If I hadn't reacted in time…

  "A-anyway, suddenly it stopped. Then there was a thud from upstairs. It sounded like someone had collapsed. Ravelin decided to go and investigate the situation. I sent her up there with my weapon, the one she almost killed me with, of course. Perhaps not the best move, in hindsight, but we were both pretty shaken and not thinking clearly. Ravelin climbed up and screamed, shouting something about an Unspoken invading the house. I dragged you upstairs, and you should know the rest."

  Silas shivered, remembering what he had done. Stroud watched him, furrowing her brow.

  "Ravelin is convinced you are somehow an Unspoken in human form." She chuckled, looking down at her lap, but there was no mirth in it. Her eyes flashed. She caught herself, realization dawning as if she had shared more than intended. "If you would be so kind, mouse boy, I'd like you to explain to me what exactly you did."

  Stroud stared at him, her gaze calculating. Her irises darted over his form, studying him from head to toe. Silas found sudden interest in the corner of the table, mapping out its dimensions with his eyes. When Stroud made an impatient noise in the back of her throat, he picked up his stylus with trembling fingers.

  "You may not believe me, but I think that I can hear what the Unspoken say." Silas began to write, his shaky penmanship growing neater as he calmed. "I don't think it's madness. I think the Unspoken are speaking inside my head. But the Unspoken at 47 Brimthorne Lane wasn't speaking to me. It was attacking me. I fought back. I sort of just flung all of my frustrations at it. And then, all of a sudden, it stopped. I killed it. I don't know exactly how, but I did. I felt the moment its mind snapped, and I won."

  Silas put his stylus down. He hesitated, afraid of turning over his parchment to Stroud. He knew that nothing would be the same after voicing his suspicions, and clung to those last moments of certainty. Silas swallowed hard over the lump in his throat, his mouth dry. He slid the parchment to Stroud. She took it, glancing his way. Her attention then turned to the page, her mouth gaping wider the longer she read.

  Stroud read the words again and again, her gaze always snapping back to the top. She began obsessively biting her thumbnail, chewing it down to the nailbed. She suddenly slammed the parchment down. Silas stared at her, unsure of where to put his hands. They danced between the tabletop and his lap, his fingers curling and uncurling. Stroud blinked, her eyelashes slowly fluttering open and closed.

  "Oh, what a joy this is," she finally said, her twitchy eyebrow resuming its pulse. "Do you have any idea what this means, Silas?"

  Before he could respond, the door banged open with such force that the knob bit into the wall. Silas hiccuped a gasp, swiveling in his seat. Stroud's face wilted, her lips drawing into a tight line, nostrils flaring. A man strode into the room. Red hair—fading slightly at the roots—was slicked back against his skull with gel. His ink-black cape dragged behind him like a spill of smoke. An ornamental sword bumped against his hip, its scabbard inscribed with curling, interlacing detail. Ravelin trailed in after him, her apathetic face unreadable. Warden Oscar scuttled beside her. He was moving his mouth like he was whispering to someone, but no words could be heard.

  The Archarbiter! Silas thought, fear tightening his throat.

  Archarbiter Malrick Sorne lazily observed the room, slowly appraising it from his vantage point. When his attention locked onto Silas, it lingered. Silas squirmed and looked away, unable to bear the Archarbiter's silent, unresponsive examination. The Archarbiter took a step forward, his cape flaring. He marched to Silas's chair. Silas spun around, staring at Stroud pleadingly. A heavy hand landed on Silas's shoulder. He flinched, his upper body trembling. The fingers gripped tightly, forcing him into stillness.

  "So, this is the boy," said the voice behind him. It was gruff and stiff. The sound of it reminded Silas of a carrion wolf growling.

  Stroud's face seemed to convulse for a moment. A look of pure fury passed over her, but it ended so quickly that Silas wondered if he imagined it. Stroud relaxed, feigning confidence.

  "What can I help you with, Archarbiter Sorne?" Stroud's tone was even. To the untrained ear, it may have suggested indifference. Silas heard the strained undertone; her act not fooling him.

  The fingers tightened again. Silas bit back a cry, the pressure hurting his shoulder.

  "I think I will take him off your hands, Senior Arbiter Vera Stroud." The Archarbiter relaxed his grip, patting Silas's shoulder. "Elsbeth's account of his case thus far was fascinating. So fascinating that I think you should surrender the case to me." The Archarbiter leaned in, his lips nearly brushing Silas's ear. He spoke, his whisper only for Silas to hear. "We meet at last, child of Concordia."