Moments after Stroud declared her intention to learn sign language, a loud, rumbling gurgle issued from Silas's stomach. His ears flared red. Stroud snorted, sucking in her lips to contain her laughter. She stood, slamming her hand on the table as she pulled herself to her feet. With a vacant gaze, she stared at her empty coffee mug and pot, humming softly to herself.

  "Breakfast would be nice," she declared, her attention flicking to Silas. The redness grew, embarrassed heat searing the back of his neck.

  "Oh, little mouse, there is nothing to be ashamed of." Stroud leveled a lazy, half-lidded gaze at him. "Growing boys and mice have much in common. They are both ravenous little monsters." She marched away from the table. Silas turned his head to watch her pass. He glanced away when she paused in front of the door.

  "Well? Are you coming?" she huffed impatiently, tapping her heel. "My poor stomach has had nothing but coffee to chew on for the past twelve hours. Whether or not you want to satiate the raging beast in your belly, I will be breaking my fast now. Do you care to join me?"

  He sprang up, then slowed as he edged toward her, peeking up shyly. She opened the door, holding it open for him with a bow, one arm bent over her chest in an imitation of a doorman. Silas giggled, hopping through the threshold.

  When he stepped back into Crownhold's dungeon, his smile fell. No matter how many times he saw these damp, dreary hallways, he never got used to them. He didn't know how Stroud did it, spending every day deep within the fortress's suffocating confines. He stumbled forward, moving in the direction Oscar brought him from.

  "And where do you think you are going?"

  Silas swiveled, turning on his heel. Stroud planted her fists on her hips, blocking the doorway with a smirk. Silas gestured, pointing down the corridor. He figured they would be climbing back up the stairs, the way he and Oscar had descended last night. Stroud shook her head, her tongue going tsk, tsk.

  "You're like a blind man bumbling around without his cane." She flicked her head over her shoulder. Silas's gaze followed where she indicated, noticing a dimly lit hallway branching off from the interrogation room.

  "Did you really think I would be climbing up all those flights of stairs?"

  Silas shrugged in response. Stroud's eyes rolled.

  "Well, you were sorely mistaken. We have an elevator, you know." Stroud turned, not waiting to see Silas's reaction.

  He gaped at her. An elevator! he marveled, skipping to catch up.

  Excitement fizzed through his veins as he bounded at Stroud's side, scanning for the contraption. Silas knew of elevators from books, but had never ridden one himself. It made sense that Crownhold had one: most large buildings with Imperial funding were fashioned with the newest technologies. Silas hadn't been to many places besides his home and school, and the occasional restaurant and store. There had never been an opportunity for him to ride an elevator, and he assumed he never would.

  Stroud watched Silas from the corner of her eye, her lips tugging upward. She stopped before an innocuous door. Silas slid to a halt, his boots squealing. He frowned, looking between the door and Stroud. Other than the strange inscription above the door, there was nothing to differentiate this one from the others that lined the hallway. The inscription reminded Silas of a pocket watch. There were twelve numbers inscribed, starting at zero. An arrow pointed to the far-left side, hovering over the large, round "0". The far-right side seated the twelve; the remaining numbers squeezed in a line between them. Stroud reached forward and pressed a button. Silas had not noticed the small square protrusion from the wall until now; it had been hidden by Stroud's shoulders. At her touch, the door let out a shrill ding!

  Silas jumped, breath catching as he stumbled back. His eyes widened as the door opened on its own, yawning wide with the mechanical groan of hydraulics. Fully agape, the open door revealed a small room lit by two starbloom sconces. Stroud chuckled and stepped inside. She waved, her hand pulling at the air to tug Silas forward.

  Mesmerized, Silas's feet carried him onward. When he stepped into the small room, he held out his arms for balance, the floor listing slightly under him. His gaze shot to Stroud, looking for reassurance. She nodded, her face alight, no longer able to hide her mirth. She pressed another button, and the elevator sang again. Silas turned around to watch the door close, examining the neat row of twelve—thirteen counting the zero—square buttons poking from the elevator's wall. The button Stroud pressed glowed, a starbloom backlight highlighting the floor she selected. The door hissed shut, leaving them in momentary silence. Then, gravity seemed to increase its force, pressing on Silas from above as the elevator soared upward. He locked his knees, gritting his teeth against the pressure. Stroud tittered, hiding her laugh behind her palm.

  With one final lurch, the elevator came to a stop. Silas staggered, the unexpected stillness throwing him forward. Before his body slammed into the door, it opened with another ding. He stumbled into a hallway, Stroud casually strolling out behind him. She looked down at him, biting her cheek to stifle a chuckle. Silas turned to watch the door close again. The arrow above hovered at floor five for a moment, and then it spun to the right on its ascent to twelve.

  "Did your first elevator ride exceed your expectations?" Stroud asked, her voice airy as she fought against the laughter that clenched her throat.

  Silas turned back around to face her, his heart hammering. He boggled, unsure how to feel. It was all over so quickly! He would need to ride it again to form a more solid opinion…

  Silas became aware of the activity in the hallway. Wardens, Guards, and Arbiters were everywhere he looked. Arbiters walked in groups, chatting amiably and exchanging notepads and parchments. Clusters of Wardens lingered under doorframes, shouting at each other to be heard over the din. Guards shuffled past, weaving their way through the milling people with dexterity. The hubbub reminded Silas of the Foundry School's hallways during break periods. The thought made his heart sink.

  Will I ever see my classmates again? he wondered sadly, hovering at Stroud's hip as she led him down the corridor.

  The aroma of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee caressed Silas's nose. He inhaled deeply, his mouth watering. Stroud turned left—cutting in front of two Guards barreling down the hallway—and entered the canteen. Silas drew to a halt and waited for the Guards to pass before following Stroud in. The large room shone with natural light. Rays of Dysol's ruby brilliance flitted through the rectangular windows that lined the walls. Long bench-style tables were arranged in rows. People ate and conversed in nearly every available seat. Silas scanned the room, looking for a quiet corner to hide himself in. He hunched—shoulders climbing to his ears as tension pinched his back—when he found nothing to satisfy his craving for solitude.

  "Ah, it's been a while, Senior Arbiter Stroud!"

  Silas's head jolted in the direction of the voice. Two young Arbiters jogged over. The one who had spoken was a young man. His short-cropped golden hair burned like fire as it reflected beams of Dysol light. His companion was a young woman with monolidded eyes and long, thin black hair secured in a ponytail that swept back and forth as she ran. Her dimples deepened as her grin refused to falter. Silas's attention darted to Stroud, searching her face. Her cheeks drooped momentarily, a brief frown creasing her chin. Silas noticed the way she clenched and unclenched her fists before forcing herself to relax and painting her face with its usual nonchalance.

  "Lucan, Maris. It has been a while indeed. How have the two of you been faring now that you are settled in with your Seniors?" Stroud fidgeted with her thumbnail. Finding hardly any nail left to work with, she relaxed her fingers again, her hand falling limp at her side.

  The blond-haired young man—who Silas figured must be Lucan—beamed at Stroud. His attention skittered briefly to Silas before he said, "We have been excellent, thank you for asking. The experience has been phenomenal so far." He shrugged to Maris, who closed her eyes and smiled deeper, her head bobbing. "However, I still do envy Elsbeth, since she was lucky enough to place with you, Senior Arbiter Stroud."

  Stroud swallowed hard. "Yes, lucky her indeed. And lucky me, too. Youth as diligent and talented as her are rather… rare nowadays."

  Maris opened her eyes. She stared at Silas, her perpetual smile beginning to unnerve him. He edged behind Stroud, her back a shield against Maris's fixation. Maris continued to watch him, even as she spoke. Her calm, serene voice lilted with an unfamiliar accent.

  "Speaking of Elsbeth, how has your most recent case been faring? The child behind you—is that Silas Carrow? We have heard much about him from the chatter among the other Arbiters." Maris leaned in conspiratorially, her gaze drifting to Stroud's bandaged ear. "Is it true that the Archarbiter has offered you his assistance in this case?"

  Stroud's nostrils flared. Silas shimmied an extra inch behind her. Maris leaned to the side, craning her neck to get a better view. She pulled something from her pocket and smoothly dropped it into Stroud's hand. Stroud tensed, her fingers curling over the smooth black object. Quickly, Stroud tucked it into a pocket in her trousers before dropping her hand back to her side.

  "Hmmm. He's awfully shy, isn't he, Lucan?" Maris fluttered her lashes at Silas, her ponytail draping over her shoulder.

  Lucan leaned in the opposite direction, craning his neck to see Silas. He waved. Silas wished he could melt into Stroud's shadow. "Why, he sure is, Maris! He's like a rat caught in a trap!" Lucan straightened, his thunderous laugh booming through the canteen's cacophony. Maris joined in, the corners of her eyes moistening with joyful tears.

  Stroud cleared her throat, silencing the young Arbiters. They straightened, their chins jutted out, and their feet pressed together with regimented precision. Stroud sighed. She combed her fingers through her limp hair, glancing over her shoulder at Silas's cowering form as she did so. She raised her eyebrows at him before turning back around.

  "This talk has been splendid, but I could really use some food and a chance to sit down. If you will excuse me." Stroud bowed curtly and departed, weaving her way down an aisle as she beelined it for the buffet line.

  Silas blinked after her. He took a step to follow, but was stopped by Maris, who gently gripped his biceps. He turned, forced to face her as her grip tightened. Lucan folded at the waist—bringing his face in line with Silas's.

  "Take good care of Arbiter Stroud, you hear?" he said, light flashing behind his gaze. "Rumor has it she lives at Crownhold, never parting from her work to rest. Don't pile even more weight onto her shoulders!"

  With this, Maris released Silas. She turned and followed Lucan out the door. They exited the canteen without a backward glance. Silas blinked after them. That was weird, he thought, scanning the canteen for Stroud. He saw her lingering at the end of the line, carrying two trays. He skipped over to her, dashing between Arbiters and Wardens who stared at him skeptically.

  Silas huffed, pulling up beside Stroud. She passed him a tray, which he took thankfully. He perched on tip-of-toes, trying to catch a glimpse of the delicious-smelling food. Stroud nudged him.

  "They didn't give you a hard time, did they?" she asked, her attention trained forward.

  Silas shook his head, advancing a step in line. He looked up at Stroud, tilting his head in question. He stared at her, hoping she understood what he was trying to say. She studied him with a carefree grin.

  "Curious about them, are you?"

  Silas nodded.

  "Ha! Don't be. They're the usual batch of eager, extroverted Juniors that graduate the Academy each syzygy." Stroud drummed her fingers along the brim of her tray. "They're always the same. They wear fake personalities and wield shallow niceties to get into the circles of the Seniors they know will advance their rank. That's one thing I've always liked about Elsbeth. She's never pretended to be something she isn't to gain my trust. Her authenticity is why I chose her."

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Silas walked forward and grabbed a plate. He began filling his tray, eagerly scooping heaping servings. Stroud followed suit, neatly placing a biscuit in the center of her plate, drenching it in gravy. When she had finished serving herself, Stroud cut in front of Silas. She moved to the top of the line and spoke with the stout, red-faced cashier. They exchanged currency. The cashier laughed and leaned in as if to whisper a joke. Stroud tensed but smiled politely before pulling away from the line. She nodded at Silas and turned, rushing out of the canteen. Silas ambled after her, moving as quickly as he could with his loaded tray.

  She paid for my food! Silas marveled, barely glimpsing Stroud before she turned sharply and disappeared beyond a bend. He sped up, chasing after her.

  She lingered in a doorway, propping it open with her hip. When Silas rounded the corner, she kicked the door open and disappeared inside. His attention landed on a placard beside the door with Stroud's name and title embellished on it. Silas slipped in after her before the door slammed shut.

  Stroud was seated behind a simple, plain wooden desk. The desk was bare save for a small cup holding a stylus and a bottle of ink. Stroud lounged in a plush chair of dark leather. The leather murmured in protest when she shifted in her seat. The only other furniture in the room were two wire chairs that Silas feared might buckle under his weight. A window behind Stroud let in late morning light, which bathed her chestnut hair auburn-red. Stroud opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of ribbon. She leaned forward and flipped her head upside down, her hair spilling into her lap. She gathered her hair into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, securing it in place with the ribbon. Finished, she leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed, muttering, "Much better" under her breath. Silas dawdled in the doorway, waiting for Stroud's permission to enter. She opened her eyes and looked at him, fixing him with an impatient glower.

  "Silas, please sit. Your hovering is making me nervous." Stroud chuckled softly, watching Silas as he gingerly climbed into the rickety chair. "And you've really got to work on that confidence of yours."

  He ducked his chin, fingers fussing at the tray in his lap. Stroud told him to place it on the table so he could eat properly before digging in. Silas watched for a moment, his fork hovering over his food. She ate slowly, methodically. She cut pieces into equal sizes before slowly transferring them to her mouth. Silas mirrored her, the slow pace challenging his voracious appetite.

  They ate in silence. There was a stylus but no parchment, so Silas could not communicate with Stroud beyond head nods and pantomime gestures. Stroud seemed to savor the quiet. Her shoulders relaxed, her fingers no longer itching to pick at her nails. Silas realized then that he had a lot in common with Stroud. Her behavior in the canteen made him reconsider his preconceived notions.

  When Silas first met Stroud, she appeared strong and stable, her confidence never faltering. He wondered if her change in demeanor was due to the Archarbiter, or if Silas hadn't spent enough time with her yet to see what she was truly like around other people. She was comfortable with Oscar and Ravelin, but tense and reserved near those unfamiliar.

  "Alright. Now it's time to find Oscar." Stroud set her fork down and pushed her tray away.

  Silas glanced at his half-empty plate. He looked back up at Stroud, who watched him, her chin resting in her palm. Her head tilted impetuously.

  "Well?" she said. "Are you going to finish eating? Or do you want me to spoonfeed you like an infant?"

  Silas's gaze widened. He jerked his head—shoveling overflowing forkfuls into his mouth. Stroud snickered, giving him a playful wink. When Silas finished, she stood, her tray ignored on the desk.

  "Leave it here," she said, waving her hand dismissively when Silas picked up his tray. "I'll return them later. We have a skittish man to fetch."

  She waltzed out of her office, her crimson coat flapping behind her. Silas set his tray down and scurried after her.

  "Now, where to find him?" Stroud quietly asked herself as Silas ran up beside her. She peered down at him, noting the confusion written on his face. She offered him a half-smile.

  "You're curious what I want with Oscar, eh?" she asked, abruptly stopping to look left and right at an intersection.

  Silas nodded, watching Stroud mumble to herself as she deliberated which hallway to choose.

  "We need all the help we can get," Stroud explained, selecting a direction and resuming her determined march. "And Oscar is in too deep already. We might as well use him."

  Silas thought on this, his head bowed, following closely at Stroud's heels. She led him through twists and turns into maze-like corridors that spiraled deeper into the belly of Crownhold. As they walked, they saw other people less and less. Soon, they found themselves alone, their reverberating bootsteps their only companion in the ensuing hush. This area reminded Silas of the dungeon. He shivered, hugging his arms around himself protectively. Why did Stroud think Oscar would be found here?

  Stroud braked in front of a door. The placard beside it had the word "archives" printed on its sheen surface. There was a key stuck in the lock, jutting like a splinter. Stroud waited for Silas to catch up. When he fell in line behind her, she flashed him a conspiratorial grin. She pressed her index finger to her pursed lips. Silas stared at her, uncertain.

  Stroud snuck into the room like a burglar, all hunched-shoulders and tip-of-toes. She slid the door open gradually, making not a sound. She crept inside, disappearing from Silas's line of sight through the crack between door and frame. Silas rooted to the spot. Did Stroud expect him to play trespasser with her?

  He was not in the mood for games. His own breathing filled the silence, too loud in his ears. Growing impatient, he shifted his weight, ready to step into the archive after Stroud. He froze—breath held—at the sound of someone crying out in surprise. Silas exhaled in relief when he recognized the voice as Oscar's. There was a shifting susurration, like parchments fluttering to the floor. Then Stroud's jubilant, roaring laughter ruptured the tension. Silas heard Oscar mumbling profanities as her laughter faded.

  Cautiously, Silas eased the door wide and lumbered inside. In the corner of the room—between shelves bulging with books and bursting file cabinets—Oscar was crouched on the floor. He barricaded himself behind a wall of parchments. Stroud hovered above him, leafing through a manila folder. Her right knee was bent, boot stamped on a tall stack of documents. Stroud and Oscar focused on Silas as he walked in. Silas shuffled sideways, crawling down a narrow crevice between the wall and bookshelf. He stopped a few paces before Oscar, squinting at the words printed on the folders and parchments.

  "I knew I'd find you sulking in your favorite brooding spot, good Warden," Stroud said, flicking her wrist to toss the folder onto a square table. She stuck her thumbs into her trouser pockets and squatted, balancing on her toes. Lifting her foot from the document stack revealed a dark bootprint pressed into the parchment. "May I free you from your moping to borrow a few hours of your time?"

  Oscar's attention darted about, following a linear path between Stroud and Silas. Stroud smiled warmly, the corners of her gaze creasing. Silas was soothed by this, but Stroud's geniality only heightened Oscar's anxiety. The Warden goggled at the floor.

  "W-what can I help you with, S-senior Arbiter Vera Stroud?" Oscar stuttered, the words vomiting from his mouth so fast they blurred together.

  Stroud hummed. "Ooh. The full name and title card has been played." She tilted her head. "Oscar, does something weigh heavily on your conscience?"

  "Y-you are not angry with me, Arbiter?" Oscar screwed his eyes shut and winced like he anticipated being struck.

  Stroud huffed through her nose. "Oscar, do you really think I blame you for the Archarbiter learning about Silas?"

  Silas blinked, comprehension dawning. He remembered how Oscar had hid himself in the interrogation room within the Archarbiter's shadow, flinching at his every word. Silas laughed, the gentle sound perking Oscar's ears. The Warden looked at him, his expression softening.

  "You don't blame me then…?" Oscar trailed off, thinking. His focus snapped back. "Then, the Junior Arbiter—"

  Stroud grunted, her knees snapping as she stood. "No, I don't blame her either," Stroud said, brushing dust from her trousers. "From her perspective, Elsbeth did what was right. She's been through things I wouldn't wish on anyone—" Stroud cut herself off, clamping down on her tongue. She shook her head and started again. "No, the fault lies with me and me alone. I let the Archarbiter back me into a corner without a contingency plan to facilitate my escape. I should have kept my mouth shut about the redacted information that has been eating away at me, but I did not."

  Stroud's face hardened, stony seriousness angling her features. "Warden Oscar” —as she said his name, she turned to address him— "Silas” —her head swiveled again, confronting Silas's gawk— "I am sorry. I apologize for my error. Let me work with you both to correct this."

  Silas froze, baffled by her words. Stroud thought the blame was hers to carry alone? Silas gawped at her. If I didn't exist, none of you would be in this situation, he thought glumly. Stroud noticed Silas's despondence. She opened her mouth to speak, but Oscar interrupted her.

  "Oh! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Oscar's head fell into his hands. He slumped against the wall, his body relaxing. "I thought you were going to give me the reprimand of a lifetime." His words sounded thin, muffled by his palms.

  Stroud gave Silas one final probing glance before turning to Oscar. "Since a reprimand is something you'd care to avoid, I suggest you help Silas and me prepare for our trip to Coldspire."

  Oscar peeked at her through his fingers.

  "Pardon?"

  "Help me with this investigation, Warden."

  "But… But I am merely a Warden, Arbiter Stroud. I don't have the qualifications to—"

  "I care naught for qualifications or ranks, Oscar," Stroud said, sucking in air through her teeth. "For this case, consider yourself an honorary Arbiter." She kicked a pile of parchment, causing it to topple over onto Oscar. "Begin by acting the part."

  "Y-yes! Of course, Arbiter." Oscar fumbled with the pile, extricating himself from the avalanche of parchment. He stood, bowing as he crossed his arms in Imperial salute.

  Stroud turned away, her smile falling. "Come along now, Silas, Warden. We have a big day ahead of us."

  She strode from the room, leaving Silas and Oscar alone with each other. Oscar, uncomfortable in the awkward lull, hobbled out after her. He offered Silas a sheepish look as he departed. Silas ignored him, his posture tense. He held his breath, listening hard. He heard Stroud and Oscar's muffled voices, their whispers inaudible from down the hallway. Satisfied that he was alone, Silas stooped and picked up a manila folder. Written on the tab in fading ink was:

  Cold Files #1400-A — #1600-A

  Silas flipped the folder open. Leaflets of parchment spilled out, drifting to the floor. He bent and picked up the topmost page. It was filled with a neat, tight font written with a fine-point stylus. In ascending numerical order, cases were indented, followed by a block of text. Silas chose a block at random and read:

  Case #1472-A

  Location: Brinestone Quarry

  Notes: Witnesses report the Unspoken pointed down into the mineshaft before retreating. The movement was not random. Three separate testimonies claim the same behavior. Arbiter Craft suggested omitting the gesture from public record.

  Silas flicked his eyes down the page. He chose another paragraph:

  Case #1509-A

  Arbiter Craft Addendum:

  The subject displayed "hesitation" before attacking. It paused and tilted its head as if it were weighing options. Craft recommended these observations be stricken from the formal narrative.

  Silas gripped the parchment with trembling hands. His heart fluttered, beating so fast he felt dizzy. This doesn't make any sense, he thought. Why would the Empire hide this from us? Silas looked at the ground, inspecting the folders and parchments Oscar had stacked upon the floor. Did each of those pages contain the same material? Silas's breath quickened.

  This information was too big—too dangerous—to be left scattered across the floor. Oscar was just a Warden! How did he rank high enough to know this? Oscar didn't even seem phased by it. Crownhold employed thousands of people. If everyone were privy to the information in this archive, how had none of it leaked yet? Silas wracked his brain, searching for answers. What does the Empire gain by lying like this? His eyes bore into the floor, his muscles rigid, rebelling against the burden he now carried.

  "Boo!"

  Silas gasped and spun so fast he nearly bashed his forehead into Stroud's chin. She hunched forward, leaning with her hands on her thighs. She tipped her head and smiled.

  "What does the little mouse think he is doing, scurrying around in here?" Her attention dropped to the parchment still clutched in Silas's hand. She took it from him, gently peeling his fingers away. "Hmmm. Interesting, interesting." She looked up. "You have an interesting taste in literature, mouse."

  His gaze sank to the floor as fear rattled through him. He should have known Stroud would come back to look for him! How could he have been so stupid? Did he really think she wouldn't notice him lingering? Silas winced, steeling himself for Stroud's wrath.

  "Well, there's no helping it now."

  Silas released a held breath.

  Stroud sneered at him. "This,” she said, indicating the archive with a wave of her arm, "is another nugget of information I planned on feeding you while we prepare for Coldspire." She shrugged. "It's nothing to twist your tail over."

  Stroud's hand shot out—her fingers wrapping around Silas's wrist. He inhaled sharply, his breath squeaking in the back of his throat. Stroud snorted as she dragged Silas from the room. Silas stumbled after her, tugging at his trapped wrist. Stroud let go when they were in the hallway. She grabbed the key in the door between her thumb and index finger, turning it until the lock clicked. She then dropped the key into her pocket and pivoted.

  "Oscar! Stop dithering over there. For our next adventure, we will be procuring a conference room." Stroud turned and began strolling down the corridor.

  Oscar caught up, pushing past Silas as he hurried to Stroud's side. Silas wavered, glaring at the locked archive door, pondering. At Stroud's testy shout, he started, hasting after her.