Fae'andra steps out into the village square, and the chill night air cuts cleanly through the inn's stale warmth. Lanterns swing from fresh timber posts while workers hammer tournament stands into place. The whole square rings with wood, rope, and hurried voices.
The Inquisitor follows a pace behind, his hood dark against the lantern glow. He keeps the sealed parchment tucked close, the repaired mark on it giving off the faintest thread of black mist.
Fae'andra Nightingstar
The seal's mist is still leaking.
At the far end of the square, a side alley opens beside the chapel wall. Two armored figures stand there in shadow, watching the work with still, measured patience.
The Inquisitor
If you want the truth spoken where others can hear it, witness the rite at dawn. If you want blood hidden, walk away now.
A village bell tolls once overhead. The armored watchers do not move, but their attention fixes on Fae'andra as if waiting for her choice.