The Inquisitor's Cold Arrival

The tavern door slams wide, and cold spills in with the new arrival. A tall inquisitor in ash-dark robes strides through the spellglow, eyes fixed on the violet lattice around the prisoner.

He ignores the patrons and comes straight for Walksfar Seesmuch, silver-etched blade still sheathed at his hip. The Hooded Figure goes rigid in the binding, while the Gray-Mantled Stranger’s hand slips to her own belt.

The Burly Gate-keeper squares himself, but does not yet step between them. The Red-Faced Nobleman shrinks deeper into shadow, suddenly pale.

The inquisitor stops at striking distance, cold authority filling the gap between blade and spell. The violet knot in the lattice flickers once, then holds.

The inquisitor does not look at Walksfar Seesmuch, his gaze locked entirely upon the violet lattice and the prisoner within. He is here for the spell, not the elf.

Walksfar Seesmuch lifts both hands, and the violet knot steadies at once. The pale lattice stops shivering, its lines tightening into a clean, humming cage around the hooded prisoner.

A cold draft slips through the open tavern door, but the binding drinks it in without wavering. Frost gathers briefly along the spellwork, then burns away in a wink of light.

The hooded figure hangs a handspan above the floor, straining once, then going rigid as the lattice answers with a sharper glow. A hidden sigil flickers inside the prison like an eye opening.