Chapter 2: Shadows in the Council

The capital sprawled before them like a vast stone beast, its towers and spires reaching toward heaven as if trying to pierce the very throne of the Light itself. After three days of hard riding, Kaelen's honour guard approached the city's northern gate just as the evening bells began their solemn toll.

"Never gets easier, does it?" Sir Aldric guided his mount alongside Kaelen's. "Returning here."

Kaelen understood. The capital held too many memories: their initial training at the Central Basilica, the brutal months of testing that separated true knights from mere soldiers, the ceremonies where boys became brothers-in-arms. But it also held politics, scheming, and the kind of battles fought with words instead of swords.

"State your business," the gate captain called down, though his eyes had already found the sun-and-sword emblems on their tabards.

"Knight-Captain Kaelen Dawnblade and escort, answering High Council summons." Kaelen produced the sealed scroll.

The captain's expression shifted respect tinged with something else. Pity? "The Knight-Captain is expected. Proceed to the Penitent's Gate. You'll be met there."

The Penitent's Gate? Kaelen exchanged glances with Aldric. That entrance was reserved for those accused of crimes against the faith, not honoured knights answering routine inquiries.

"There must be some mistake," Aldric began, but Kaelen raised a hand.

"We go where directed." Though his voice remained calm, unease coiled in his stomach like a serpent.

The streets they passed through told their own troubling story. Where once citizens had greeted knights with smiles and blessings, now they hurried past with downcast eyes. Shops closed early, their windows shuttered despite the evening trade hours. Even the street preachers, usually eager to expound on Light's glory, fell silent as the knights passed.

"Something's changed," muttered Sir Gareth, youngest of their escort. "It feels like..."

"Like a city under siege," Aldric finished. "Though I see no enemy."

The Penitent's Gate stood in the oldest section of the city, its black stone worn smooth by centuries of hands seeking absolution. Hooded inquisitors waited there, their white robes marked with the red eye of judgment.

"Knight-Captain Dawnblade." The lead inquisitor's voice emerged from deep within his hood, emotionless as winter wind. "You will come with us. Your men will remain here."

"They are my honour guard, pledged to..."

"They will remain here." No room for argument. "This is a matter of theological inquiry, not military protocol."

Aldric's hand found his sword hilt. "Kaelen rides nowhere without protection."

"Peace, old friend." Kaelen dismounted, unbuckling his sword belt. "I am a knight of the Order. I have nothing to fear from questions of faith."

The lie tasted bitter. Everything about this felt wrong: the Penitent's Gate, the hooded inquisitors, the fearful city. But refusing would only confirm whatever suspicions had brought him here.

"Wait at the Basilica barracks," he told Aldric. "I'm sure this will be resolved quickly."

The doubt in Aldric's eyes matched his own.

The inquisitors led him through passages he'd never seen, despite years in the capital. Ancient corridors where shadows gathered like plotting conspirators, where the walls bore names of long-dead heretics. The air grew cold, thick with the weight of judgment and the echo of old screams.

"Where exactly are we going?" Kaelen kept his voice steady.

No answer. The inquisitors moved in perfect synchronization, their footsteps creating an unsettling rhythm against stone.

They emerged in a chamber Kaelen recognized from history texts if not personal experience: the Vault of Testimonies, where the Order's most sensitive trials were conducted. Banners hung from the ceiling, each bearing the heraldry of houses that had fallen to heresy over the centuries. A reminder of the price of straying from Light's path.

"Wait here." The lead inquisitor gestured to a simple wooden chair in the chamber's centre.

Alone now, Kaelen studied the room more carefully. The walls bore frescoes depicting the Order's founding: saints and heroes driving back the shadow, establishing the doctrines that governed the realm. But in the flickering torchlight, even those noble figures seemed to watch him with suspicion.

Time stretched. An hour? Two? The chamber had no windows, no way to judge the passing moments except by the torches burning lower.

Finally, doors opened. Not the ones he'd entered through, but a concealed entrance behind the judge's throne. Three figures emerged: two inquisitors flanking a man Kaelen recognized with a start.

Grand Inquisitor Matthias. Not his commander, that was Matthias the Elder, Knight-Commander of the Eastern Marches. This was Matthias the Younger, the commander's son, who'd taken a different path. Where the father led through battlefield honour, the son had chosen the subtler warfare of doctrine and politics.

"Knight-Captain Dawnblade." The Grand Inquisitor settled into the throne-like chair, his pale eyes studying Kaelen like a specimen. "How good of you to come so promptly."

"Your summons suggested urgency, Grand Inquisitor." Kaelen kept his tone respectful but not servile. "How may I serve the Council's inquiry?"

"Tell me about your father."

The directness of it caught Kaelen off-guard. "Lord Marcus Dawnblade? He manages our family holdings in the Eastern Marches. A devout man who..."

"Who has been meeting with suspected heretics." Matthias produced a scroll, unrolling it with theatrical precision. "Lords Blackmoor, Ravencrest, and Thornwall. All under investigation for... theological irregularities."

"Border lords discussing trade and mutual defence. Hardly heretical."

"Is that what they discuss?" Matthias's smile held no warmth. "Our sources suggest otherwise. Talk of 'reform.' Questions about tithing practices. Doubts about recent Council edicts."

"My father is no heretic." The words came out harder than intended. "House Dawnblade has served faithfully..."

"For three centuries. Yes, you mentioned that in your field reports. Several times." Matthias set aside the scroll. "Tell me, Knight-Captain, what do you know of the Shadow Cult?"

Every knight knew the stories. A heretical sect that had supposedly threatened the realm generations ago, practitioners of dark arts who sought to corrupt the Light's teachings. The Order's great victory over them was celebrated each year during the Festival of Radiance.

"I know they were defeated. Destroyed."

"Were they?" Matthias rose, pacing before the throne. "Or did they simply... evolve? Hide behind respected names, ancient bloodlines, false protestations of faith?"

"You cannot seriously suggest..."

"I suggest nothing. I merely inquire." But his tone suggested far more. "Your sister, the Lady Lyanna. She visits often?"

"She is my sister. Family bonds are sacred under Light's law."

"Indeed. And her husband? Lord Viktor Blackwood. Another name on our... lists."

The serpent in Kaelen's stomach coiled tighter. "What is this really about?"

"That remains to be seen." Matthias returned to his throne. "You will remain in the capital while our investigation proceeds. Guest quarters have been prepared in the Tower of Contemplation."

A prison in all but name. The Tower of Contemplation housed those under theological review: not guilty enough for chains, but not innocent enough for freedom.

"I have duties in the Eastern Marches. My promotion..."

"Is hereby suspended pending review." Matthias waved a hand, and the hooded inquisitors stepped forward. "You may keep your rank for now, but you will exercise no command until cleared of suspicion."

"Suspicion of what?" Kaelen stood, fury finally overcoming caution. "You've accused my family of vague heresies, provided no evidence, and now seek to imprison me? I demand..."

"You demand nothing." Matthias's voice cut like blade across ice. "The High Council's authority is absolute in matters of faith. Question that, and you question the Light itself."

The trap was elegant in its simplicity. Protest and confirm their suspicions. Submit, and accept guilt by implication. Either path led toward darkness.

"I serve the Light," Kaelen said finally. "If the Council requires my presence, I remain at your disposal."

"How dutiful." Matthias gestured to the inquisitors. "Escort the Knight-Captain to his quarters. Ensure he has everything needed for... contemplation."

As they led him away, Kaelen caught a glimpse through a partially opened door. A familiar figure in heated discussion with several high-ranking clerics: Sir Aldric, his face flushed with anger, gesturing emphatically. His voice carried faintly: "...known him since boyhood! This is madness..."

Then the door closed, cutting off whatever defence his mentor mounted.

The Tower of Contemplation proved as grim as its reputation. A single room, spartanly furnished, with one narrow window overlooking the execution grounds. A none-too-subtle reminder of where theological inquiry could lead.

"Your meals will be delivered twice daily," the inquisitor informed him. "The library is available for approved texts. Prayer services at dawn and dusk are mandatory."

"My men?"

"Will be informed of your... accommodation. Visits are discouraged during the investigation."

They left him alone with his thoughts and the weight of accusation. Kaelen stood at the window, watching the sun set over the capital. Somewhere in the city, similar scenes likely played out: other loyal servants questioned, other noble houses suddenly suspect.

But why? What had changed? The Shadow Cult was ancient history, defeated before his grandfather's time. Why resurrect those fears now?

A soft knock interrupted his brooding. The door opened to reveal not an inquisitor but a young woman in noble's attire. Honey-coloured hair framed an intelligent face marked by worry.

"Your pardon, Knight-Captain. I am Elena Matthias."

The Grand Inquisitor's daughter. Kaelen tensed, unsure if this was another trap.

"I know how this must appear," she continued quickly. "But I come on my own accord. Not all of us agree with... current methods."

"Dangerous words, my lady."

"Dangerous times." She glanced nervously at the door. "I can stay only a moment. But you should know you're not the first. Three other houses have faced similar inquiry. All eastern lords, all with military connections."

"To what end?"

"I don't know. Father shares little with me. But the pattern troubles those of us who still believe justice and faith need not be enemies."

She pressed a small leather journal into his hands. "From a friend who believes in your innocence. Read it tonight. Burn it by morning."

Then she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of roses and more questions than answers.

The journal contained trial records: not official transcripts but personal observations. Lord Ravencrest, accused of harbouring shadow cultists, condemned on testimony from "anonymous faithful." Lady Thornwall, charged with heretical texts found in her library: books that appeared only after inquisitors searched. Pattern after pattern of suspiciously convenient evidence and swift condemnation.

As Kaelen read by candlelight, the capital's bells tolled midnight. Beyond his window, the execution ground stood empty but waiting. How many innocent men had died there, condemned by zealous justice?

He burned the journal as instructed, watching parchment curl into ash. But the words remained seared in memory. Tomorrow, he would face formal questioning. Tomorrow, the real trial would begin.

Tonight, in the darkness of the Tower, Kaelen Dawnblade began to understand that faith alone might not save him. For the first time in his life, the Knight-Captain wondered if the Light he served had been corrupted by the very men who claimed to defend it.

The thought felt like heresy. But in a city where heresy had become a weapon, perhaps thinking like a heretic was the only way to survive.