The storm outside had passed, but the world inside the tavern had never been darker.
Ash clung to the soot-stained rafters. The wooden beams above their heads crackled softly as residual heat from Irin's previous outburst sizzled against damp stone. The air still smelled of fire, metal, and blood.
Kael sat hunched over a table, one hand clutching his ribs, the other twirling a bloodied knife. Lera was upstairs, tending to the wounded and pretending she wasn't crying.
Irin stood near the door, back straight, as if trying to hold the entire tavern from collapsing with sheer will.
That's when they felt it.
Heavy boots. Purposeful. A slow, echoing rhythm like war drums.
Kael stiffened. "That's not Dareth."
"No," Irin said, eyes narrowing. "That's worse."
The door creaked open with almost ceremonial weight.
He stood tall — nearly seven feet — draped in a long black coat that shimmered faintly with enchantments. A steel mask covered half his face, the other half revealed sharp features marred by a long scar from temple to jaw.
His chest bore the red-trimmed sigil of High Inquisition.
In his right hand, he held a longsword etched with runes that pulsed — not with heat, but cold, deliberate silence.
"You," he said, his voice low and absolute, "are condemned."
No titles. No introduction. No ceremony.
Just judgment.
Irin didn't speak. The flames around his wrist whispered to life.
Kael stood slowly. "Do we have a plan?"
"Don't die," Irin replied.
The Inquisitor moved first.
He didn't attack — not at first. He stepped. And the entire room shifted, as if gravity bowed around him. Chairs shattered. Dust leapt. The floorboards under him blackened with cold.
Kael flanked left, throwing a blade toward the man's unguarded side. It never reached. With a flick of his sword, the air cracked and the blade dissolved mid-flight.
Irin struck from the front, fire lashing like a whip. The Inquisitor raised his sword, absorbing the flame into its dark edge.
Kael dove in close, ducking low, swinging a short blade at the back of the knees. It connected — barely — enough to stagger the man a step. That was all Irin needed.
He surged forward, palm open, flames bursting point-blank toward the Inquisitor's chest.
This time the man flew backward, crashing through the tavern's thick support pillar and slamming into a wall, dust and splinters raining around him.
He was still.
Kael blinked. "Did we—?"
The wall exploded.
From the rubble emerged a shadow — his coat torn, the steel mask cracked, blood running from his mouth, but his eyes...
They burned with fury.
"I am High Inquisitor Dareth," he said, voice sharper than ever. "And by Sorat Noll's command or not— you. Will. Burn."
His blade pulsed black.
He moved faster than before.
Irin barely blocked the downward slash; even so, the force sent him crashing into the tavern's bar. Bottles shattered. The wood behind him burst into flame, not from magic — from sheer friction.
Kael leapt onto the Inquisitor's back, stabbing down— only for Dareth to twist and hurl him across the room. Kael struck a table, coughed hard, then rolled to his feet, wincing.
Irin rose again, slower this time, blood on his lip.
"You're strong," Dareth admitted. "But strength isn't survival."
The sword slashed sideways. Irin ducked.
A blast of ash erupted from his palm, blinding Dareth long enough for Kael to return, striking at the Inquisitor's wrist.
The sword dropped.
Dareth, unarmed, still fought.
He caught Kael's arm mid-swing and threw him to the ground. Irin punched — fire blooming with the motion — and drove his knee into the Inquisitor's chest.
They grappled.
Fists. Flame. Bone.
The tavern was falling apart.
Lera screamed from the stairs: "Irin, behind you!"
Dareth had recovered the sword. A downward arc.
Irin twisted.
The blade missed his chest — but cut across his side. Blood hissed where it touched the edge.
Irin roared.
Kael rose again, limping, and charged.
Together.
A wall of fire. A slash of silver. A scream.
Then — silence.
The flames died.
Dareth lay motionless on the floor, his body scorched, the steel mask half-melted into his flesh. His sword clattered uselessly beside him.
Kael staggered back. "Is he—?"
Irin didn't answer.
Lera ran to them, her hands glowing faintly as she tried to heal what she could. Irin pushed her hand away gently.
"He's dead."
They hadn't meant to kill him.
But he had left no choice.
Irin sat down, shaking. "They'll come for us harder now."
Kael nodded, wiping blood from his brow. "Then let them. We're done running."
Outside, dawn was breaking.
But inside, the world had changed.
Ash had claimed iron.
And war would follow.