Chapter 11 The Watcher

The eastern sky was beginning to pale by the time Zevran reached the settlement, and every step sent a sharp ache through his ribs. His clothes were streaked with dirt and dried blood, and his legs felt as though they belonged to someone else entirely. More than once he nearly collapsed, catching himself only by leaning against broken fences or abandoned carts along the road.

The First Judge's final words refused to leave his mind. Grow strong enough that I have to seek you.

By the time Garrick's shack came into view, his vision had already begun to blur, and he reached for the door but missed the handle completely. The world tilted, and darkness swallowed him before he ever hit the ground.

A bucket of cold water splashed across his face, and Zevran gasped and sat upright, immediately regretting it as pain tore through his chest.

"Easy," Garrick said, standing over him with his arms folded. "You've always been a terrible liar."

Zevran looked around and realized he was lying on his own bed, his torn shirt replaced with clean bandages wrapped tightly around his ribs. "How long?"

"You collapsed outside just before sunrise."

"I—"

"You don't have to explain." Garrick picked up a bowl of steaming broth from the table and set it beside him. "But you are going to eat."

Zevran accepted the bowl with shaking hands, and for several minutes neither of them spoke. Finally Garrick broke the silence. "I told you not to chase ghosts."

Zevran nearly dropped the bowl. "I don't know what you mean."

"No," Garrick said, sighing. "I suppose you don't." He stared into the small fire burning beneath the cooking pot, his expression somewhere far from the room. "When I was younger, someone I cared about disappeared because he believed old stories."

Zevran looked up. "You knew someone like that?"

Garrick nodded once. "He kept saying he'd found something that would change everything."

"What happened to him?"

"I buried an empty coffin."

The words hung between them, heavier than anything Garrick had said in the years Zevran had known him. The old demon stood and looked down at him with tired eyes. "Whatever you found last night, bury it before it buries you." Without another word, he walked outside, and Zevran watched the door close behind him, realizing only then that he had never once heard Garrick speak about his own past before.

By midday, the settlement buzzed with uneasy whispers. House Nocthar soldiers filled the streets, and every collector had been ordered into the central square. Zevran pulled his sleeve lower, making sure the silver mark stayed hidden beneath the fabric. Rows of workers stood shoulder to shoulder while soldiers moved among them, checking names and faces one by one.

At the front of the square stood an unfamiliar man. He wore no armor, only a long black coat embroidered with silver thread, a leather notebook tucked beneath one arm. He couldn't have been much older than thirty, his face calm, almost pleasant, and yet something about him made the whole square feel colder than the morning air alone could explain.

A soldier approached him first. "Investigator Cassian Vale."

The man nodded. "Begin."

A list unrolled, and collectors stepped forward one by one to give their names, their homes, their families. Nothing unusual, nothing threatening, yet every answer disappeared into Cassian's notebook all the same. He never raised his voice, never repeated a question, never once seemed impatient.

When Borik's turn came, Cassian smiled politely. "How long have you worked the southern fields?"

"Twelve years."

"You knew the collector assigned to the northern crater?"

Borik hesitated. "Most of us did."

"Did he behave strangely before the bell rang?"

"No."

Cassian wrote something brief and said, "Thank you," and Borik hurried away without looking back.

Then, "Zevran Mordis."

His stomach tightened, but he stepped forward anyway. Cassian looked up from the notebook, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

"You collect the eastern field?"

"Yes."

"You've worked there long?"

"Since I was old enough to carry a hook."

Cassian nodded thoughtfully. "I've heard you're different."

Zevran forced himself not to react. "Different how?"

"You apologize to the dead."

A few nearby soldiers laughed quietly, and Zevran shrugged, keeping his voice even. "They were people."

"They were enemies."

"They're dead now. That's all that's left of them either way."

Cassian watched him for a long moment before he smiled, something unreadable behind it. "A curious answer." His pen scratched briefly across the page. "You may go."

Zevran turned and walked away without hurrying, and only after reaching the edge of the square did he let himself breathe again. Something about that conversation had felt wrong the whole way through. Cassian hadn't been questioning him at all. He'd been measuring him, the way a man measures a wall before deciding where to strike it.

As evening settled over the settlement, Cassian stood alone outside the records tent, and a captain approached him with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Anything useful?"

Cassian closed his notebook. "Not yet."

"You sounded interested in that corpse collector."

"I am."

The captain frowned. "Why?"

Cassian looked toward the distant row of wooden shacks where Zevran lived, his expression thoughtful. "Because everyone else answered my questions."

"And?"

"He answered the dead instead."

The captain looked confused, and Cassian allowed himself a faint smile. "Most people tell you what they think you want to hear. He told me what he actually believes, without stopping to consider how it would sound." He closed the notebook fully. "I've learned something important today."

"What's that?"

Cassian's eyes stayed fixed on Zevran's home even as the light faded behind it. "The one we're looking for has already learned how to hide, and he's better at it than he realizes."

The wind stirred the pages of his notebook as he turned to walk away, and on the last page, beneath dozens of names already crossed out in careful black ink, only one remained untouched.

Zevran Mordis.