A brief burst of vibrant white light blossomed from the clear, jeweled sigils on each warrior's chest plate. In an instant, the Star Guard's armor shone like fine silver and their flowing white capes dried from the monsoon rains. This minor magical miracle kept the guards looking dignified and stately, despite their still-gruff attitudes.

Compared to their finery, the outcast lowered her head to examine her own stained, ill-fitting clothing that dripped as she lingered at her lonely table by the fireplace. Not a stitch on her was worth more than a couple of copper fawns, perhaps less, now that they were wet and filthy. The drenched outcast lingered on her own misfortunes briefly, until a booming voice cut through her ruminations.

“Citizens of Old Sarzonn, remain in your seats and wait for instructions.” A hard-faced warrior with a shock of short, chestnut curls demanded from the entryway. His voice rattled the oak door on its creaky hinges. “All patrons are to submit to inspection under his esteemed lordship’s command.”

Frequent visitors of The Blanched Hart grumbled upon recognizing which lordship this loudmouth was affiliated with. There was no mistaking the owner of the elite soldiers who trampled through the tavern with weapons brandished and armor polished. Only the wealthy and righteous local cleric, Lord Amias Vythorne, could afford such extravagance.

If the rumors from Cheapside were to be believed, Lord Vythorne was a magnanimous spreader of faith and virtue, with a prideful streak to go with it. And why not? Lord Vythorne was a wealthy, righteous man, and many believed him to be a rare beauty as well. Perhaps his confidence was deserved after all.

Regardless, for every orphan saved or heathen converted, Lord Vythorne eagerly took credit for his “good works.” His holy house even hosted a charity stall to give out food to the poor and the desperate in The Dregs. Appearances would have the citizens believe that he was the embodiment of benevolence, but the outcast knew better…

She was old enough to remember all those horrid “atonement” rituals that the holy house had carried out. The outcast winced at her own fractured memories of his wanton acts of casual cruelty. How was it possible for a man to be both a “goodly healer” and a “spiteful tyrant” at the same time? Which was to be believed? There were simply too many conflicting accounts to draw any useful conclusions.

The outcast tugged at her own still-damp cloak and cowered by the fireplace, hoping to go unnoticed. She cursed herself for forgetting that Lord Vythorne’s abilities to detect magic extended this far from the Grand Cathedral on the opulent east side of Old Sarzonn. His divine tendrils of Overseeing magic slinked unseen as far as they could, and she was unfortunately entangled in them.

It was impossible to be certain how much information the skilled human cleric could glean from his abilities, but he could at least tell the spellcaster’s gender, rough age, and what type of magic offended him.

“By order of his lordship, Deceivers are outlawed in Old Sarzonn.” The Star Guard warrior continued with disdain in his voice. “Your cooperation is essential to remove such criminals from our fair city. The sooner we have her in custody, the sooner you may return to your… activities.”

Custody. The outcast grimaced. Such a fine word for it. Who knows what they’d do to me after that…

One by one, the Star Guards fanned out into The Blanched Hart, grabbing any woman who met their master’s criteria. They even tugged at the long red braid of the bread peddler’s niece, thinking that a twenty-eight-year-old mother of two qualified her as “young enough” to match their profile.

Only a long, decadent table with stuffed cushions on the seats and fine silver place settings was spared from the search. It sat seven enormous men and a single, gruff woman, dressed all in black with silver trim and red accents. The Star Guards paid particular attention to avoid this band of impressive figures. If one of the soldiers so much as brushed past the table, its occupants scowled, emanating an intimidating aura of murderous intent.

At least this hateful glaring wasn’t directed at the damp Deceiver. As far as she could guess, these juggernauts looked like mercenaries, who she could request aid from. Sell-swords could be bought with gold stags, while other free-lances could be bartered with. As she only had a small handful of copper fawns and a silver doe to her name, the outcast hoped beyond hope that these giants were free-lances. She had little to offer in trade, but was a scrappy youth, and was determined to survive at any cost.

Alas, the outcast was unable to sidle up to the fine table and beg for protection. There was no guarantee that these brutes would offer their assistance anyway, and asking for help was as good as a confession to Lord Vythorne’s men. Instead, her pale eyes darted around the tavern to search for avenues of escape but found none.

“What have we here?” A Star Guard lieutenant sneered as he stared down at the outcast. His hand easily wrapped around her dainty wrist, which was made all the thinner from a harsh life of perpetual starvation in The Dregs of Old Sarzonn. “A southerner?”

The outcast refused to meet his gaze. Her eyes diverted to the floor as she fought to prevent her shoulders from rising at his commands. The guard man-handled her further, grasping tightly at her wrist as he bent low to ask his first question. “<Do you understand me, little mouse?>”

D*mn it. The youth cursed to herself. This guard spoke D’jabarese, the language of the southern humans, albeit poorly. The outcast hadn’t considered this possibility when crafting her disguise, and her dark skin indicated at least some kinship with their exotic language. She hadn’t a word of D’jabarese, and struggled to cobble together a response that would satisfy his question.

“Your accent is terrible.” The disguised outcast hissed.

The soldier glanced down at his gauntlet, noticed it was unchanged by the outcast’s response, and scoffed at her impertinence. The silver gauntlets of the high cleric’s order had compelling power when worn by disciples and soldiers of the holy house. The outcast had heard in passing that such gauntlets had the uncanny ability to root out the truth from those they touched. One falsehood from her lips would surely result in a searing, painful burn where silver touched skin.

“Cheeky wench.” The guard snorted. “What’s your name, little mouse?”

A brief pause was all the resistance the outcast could muster. All around them, a similar scene played out for the first crop of women to be subjected to this Inquisition. From the resistant bard to the fearful barmaid, no one was spared if she matched what they were looking for. Each woman was tasked with “proving” their authenticity, though the outcast wasn’t sure how to do so herself. The various objections to this questioning ranged from distress to outright anguish.

The eight seated figures at the posh dinner table shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The fearful youth wasn’t sure what was wrong with them, but this collection of black-clad behemoths resembled predators itching for a fight. One pawed at his side for a concealed weapon, while another tugged at a bandolier with a crossbow strapped to his back. Their leader, a middle-aged, black-bearded giant, gnashed his teeth and glared at his female companion with a knowing look.

They need an excuse. The outcast realized. Any excuse to get involved. Mercenaries have no authority against the Grand Cathedral…unless things get out of hand…

“Your name, woman.” The jagged edges of the Star Guard’s gauntlet threatened to gouge into the outcast’s dark, bronzy skin as he pressed harder.

“Khazmine.”

“Sounds foreign to me.” The Star Guard raised his free hand to tuck it under Khazmine’s chin. His thumb brushed over her freshly split lip from the scuffle with young master Skelfrig, and he pressed it until his thumbprint was stained red. If this were “tenderness,” then Khazmine could do without it entirely. “Let me have a look at you. Chin up, Cass-mean.”

Khazmine stifled a groan and kept her eyes clamped shut as the guard insisted that she lift her head towards him. Beads of sweat collected on her forehead as the toll of protracted Deceiver magic took effect. Khazmine still hadn’t eaten anything all day, and her knees buckled from the strain of staying upright under duress. A painful fluttering of her heart informed the outcast that her camouflage was failing, and she would soon be exposed.

“Please, not so hard.” Khazmine winced and allowed her voice to carry above the tavern’s din. “Ouch! Stop! You’re hurting me!”

That did it.

The scraping sound of a heavy wooden stool reverberated throughout the tavern, stopping the Inquisition dead. From this stool stood the leader of the pack of hunters. It was at that moment that Khazmine recognized the heavily marred symbol on the elder man’s armor as he turned. Blazoned across his chest plate were a pair of darkened suns with fiery rings circling in maroon and red that scoured the blackened sky of his sigil. It was no wonder that the Star Guards avoided these bruisers; they were Solanai.

As soon as their leader made his presence known, his remaining posse rose to join him in solidarity, like mountains reaching for the skies. Upon seeing the towering mercenaries ready themselves to interfere, the Star Guard closest to them blanched and took a half-step backwards.

He was wise to be afraid; Solanai were legendary, highly-skilled legions of the disbanded Dark Army that accepted both humans and Outsiders. They’d recently settled in Old Sarzonn after a truce between the warring factions was signed. This scene was no different from seeing a pack of foolish white bramble foxes stumble into an angry raddilbak’s nest, which could only result in the former’s utter destruction.

“Release her,” the titanic lady mercenary growled as her party advanced towards the Star Guard and his prey. She slowly reached for a coiled object dangling from her belt loop and snarled at the outmatched guard. “NOW.”

“You h-have no authority here, warriors,” the Star Guard lieutenant stammered. His gauntlet pressed so hard into Khazmine’s flesh that she yelped in pain. “This order comes from his eminence, and I cannot—”

*CRACK*

A stripe of red dribbled down the Star Guard’s cheek as he tried desperately to place what had just happened. The lady Solanai tugged at her weapon, coiled it for another targeted strike, and watched as the lieutenant struggled. In his haste to protect his bleeding face, the Star Guard released Khazmine from his clutches, and she collapsed to the floor in a heap.

Shaking from head to toe, Khazmine scraped across the floor to get out from underfoot as the air thickened with the electrical force of impending violence. She had to flee, and this was her only chance. As rains subsided on the streets, a rumbling storm mounted inside The Blanched Hart.

“You whipped me?” The lieutenant pressed his pristine hood against the fresh cut to stop the bleeding. Other Star Guards formed up to bolster their ranks at the sight of their injured companion. “I can’t believe you just—”

“By the higher order of Her Majesty’s charter,” the head mercenary interrupted, “‘to protect the weak and ensure the peace,’ the Solanai obey.”

“PROTECT THE WEAK.” A chorus of deep voices, chanting in perfect unison, sent shivers down the arms and legs of the Star Guards, silencing them. “ENSURE THE PEACE.”

The acrid stink of fear spread through the Star Guards as they formed up to brace for attack. Under normal circumstances, a full Star of five strong men could easily tackle a mere eight opponents. But these were Solanai warriors, relentless ruffians who could take twice their numbers without injury. Lord Vythorne’s men quaked in clanging armor as the mercenaries advanced, pressuring the Star Guards towards the entryway door.

“PROTECT THE WEAK.”

Booming chants followed Khazmine as she scrambled in strained spurts through the kitchen and towards the back door of The Blanched Hart. There was sadly no time to grab more than a single roll of bread for her empty stomach if Khazmine wanted to ensure her survival. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to put an immense distance between herself and the fearsome beat-down that was about to take place.

Khazmine dragged her sweaty carcass across the rain-slicked street during the lull between downpours and gasped for relief. Dizzy and frightened, the weary outcast spared a single thought for the terrified patrons still trapped inside, and wondered what would become of them.

“ENSURE THE PEACE.”

As for the Star Guards, she had no pity for them in the least. Though she had little knowledge of their master, the lieutenant deserved whatever thrashing he got. These were supposed to be faithful men of the gods, but had shown themselves to be cruel and abusive in her limited experience.

Khazmine’s revelry ceased when her sensitive ears picked up the sounds of fleeing patrons from the tavern’s back door, and she dropped to the cobblestone pavers in a nearby alley to catch her breath. Finally exhausted of ether, Khazmine’s camouflage failed, leaving her exposed, vulnerable, and most worrisome of all, alone…