Stellan Aphelion's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

They dragged the steward to the cold cellar beneath the ivory palace. His name was Osric Thorne, and he had served this house since Evangeline was a child. He had folded her blankets, guarded her door, watched her grow. Now he knelt in chains, his dark robes torn, his gray eyes fixed on the floor. Stellan stood over him and asked the same question for the third hour. Who sent you? Osric only smiled his thin, tired smile. "You waste your breath," Osric whispered. His voice shook, but he did not yield. " I have served masters you cannot reach. Cut me…Freeze me….The answer will still die along with me." He smiles his twisted crooked smile, sarcastically bowing to Stellan. Stellan crouched to meet his eyes. He had tried threats. He had tried the blade. Nothing cracked the man. So he changed his weapon. From his glove he drew the sketch Evangeline had copied from the ledger—a silver snowflake wrapped around a crescent moon, a black diamond at its heart. He held it to the lamplight. "I know this mark," Stellan said. "The Moonclaw Sigil. Tell me who wears it." The change was instant. Osric's smile broke apart. His chained hands began to tremble, the keys at his belt rattling. The color drained from his gray face. "Where did you find that," he breathed. "You should not know that name. None of you should." "Then you do know it." Stellan pressed closer. "You will tell me every mouth that speaks it." Osric's composure crumbled all at once. He wept, shaking. "They will kill me either way," he desperately dragged out. "But hear this, swordsman. The one behind it all sits inside her circle. Someone she trusts. Someone you trust." His eyes rose, wet and desperate. "The Queen's greatest enemy stands closer than—" He never finished. His body jerked. A black line crawled up his throat beneath the skin, spreading like frost over glass. His eyes went wide. He clawed at his chest, choked once, and collapsed sideways against the stone. Steam hissed from his open mouth. Stellan seized him. "Who?! Give me the name!" But the steward's chest had already stilled. A faint mark glowed and faded on his neck—the same claw and moon from the sketch, burned into his flesh. A curse, triggered the moment he began to speak. An assassin's hand reaching from somewhere Stellan could not see. In low eyes, he looks around and over his shoulder. He lowered the dead man slowly to the floor. His breath frosted the air. The cold rose behind his ribs, and he gripped his mother's amulet until it quieted. Footsteps rang on the stairs. Evangeline appeared in the doorway, her blue-threaded hair loose, her face pale. She saw the body and stopped. "He talked," Stellan said. "Just not enough." He stood and faced her. "The traitor sits in your most inner circle. Someone we both trust so much, they can deceive us right under our nose." He huffed, he closed his fist around the sketch of the Moonclaw Sigil. "We hunted a stranger. Now I must hunt a friend."