Do not give me the water of life if it is offered in humiliation;
But give me the cup of bitter death with honor.
The water of life in humiliation is like Hell
And Hell with honor is a sweeter dwelling
RONAR THE SWORD OF THE NORTH
When Sif emerged from the chapel, the last wisps of silver fog curled away like retreating spirits, leaving him standing on solid ground beneath a pale sun. He blinked in astonishment: the rising walls of Skyreuth—once distant—now loomed only miles ahead. Seven days' ride had collapsed into a single dawn. The fog had carried him here, across frozen wastes and hidden thresholds, depositing him at the northern border of Orvalia.
Orvalia lay between the frost-bitten North and the temperate midlands, a duchy of its own will despite nominal Imperial suzerainty. Folks whispered that its true power lay in its women—guided now by the former Queen Pinka de' Medici, free of her marriage to King Valkar Galsar —and in laws favoring the fair sex. A local jest ran, "In Orvalia, a barmaid can outvote a baron any day."
Steeling himself, Sif slung his pack over one shoulder and set off along the road to Skyreuth, anciently called Draxamount. He recalled the old tale: a tribe of early warriors, seeking precious metals under the mountain's heart, inadvertently roused Vormak, the slumbering wyrm of living stone and flame. Villages burned, warriors fell, until a half-human hero named Drakal—reared by forest crones and bearing meteor-forged steel—pierced the dragon's heart. Both fell into a chasm that sealed above them. Since, the peaks had borne Drakamount's name, and the elders swore that whenever the earth trembled, Vormak stirred beneath.
Now, as Sif approached the sturdy palisade of Skyreuth's North Gate, he passed pilgrims, merchants bearing silks and spices, and nervous recruits vibrating with the promise of coin and conquest. He scanned for Rilla and Lyssa—his travelling troupe—but they were nowhere in sight. Perhaps the fog had spilt them elsewhere.
At the gate, a line had formed. When Sif's turn came, a tall knight in gleaming helmed cuirass barred his way.
"Documents," the knight barked, voice gruff.
Sif produced the parchment from his belt: Fourth Battalion service papers, naming him "Sif of Blackreach, Captain of the Eighth Company."
The knight snatched the paper, eyes narrowing. "You expect me to believe this?" he spat, scanning the inked letters. "A vagabond like you—the Fox of Blackreach? Non capisco. You, fox, have eaten more than chickens, sì?"
He tossed the papers aside. "Trust an empty tale before you, eh?
The cell was cold—colder than stone had any right to be. Its walls dripped with damp, the floor slick with filth. Shackles rusted on the far side, and in the center, a man knelt, trembling, his face bruised and bloodied.
"P-please," the prisoner gasped, his voice hoarse. "I don't know anything, I swear—please, mercy…"
From the shadowed corner of the chamber came the slow creak of boots and the dry rasp of breath. The inquisitor stepped forward, his silhouette sharp under the flickering torchlight. A long leather coat swept the floor behind him, and in his gloved hand, he held a thin iron rod still warm from the fire.
"M-merthy?" the inquisitor repeated, his voice thick with a lisp, the edge of a southern Orvalian accent curling every word. "Y-you pleathe for merthy now? After lying to me?"
He crouched before the man, eye to eye.
"Juth answer the quethtion," he said, his tone colder than the stone. "Who ordered you to change the route of Lady Benka de Medici's cargo? Who thent you?"
The prisoner trembled violently, lips pale, tongue flicking across dry skin. "I… I don't know names—please, I was just told where to go. That's all!"
The inquisitor's face twisted.
"You lie."
"I don't! I swear—"
The inquisitor stood, turning away briefly, then muttered darkly, "They thay you have a beautiful wife here in the thity." He turned back to face him, voice lower. "Perhapth I'll pay her a vithit tonight. She may be more… coop'rative."
The prisoner's eyes widened in terror, about to cry out again—when a heavy knock echoed from the iron door.
The inquisitor hissed under his breath. "Tch… I had him… I almotht had him."
He stormed toward the door and flung it open with a snarl. "Who ith it!?"
A tall armored figure stood on the other side, his accent pure Orvalian, noble-born and smooth.
"It's me, Inquisitor Theodric Valen."
"I know who you are," the inquisitor spat. "What do you want?"
"There's a man at the eastern gate," the knight said. "Claims his name is Sif."
The inquisitor's eyes narrowed. "Sif?"
The knight tilted his head. "You know… Sif. The Fox of Blackreach?"
There was a long pause. The inquisitor's lip twitched, the rod in his hand forgotten.
"He… he thaid that?" the inquisitor asked.
The knight nodded. "He did. Do you want him held?"
"No," the inquisitor said slowly. "I'm coming."
He turned back to the broken prisoner, who had slumped against the chains, barely conscious.
"Lookth like you're lucky tonight," the inquisitor muttered. "Pray your luck holdth, worm."
He swept from the chamber, the torchlight following him out, leaving the cell once again in shivering dark
Meanwhile, deep beneath the city's southern quarter Sif waited in the Inquisitor's antechamber, the late sun slipping behind Skyreth's northern walls. The office was austere and cavernous: dark oak wainscoting rose halfway up the stone walls, above which tapestries of past inquisitions hung silent and stern. Behind a massive desk carved with the sigil of the Iron Bank, a brass nameplate caught the dying light — Inquisitor Theodoric Faln — its black-enameled letters gleaming.
A broad window to Sif's right overlooked a long queue of hopefuls stretching toward the city gates: merchants, petitioners, even a few gaunt refugees, all clamoring for entry into the famed "City of Lights and wine." The air smelled of dust and candlewax, and somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolled its last summons of day.
Sif's gaze drifted to the figure behind the desk. Theodoric Faln appeared in his mid- thirties, though the jagged lines of two great scars — one slashing from his left ear down to the corner of his mouth, the other forming a cruel X over his right eye and disappearing into a shock of dark hair and blue eyes — gave him an older, harsher aspect. Yet, beneath the scars, the sharp angles of his jaw and the clear intelligence in his one good eye spoke of a stern kind of handsomeness.
Pocketing his hand, Sif caught sight of the silver watch dangling at his side — its face worn smooth, the minute hand etched with the rune of a forgotten order.
Before he could return it, the heavy door groaned open and a knight strode in. Faln's first words were a harsh, slurred reprimand.
"G-get out, you blasted—" he began, voice thick with that Italianate lisp. "—you're dismissed!"
The knight bowed sharply, voice quiet with deference, and slipped away. The door clicked shut.
Faln's stern mask melted into a broad, almost boyish grin as he rose and advanced, arms wide. "S-Sif ! How… how are you?" he stammered, each 's' catching.
"Better than you look," Sif replied, inclining his head.
Faln sank into his high-backed chair with a gusty sigh. "I heard… heard you received the King's pardon?" he slurred. "C-congratulations."
"Thank you," Sif said, settling onto the carved oak seat before the desk.
Faln cleared his throat and studied him. "So… what brings the Fox of Blackreach to our… our City of Lights?"
Sif met his gaze evenly. "I came for the Queen's birthday celebration. Do I need an invitation?"
The Inquisitor sighed, weighty. "Ordinary folk… require passes or invitations . Extra-ordinary men like you … sometimes find doors open he smiled… but your name still graces the Gray Ledger for unpaid levies. Until that is cleared… you cannot enter."
Sif frowned. "I haven't received my army wages yet. They're held in the Iron Bank vault."
Valen's scarred lips twitched. "Indeed… until they release your funds… you answer to me."
A silence fell. Then Valen leaned forward, voice low. "There is… another way. You helped unmask the poisoner at the Fifth Legion camp, did you not?"
Sif nodded. "I did.
"I haven't drawn my back pay yet," Sif said. "My service ended months ago."
Faln tapped a scarred finger on the desk. "It's held in escrow. But I… I know a way to remedy you… your predicament."
Sif raised an eyebrow. "On one condition?"
Faln leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Help me solve a… a ssmall matter. I heard how you unraveled the poisoning of G general York at the Fifth Legion's camp in Varnwood three years past. Aid me in my little… my little investigation, and I'll grant you entry — under my patronage."
Sif studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Agreed."
Faln's grin returned in full. "Excellent…" he stuttered, rising. "…Follow me."
He strode past the window, out into the fading gold of sunset, leading Sif through the city gate into the realm of golden vineyards and red-tiled roofs that clustered around a glittering palace of ivory towers — its spires crowned with lanterns that would soon set the sky aglow.
After twenty minutes of winding streets.
The inquisitor, Falen, led Sif to his three-storied home, its façade built from warm sandstone, with arched windows framed in bronze. Sif remarked with a quiet note of surprise:
"They pay well, indeed… to afford such a dwelling."
Falen offered a smile, unexpectedly gentle:
"It suits me—and my family—perfectly."
Sif raised a brow:
"Family? One would not expect a man so… formidable to have kin."
Falen let out a soft chuckle, then opened the door and beckoned Sif inside:
"Of course. Come in— th the dinner awaits. Tomorrow, I shall reveal all… about the ccase."
And as dusk embraced the horizon, Sif disappeared behind the warm stone walls of the house