“Siara…what’s all these pipes for?”

Nemera’s hesitant breath burst out in plumes of hot, stagnant air, wisps that made the earlier aptly named the Whisperwalk Tunnels look timid in comparison. Tapping the pipes almost absent mindedly, they rumbled uncomfortably as her Shadow Trait grazed against the rusty metal. 

Huh. It reacted to Trait.

These tunnels were used since before the Brink and it was mostly maintained by historians looking to preserve the ancient prison of Forecaster’s past. Throughout the trek, Siara had briefly answered her questions less and less often until Nemera was left to her own devices. It was a shame. She kinda liked Neridian history.

“The Pressurehold changes the environment to suit whichever Forecaster is present in these cells. The pipes pump hot air for Stormspell mages and cold for Sunspell. The artificial caves create daylight for Nightspell and rainstorms for Earthspell. But she already knows that. The problem is…our current prisoner seems to be unaffected by all of it. But it’s necessary.”

Nemera hadn’t noticed the flare of Siara’s Sunspell elf until it was too late.

Flinching away from the light Nemera instinctively brought up her hand to block Siara’s Sunspell but was met with the cold, hard stone of…arkalite. The Whisperwalk tunnels seemed to vanish beneath her feet, stretching out into a basin like structure filled with opalescent light and a series of long, thin bars that never ended. 

The atmosphere was no longer thick with clogging, warm air but chilling cold frost. 

The dank, hollowed out cave was covered with strange, greyish black stone hidden by snow that reflected the Blacksail River above. Bathed in a ghoulish hue of blues and purples, the shadows lengthened in the room on mere instinct the moment Nemera set eyes on the prisoner.

A child.

Of all the things she had seen in the past few nights, this was not on her list. 

The duck egg grey skin of a Stormspell elf was far paler than any of the Rainfall Brigade from before, pallid and sickly Nemera had to force herself to stare and not wretch at the sight of her. Her eyes closed beneath a hood hiding a mishmash of dark hair half shorn by what could only be a jagged razor, covered in frozen mud, dust and all manner of grime. Her lips were blue but Nemera didn’t think that was a Stormspell elf thing.

“What in the Laia’s light, Siara!” Nemera protested, her voice echoing despite trying to keep quiet.

Siara shushed her angrily.

“It must have been adjusted since you arrived. Looks like it only took a second. Good.” Siara muttered, ignoring her and stormed ahead, the tips of her hair now brittle from the cold.

Nemera wasn’t sure how to respond but the steely glare she received was colder than the room itself. The message was quite clear. This was what she was here for. Don’t question it.

The bundle of cloth the prisoner was wrapped in reminded her of the coloured cloaks the young apprentices wore but far more dirty and patched together. It hid a lot of her malnourishment, the young boy Nemera had seen patching up the Arches earlier was a far cry from the barely moving elf in front of her. Had she not been trained as a necromancer, Nemera would not have been able to tell if she was alive.

“As you are fully aware, Prisoner SE17 we are conducting an investigation into your involvement of the decimation of the cliffs of Forewarn and residing outer areas not including or limited to the Caldurosa Mines, the Outcrop districts of Sunrisen, Daybreak and the heart of Floodbound itself. The Dropspire Arches.”

Had Nemera not noticed the twitch in Siara’s jaw she wouldn’t have remembered how significant surnames were in Neridia. Siara’s full name was Siara Daybreaker. 

It could be coincidence, it could be fate, it could be revenge but the waiver in Siara’s voice over a single word slowly, sluggishly pieced itself together. Nemera had no choice but to keep that part of her brain quiet. She wasn’t here for a rescue mission.

“As per the Highbidden Rules of our Forefathers we have allowed three days to inquire about your alleged claims of servant trafficking, conspiring against the crown, espionage, perjury and imprisonment of our fellow kin but have found nothing. Nothing but the ashes you created by murdering two of the most prominent Forecaster elves since the Age of Astral has ever seen…”

Nemera couldn’t listen to anymore.

It didn’t matter whether the charges were true or not. Neridia had been given only three days to prevent her execution. Siara however, had a connection to the accused, to the disaster and potentially…to the victim itself. Without Comet she didn’t have a way through to the Sunstress, bravado act or not and had deferred to her to lead the way. But not even Willowstone had treated their prisoners this badly They at least had the decency to let the Eternal Death take them first. But Siara wouldn’t listen to reason and she needed the High Sunstress on her side.

“Seems like I’ll have to do the talking.” Nemera interrupted loudly, stepping into the light just inches away from the bars.

Unsure of Neridia’s judicial system or any sort of hierarchy the Shadow Traited was led by her gut alone that twisted a hollow reminder that her Master would never allow this to happen. Guilty or not. The Traited might have caused wars over petty disputes but at least they cared more about the people than the architecture.

“Nemera…what are you doing? This is an investigation-“

“Shut up, Siara. No it’s not. You’re wearing fucking potential evidence.”

Siara’s mouth gaped open, pawing at the silky purple fabric as if it couldn’t compare to the prisoner's garb before her. Nemera could see the protest in her eyes but she lifted her chin defiantly, daring her to even suggest it. A crack in her mask was all she needed. 

“My Master had a saying. Never attribute malice for stupidity. You have no trial, no guards, no form of any basic justice system but she’s locked up alone while you’re worrying about fucking keeping up appearances. Heck, killing her would’ve been more merciful but instead you’ve let your grief for your homeland, for the owner of that to destroy everything.”

The Sunstress’ green eyes faltered at the sight of Nemera’s clenched fists, the shadows taunting her light into a fight she couldn’t win in such close quarters. They were underneath a river after all. Nemera didn’t need Comet to even the odds. She’d survived worse than a little drowning and this cold was nothing compared to the nights alone in Willowstone.

“It…was in their will. Her Last Witness gave it to me. It’s…someone at an elven’s side when they pass even if…they can’t be there. I was supposed to be here. I was told it had been cleared but when you arrived…I was flustered and didn’t put it in my quarters for safekeeping.” Siara faltered, crumpling under the weight of her grief.

Nemera’s anger tempered over the sight of the broken Sunstress, still trembling but refusing to give anything vital away. No names, no suspects, no locations, nothing. So she took a note from her Master’s tactics and offered her alternatives when she had none.

“That cloak could’ve been planted to frame you, Siara…or it’s just an innocent mistake. It’s still got traces of ash…potentially from the crime scene. A crime scene you won’t let me see. Why?” Nemera asked, attempting to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Siara winced, refusing to answer while tracing the edge of the golden filigree with her hand. Here under the ultraviolet light Nemera could see what the Sunspell had seen from the very beginning. Initials. 

“The damage from the Dropspire’s doesn’t match up with a lightning storm. Heck, you have soil traces in the damn courtyard where the Rainfall Brigade could be doing something to help. So, we add your High Witness to the list of people to talk to and maybe once we’re done here we can head to…” Nemera insisted, desperate to piece together something, anything to get Siara on some other train of thought.

“No. It’s just dirt. All of it is gone.”

She wasn’t listening. Her gaze was elsewhere. Towards the cell.

Nemera shoved her against the wall, leading her light away from the chained prisoner as much as possible and furiously tried to focus on the facts. Cliffs meant sheer rock face, empty sky and most importantly, the victims ashes were now scattered to the wind. If Siara was a Traited she would’ve known better. If she was a Traited she’d listen to her.

“No. It’s the remains of your people you didn’t think could fall to the Eternal Death but did. I’m a Shadecaller, Siara. What do you think I could’ve done with it?”

The Ashes of the Fallen were sacred. It was vital for families to grieve and for Shadecaller’s to provide that service.

Had they collected their ashes to preserve the dead like every Traited had been taught, Nemera could’ve done something. Her Pulse could’ve done something.

“No, you couldn’t have…” She said incredulously, attempting to keep up a stubborn front but the wide eyed innocence refused to leave her.

Nemera didn’t notice it before. With every shake of Siara’s head Nemera couldn’t help but be reminded of Basra’s smug face refusing this task and baiting her into it. She’d been played to think her Night Rider standing would ever get anywhere.

“Hell’s teeth, you never believed in it did you? None of you do. It doesn’t matter if it was my Master or General Basra or myself arriving into Neridia. You’d block us off from the start because…you don’t believe the Eternal Death is real. You’re elves. You’re immortal. You’ve never seen death.”

All Siara could do was stare blankly into the eyes of a young girl. 

Green eyes that were now open. 

With a smile calmer than the seas and eyes brighter than the Sunstress herself, the chill of the room slowly thawed until the pipes shifted into a mix of hot and cold that felt…angry. Justifiably angry.

“There is no need, Deathkeeper. Whatever your intentions…you’re too late. I’ve already confessed but your beloved Sunstress refuses to hear it and now, they’ve brought in a necromancer to mock my efforts.”

The raspy voice of the haggard Stormspell elf seemed to grow in strength with every drop of rain that fell from the ceiling, a cool oasis that reminded Nemera of the Caldorian desert bordering her homeland. It was like an old sea god had possessed this young girl but Nemera didn’t need her Pulse to know that was bullshit.

“Kalia Ashgrave is dead and I intend to keep it that way.”

Siara was frozen, terrified by the water seized by the pipes she was sure had been under her control. The pipes that were now dangerously creaking under the weight of a vast amount of water from above. The Blacksail River. The only thing Nemera regretted was not staying away from those damn tunnels.

“Oh fuck.”