Chapter Ninety Seven: Ashes in the Courtyard
Chapter Ninety Seven: Ashes in the Courtyard
The rain had not stopped since dawn. It drummed against the arched windows of the Council Hall, a dull percussion that seemed to mock the silence inside. Jeff’s body lay in the small courtyard, covered by a shroud of coarse linen.
Logan stood over him, soaked to the bone, fists clenched. His jaw was tight, but his eyes betrayed a storm brewing far deeper than the clouds overhead.
Minister Dorrell’s voice broke the stillness. “I told you, Logan… staying in this city without Evelyn was dangerous. He was her shadow, and shadows have a way of being cut away when the light shifts.”
Logan didn’t turn. “If you’re here to lecture me, leave.”
“This isn’t a lecture. It’s a warning. Whoever killed Jeff didn’t do it for sport. They did it to send a message.”
From the far side of the courtyard, Magistrate Halden approached, his cloak heavy with rainwater. “We found the blade, Logan. Short steel, no maker’s mark. Whoever used it was a professional quick, precise. Jeff didn’t stand a chance.”
Logan’s eyes flickered toward him. “And you expect me to wait for your investigation?”
Halden didn’t flinch. “You’d better. If you start hunting on your own, you’ll give them exactly what they want—chaos. And chaos will bury this faster than truth ever could.”
A third voice joined them—a woman, sharp and bitter. Lady Mireya, one of the new elite power brokers in the city, stepped under the colonnade, her guards close behind. She glanced at the shrouded body and smirked faintly.
“How poetic,” she said. “A loyal dog dies while his mistress is away. Do you think Evelyn will come running back for revenge? Or will she stay in her new city, playing at justice for people she barely knows?”
Logan’s head snapped toward her. “Careful, Mireya. I don’t have the patience for your games today.”
“Games?” she tilted her head. “Oh, Logan, this isn’t a game. Jeff’s death is an opening. The balance in this city is shifting, and those who can’t adapt die."
Halden stepped between them. “Enough. Lady Mireya, this is a crime scene, not a stage for your power plays.”
She smirked again and retreated, her words lingering like smoke: Those who can’t adapt die.
The rain eased slightly. Logan crouched by Jeff’s shroud, his voice low enough that only Halden could hear. “When Evelyn returns, she’s going to want blood for this. But I’m not waiting for her. Whoever did this… they die before she sets foot back here.”
Halden studied him for a long moment. “Then you’d better make sure you kill the right person. Because in this city, enemies aren’t the only ones who know how to stab you in the back.”
Logan stood, his shadow falling long across the courtyard stones. Somewhere beyond the rain and the whispers, the killer was watching. And Logan intended to look them in the eyes before he ended them.
The city felt quieter that night, though Logan knew it wasn’t truly silent. Beneath the patter of rain on the tiled roofs, the hum of whispers carried through alleys, over balconies, into shuttered homes. Whispers about Jeff. Whispers about how even someone like him, quick with a grin, unshakable in a fight could be cut down so mercilessly.
Logan sat in the magistrate’s chamber, the candlelight throwing sharp shadows across the desk. His coat dripped onto the marble floor, leaving a dark trail from the door. Magistrate Halden sat opposite him, hands steepled, his face tight with something between sympathy and calculation.
"You shouldn't have come tonight," Halden said at last. "They're watching the gates, watching your steps. Whoever ordered Jeff’s death wanted you next."
Logan's eyes narrowed. "That’s the thing, Halden. Jeff didn’t die in some tavern brawl. This wasn’t a warning for me. This was a message to everyone."
Halden tilted his head, the flicker of the candle catching the edge of his spectacles. "A message? Or a test? To see if you'd break?"
Logan leaned forward, his jaw tense. "Jeff was investigating the chain routes. The slave caravans that pass through our walls in the dead of night. He told me two nights ago that he’d found something a list of names, all of them nobles. I didn’t even have time to ask which names before—" He stopped, fingers curling into fists. "They gutted him in the street."
From the corner of the room, a voice cut in. Corwin, leaning against the window, his usual dry wit gone. "Not just gutted. Left him there until morning so every market seller and dockhand could see him when they opened shop. Whoever did this wanted the stink of fear to linger."
Halden frowned. "And you think it ties to the council?"
"I know it does," Logan shot back. "The question is, which one of them ordered it. Or…" He paused, a darker thought coiling in his mind. "…or if it came from someone outside the council who wants us chasing shadows."
Corwin pushed away from the window, stepping into the candlelight. "Then we need to decide now do we keep digging, or do we strike back?"
"Strike back against who?" Halden said sharply. "You hit the wrong person and you’ll hand the council exactly what they want, proof that you’re reckless, dangerous. They’ll strip you of your title before the month’s end."
Logan’s laugh was humorless. "Titles don’t mean much when they can slit a man’s throat in broad daylight and no one lifts a finger."
The room fell into silence. Outside, thunder rolled low over the harbor.
Finally, Halden spoke again, voice quieter. "Jeff’s death… will not be the last, Logan. If you keep this path, you’ll lose more than allies. You’ll lose the city."
Logan met his gaze, steady. "Then we make sure Jeff’s the last one they take from us."
Corwin gave a slow, grim nod. "Then we’d better start with the list he died for."
Halden hesitated, but he could see it the stubborn fire in Logan’s eyes. "If you do this," he said, "you’ll need to move fast. Before they move on y
ou."
Logan stood, pulling his coat tight. "Then we move tonight."