The Sanctorium was a lone spire of glistening white marble that reached toward the heavens, its glossy finish reflecting the crimson glow of Dysol as it rose over the horizon. The rectangular building—all sharp angles and rigid corners—came to a jagged point at its zenith, which was capped with a red and gold flag waving the Imperial sigil, buffeting against the wind. At the base of the building stood two entrances: a large main entrance under a simple awning, admitting ambulatory patients and visitors; and a smaller side entrance open only to employees—mostly vitalists delivering critically ill patients directly into the waiting arms of the physicks and orderlies. Silas and Arbiter Stroud were dropped off under the main entrance's awning, leaving Warden Oscar to park the boiler that carried them from Crownhold with Junior Arbiter Elsbeth Ravelin still in the backseat. Silas was briefly introduced to Junior Arbiter Ravelin before the group departed for the Sanctorium. She was a quiet young woman with deep onyx skin and long, jet-black hair worn in tight, twisting braids. She left an unremarkable impression on Silas. Her placid expression, obscured by a half-face mask and lidded, listless gaze, made Silas wonder if, like him, she had failed to sleep the previous two nights. Arbiter Stroud had introduced the younger woman as her assistant, a newly-appointed recruit fresh from the Academy who would be accompanying them to the Sanctorium to, as Stroud put it, "Divert the attention of probing civilians."

  A doorman greeted Silas and Arbiter Stroud at the Sanctorium's main entrance. He opened the large door of frosted glass wide and bowed as they passed. A grand lobby admitted them as they crossed the threshold, an enormous desk stretching across half the width of the room. Behind the desk, orderlies in their white and red striped uniforms scampered about, handling paperwork, conversing with visitors and physicks, and guiding patients to and from the bustling waiting area. The waiting area was divided in two by a large marble fountain. The water feature displayed a heavily scaled snake wound tightly around a thick rod. A stream of crystal clear water gushed from the snake's mouth to collect in the fountain's basin, its laminar flow following the tortuous bends of the snake's body in helical arcs. Several hallways branched from the lobby, signs above their archways designating which ward the corridors led to. The space was lit by a single-paneled starbloom lamp that covered the entire area of the ceiling, its glow casting effervescent shadows against the walls and floor.

  "Close your mouth before you drool on yourself," Stroud chuckled, regarding Silas with a sidelong look. Silas promptly snapped his jaw closed, blushing at Stroud's amused smirk.

  They marched across the waiting area to take their place in line ahead of the imposing desk. A heavy sensation tickled the hairs on the back of Silas's neck, gooseflesh rising along his spine. Turning to glance over his shoulder, he scanned the people seated in the waiting area, locking eyes with a dignified gentleman glaring at him with unrestrained fury. Trobuk's father! Silas quickly turned around, an electric jolt coursing through his limbs. Stroud noticed his reaction but said nothing, stepping forward when the line advanced.

  "What can I help you with today?" said an amiable orderly, her soft blonde hair framing the delicate features of her face.

  "I am Imperial Arbiter Vera Stroud, accompanying Silas Carrow to visit his grandfather, Alastair Carrow." Reaching into her breast pocket, Stroud produced her identification badge and held it up for the orderly to see. The orderly blanched, her spine straightening.

  "A-allow me to fetch my superior," she said hurriedly and darted off, jogging along the long desk.

  Silas leveled a bemused expression on Stroud, who shrugged in response.

  "I have that effect on people," she said merrily before the young orderly returned with a wizened physick in tow.

  "I can take things from here," the physick told the orderly.

  The young woman bowed deeply and excused herself, her shoulders relaxing as she scampered away.

  "Follow me," the physick said, stalking the length of the desk to stand at the edge of the waiting area.

  Stroud and Silas exited the line, trailing the physick. Nervous, Silas glanced over his shoulder again. Trobuk's father was still staring at him, now flanked by two newcomers Silas faintly recognized from guardianship time. Distracted, he crashed into Arbiter Stroud, who had stopped to face the physick. She frowned down at him—her eyebrows raised in surprise.

  "Not very nimble, are you?" she teased, sparing him a sharp look before facing forward and smiling at the physick.

  The man watched this interaction apathetically, his impatience—or perhaps nervousness—apparent from his twitching lips and fidgeting hands.

  "This is Carrow's kin?" asked the physick, studying Silas with narrowed eyes. "There are several matters I need to discuss with you, then." The physick said this to the Arbiter, his keen attention leaving Silas after one last glance. "In private, preferably."

  "Perfect timing then," said Arbiter Stroud, waving at Warden Oscar and Junior Arbiter Ravelin, who waltzed into the lobby. "I will leave the boy in the care of my colleagues, and the two of us can discuss to our hearts' content."

  Silas looked at Stroud, eyebrows furrowing.

  "You'll get to see your grandfather, mouse boy, don't you fret." Stroud turned to follow the physick, who—without waiting for Stroud to follow—took off down the corridor at a brisk pace. She nodded at Warden Oscar, who came to stand behind Silas. "In the meantime, wait here with your new friends. I am sure the lot of you will get along swimmingly!"

  Silas was left blinking after her as she jogged to catch up with the physick, who disappeared behind a bend, his white coat billowing after him.

  Warden Oscar grumbled under his breath, leading Silas to a row of plush, cushioned chairs. Situated between the Warden and Junior Arbiter, Silas pulled in his elbows and crossed his legs together to avoid bumping either of them in this confined space. They sat like that for some time, watching the constant throng of people mill around the lobby. Claustrophobic, Silas glanced up, looking for an escape. Written on a sign above the corridor at the far end of the waiting area was an arrow pointing to the nearest washrooms. Silas tugged on Oscar's sleeve to get his attention and pointed, miming what he was trying to convey.

  "I don't understand you, boy," Oscar snarled, swatting Silas's hand away.

  The Junior Arbiter was no help either, staring straight ahead while she ignored them both. Silas stood and pointed again, jabbing his finger in the direction of the sign.

  "Sit down," was all Oscar said, his tone threatening.

  Silas shook his head and took off, breezing through the scattered chairs and people. He heard Warden Oscar shout after him, but he did not look back, allowing himself to blend with the crowd as he weaved toward the washrooms. A hand grabbed his biceps, forcing him to an abrupt halt. He turned angrily, expecting Warden Oscar. The anger evaporated away—replaced by a fear that froze his limbs—when he locked eyes with Baron Dannel, Trobuk's father.

  Enraged, the nobleman gathered the material of Silas's coat in his fists and slammed Silas against the wall, forcing the air from his lungs in a strangled gasp. The man's eyes were bloodshot and protruding from his face—red and glistening with unveiled wrath.

  "You did this!" Baron Dannel cried, spittle flying from his foaming lips and splattering against Silas's cheek.

  Silas shied away, attempting to free himself from Baron Dannel's grasp. Around them, a crowd had gathered, a circle of people murmuring amongst themselves at the spectacle. Silas scanned the crowd, pleading for someone to help. But many of the faces he saw were familiar: the survivors of the Unspoken attack at the Foundry School, all gathering at the Sanctorium to visit their injured loved ones. They glared at Silas with resentment that mirrored Baron Dannel's, their narrowed eyes and deep frowns carrying the gravity of their anger and blame. Baron Dannel pulled Silas close, his face inches away.

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  "You killed my son! You maimed my wife!" Hot, fuming tears fell from the nobleman's cheeks, dripping onto Silas's hands, which pulled and tugged at the baron's fists, still clenching the material of his coat. "Why do you show your face here? How do you show your face here?"

  Silas was again slammed against the wall, biting his tongue at the force of the blow. The salty, ferrous taste of blood filled his mouth.

  "Is it to mock us? Do you wish to pour salt into our wounds?"

  Silas refused to meet the baron's wild, crazed stare. He stood there, accepting the nobleman's feelings, letting them absorb into him and fill him with sorrow.

  He's not wrong, Silas thought bitterly. If the Unspoken truly can hear me, and if they came there for me, then I alone am to blame for all this. A sickening clarity ascended from deep within Silas, finally forcing its way to the surface after letting it wallow since the attack. I caused this.

  "That will be all, thank you."

  Silas looked up, watching through vision swimming with tears, as Arbiter Stroud barreled through the crowd. She flashed her badge at anyone who dared to impede her progress, parting the human sea with her authority. Behind her marched Warden Oscar and Junior Arbiter Ravelin, who deflected any stray resistance with raised weapons. Baron Dannel—either not noticing Stroud's approach or not bearing it any mind—continued his assault, shouting into Silas's ear all the foul things he wished would happen to him.

  "Baron Dannel, this is beneath you," said Stroud, resting a hand on one of the baron's fists, still shaking with rage against Silas's chest. Her voice softened as she said, "I acknowledge your grief. Your emotions are valid." She paused, guiding the nobleman's hand down to his side. "But this" —she waved a hand to highlight the scene around them— "is not helping. This will not right a wrong."

  Baron Dannel finally released Silas. The boy stood with his back against the wall, chest rapidly moving up and down with each rapid cycle of breath. It seemed like every person in the world was looking at him, judging his every action and movement. He felt like he was going to be sick.

  "I don't understand, Arbiter," Baron Dannel said, his fury simmering down, deflating him as his shoulders sagged forward. "I saw him arrested at the scene. The Guards said it was on suspicion of his inciting the attack. Why does he walk free?"

  At Stroud's nod, Junior Arbiter Ravelin stepped forward, replacing her crossbow with a notepad and stylus.

  "Your confusion is logical." Stroud turned to address the crowd. "Let me state this here for all to know: an investigation is underway. Until the picture has been properly developed, I cannot betray much information to the public. But the boy here" —Silas winced as Arbiter Stroud's wave brought the spotlight back to him— "is under the Empire's care. We do not yet know the extent of his involvement, but it is my current belief that he is as much a victim as you all are. Direct your anger not at him, but at the true enemy, the enemy of the Empire."

  "The Unspoken," offered someone from the crowd to a murmur of agreement.

  "Correct," agreed Stroud as Junior Arbiter Ravelin finally came to stand beside her superior. Stroud gave her assistant a heavy pat on the back and said, "This is Junior Arbiter Elsbeth Ravelin. She is here to hear the testimonies of all who are willing to speak. We will ensure everyone's voice is heard, including yours, Baron Dannel." Stroud nodded at the nobleman, who stood straighter in acknowledgement of her words.

  Stroud led Silas away from the crowd, her hand pressed firmly between his shoulder blades, while the Junior Arbiter and Warden were left to listen to the survivors' accounts. Once out of the lobby and into the relative silence of the corridor, Stroud plucked her hand from Silas and returned it to her side, swinging stiffly as she walked. They came to a door and pushed through into a stairwell, climbing several stories. With no time to catch his breath between the altercation with Baron Dannel and the climb, Silas was huffing and puffing with exertion as they came to the landing, and Stroud pushed open the door. Immediately, Silas's nose was accosted with the aseptic scent of the floor's sickbay. Spicy incense—which burned from potpourri on the desk of the orderly's station—blended with the sour stench of illness. The putrid aroma permeated the air, lingering like a thick fog at the back of Silas's throat. Waiting by the orderly's desk was the physick who spoke with Arbiter Stroud earlier. He looked up from the parchment he had been reading and nodded, pointing toward a room at the end of the hall.

  "Alastair Carrow rests in there," the physick said to Silas. "He is comatose. Exsanguination combined with a hearty dose of carrion wolf venom leaves his fate uncertain. We are doing all we can to ensure his survival." These harsh words rushed from the physick's mouth, his tone even and clinical.

  Silas's body shook with anguish. He turned sharply on his heel and staggered to Pa's room, determined not to show Stroud or the insensitive physick his tears. As he walked away, he heard a hushed, hurried exchange between Stroud and the physick.

  "Alastair Carrow is a name missing from Imperial Records. My duty as a physick forbids me to let a human being die, but under whose name do I file his case?" asked the physick.

  "Silas Carrow similarly has zero proof of identification. Only the Foundry School for Education and Asylum documents his and his supposed grandfather's existence," whispered Stroud.

  "I wish you success in your continued investigation, Arbiter."

  "As do I."

  Their voices waned into inaudible mumbling as Silas entered Pa's room. He stood at the doorway, shock gluing him to the spot. Pa's face was hidden beneath a thick mask, his labored exhales—aided by the device's mechanical respiration—coloring the glass an opaque white. Several tubes protruded from his arms, one feeding him a clear saline solution and the other delivering fresh humors. A thick bandage saturated with blood was wrapped around his neck, a little puddle of crimson collecting in the pillow under his head. Only a thin, sweat-soaked sheet covered his feverish body, which shuddered with febrile chills. Silas stumbled into a chair beside the bed and reached out to grasp Pa's limp hand with his own. He let the tears flow then. Silently, they cascaded down his face, dribbling off his chin and splashing against his and Pa's intertwined fingers.

  I am sorry, Silas thought, pressing Pa's hand against his face. This is all my fault.

  There was a shuffling from behind. Silas ignored it, deciding not to let Stroud or the physick interrupt this intimate moment.

  "I brought you a stylus and some parchment."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Silas watched Stroud place the items on the edge of Pa's bed.

  Returning to her spot in the doorway, she explained, "In case you wanted to write him something. To tell him what is happening and where you are in the event he awakens before we return."

  Silas's brain struggled to process these words, confusion marring his thoughts. He gently placed Pa's hand down at his side and turned in his chair, giving Stroud a look that he hoped conveyed his lack of understanding.

  "We leave at dawn tomorrow," she said, examining her fingernails as she leaned on one foot against the doorframe. "You will be accompanying me to this ever-so-mysterious location your grandfather so dramatically bestowed upon you, with the last of his strength."

  In response, Silas tilted his head.

  "Why, you may be wondering?" Stroud tried, biting at her thumbnail. "Because" —she spat out a hangnail, to Silas's disgust— "you are currently my charge. You are a minor. Your legal guardian is incapacitated, and you are tangled up in a splendid mess of possible treason against the Empire." She chuckled to herself as though she had told a self-satisfying joke. "I currently hold the position of your legal guardian, prosecutor, and protector. Such fun, is it not?"

  Silas balked at her words, turning around to face Pa again. He considered the stylus and parchment, choosing to take Stroud's advice and pen Pa a note before they departed. He doubted they would be gone long enough for Pa to recover enough to regain consciousness, but he allowed himself an iota of hope. Silas appreciated Stroud then, seeing her in a new, warmer light. She had thought enough about his situation to provide him with the means to communicate with Pa, and perhaps herself. Remembering the hushed conversation between Stroud and the physick, Silas hastily grabbed the stylus and parchment, aiming to write down his concerns for Stroud to answer. But when he turned around in his chair, she was gone, leaving him alone with Pa once more.

  The gentle warmth of the room, along with the steady stridor of Pa's respirator, lolled Silas's heavy eyelids down. Silas leaned forward in his chair and rested his weary head on Pa's bed, sighing into the soft mattress. He gathered Pa's hand into his again and hugged it close, like a child would a plush toy. For the first time in two days, Silas slept, a deep, blissfully dreamless sleep. As he drifted off, he caught several more bits of conversation between Stroud and the physick, but by the time he awoke, he convinced himself they were nothing more than fleeting dreams.

  "The boy's medical notes from Dr. Strath at the Foundry School are fascinating. I would love to study his case more."

  "Surely his psychosis is nothing so extraordinary?"

  "Perhaps, perhaps not. But I do wonder about its connection to the Carrows' absence from Imperial Records. The Empire could learn much from a subject like him."

  "A subject, Doctor?"

  "Er… patient, I mean. Excuse me."

  When Silas woke, refreshed, at dawn the next day with a cramp in his neck and a sour taste in his mouth, he discovered that someone had draped a blanket over his shoulders while he snoozed. Before leaving with Stroud, he scrawled a message, as detailed as he could, with the parchment and stylus gifted to him. He folded it up and placed it curled within Pa's fist. Standing, he pecked a swift kiss on Pa's feverish brow and departed, leaving the Sanctorium with Arbiter Stroud to begin their journey to 47 Brimthorne Lane, East Gloam.