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“Your name.” His tone brooked no argument.

Idonea looked up and searched the sky for Lance. He was gone.

“…Idonea.” Her hand flicked downward. Her dagger was always close, she pressed her ring finger down onto its blade, slicing open flesh.

“Quick,” the Templar said. “Shackle her!”

Rough hands seized her wrists, clamping cold metal over them. Blue-black shackles, like the cuffs the dying women wore, closed over her wrists. The Current vanished. Not faded, gone. Pain hollowed her chest instantly. Idonea gasped. The world flattened into dead silence.

Another Templar patted down her sides. A practised search. Fingers pried away both the dagger and hand crossbow. They failed to find the torn page on the relic.

“You’re to come with us to the Temple of Radiant Dawn,” the lead Templar said. “There you’ll await judgement.”

Idonea’s muscles tensed. “Judgement?”

He pulled hard on her arm. “Yes. You’ll receive no clemency.”

Another Templar scoffed behind him. “We should just throw her out on the street like the rest.”

Pain rested in the back of her throat.

“No.” The lead Templar shook his head. “We must stick to the accords. She’ll face the High Hierophant.”

Idonea staggered forward as the Templars closed in around her, their footsteps rhythmical against the stones. Idonea didn’t resist, keeping her head down. She reached for the Current, but there was nothing to touch.

Would they care if I told them about the relic? About Nellith? Her lips tightened. No. Not unless it served their Order.

The city changed as they moved further from the hub. Clean, organised brick replaced the grime. The stink of steam engines lessened, and the streets grew quieter.

One of the Templars flanking her had a pentocular that was visibly cracked along the outermost lens. The crack ran from edge to centre in a fine pale line, and the mechanisms behind it ticked slightly out of time with his right boot.

White stone, towering columns and a roof of copper domes and glass spires that caught the sun. Stained glass windows wept coloured light across the steps; five of them, each spotless. Bronze doors creaked open, and two Templars greeted them in silence.

Inside were tall marble pillars, with soaring ceilings, and an open hallway that gleamed white. At the end of the hall was a massive mural of the moment before the sun rose. Three men in aprons brushed past them, faces down.

“Who are they?” Idonea asked. She rubbed her fingers against the metal cuffs and found no latches to undo them. It was like they’d sealed the moment they clapped over her wrists.

The Templar guiding her didn’t slow. “They are our artificers.”

He steered her left, towards a door that looked more like a vault. Iron-bound and secured with locks that hissed and clicked with steam-driven intent. It groaned open, and she pushed forward, down a stairwell of pale stone.

Stone became stained cement, then gave way to straw and stench. The cell bars were the same blue-black metal as her shackles. He pulled her forward, and she'd no choice but to follow, dragging her feet as they went. The pungent smell of body odour and other filth permeated her pores, and it was like there wasn't enough oxygen to breathe.

A haggard-looking man occupied one, indifferent as they passed. The Templar led her to the furthest one. They stripped her without fanfare: the cuffs, the belt, her satchel, goggles, and mask. They at least let her keep her glasses. But the connection to the Current didn’t return. The emptiness behind her ribs frightened her more than the Templars.

“Why take them off?” Idonea rubbed at her wrists.

He smirked. “The cells alone keep you severed.”

He shoved her into the cell and slammed the gate shut. The key locked it in place, and two Templars left. The cell didn’t even have a cot to sleep on, just the straw floor.

“Answer me this, witch,” said the remaining Templar. “Which island did you come from?”

Her breath hitched at the stench surrounding her. “Vazduhului.” The lie rolled off her tongue with ease. At least if they checked the docks for any airships, they couldn’t link the Clockwork Crows back to her arrival.

He raised an eyebrow. “Your kind never leaves that island.” He then left without another word, leaving her alone.

It was true. Vazduhului was an island nation known to be ruled by witches.