Halfway across the Empire, High Inquisitor Gustav Sargerrei sat in Jurat Hill’s dark study and read from an unfurled paper. His narrowed, blue eyes had scanned the paper up-and-down for most the morning and a few of the silvery hairs over his forehead remained disturbed by his uneasy hand. The messenger-eagle had flown it directly from Pilta with all haste. Gustav had nearly sent it back immediately upon reading the signature at the bottom of the scroll. He was still uncertain as to whether he should throw it in the fire or further investigate the traitor’s treacherous claims, but his years acting as the head of the Inquisition had taught him to question his doubt above all. Knocks on the heavy, black-steel doors broke the High Inquisitor from his musings and brought him back to the slate-wall study.

A white robe appeared in the narrow crack of the door as Melchior- his manservant Purged appeared inside. As always, he had his hands gracefully folded over his stomach and his pale skin shone brightly in the light of the tall, crackling fireplace at the end of the study.

“My Lord. I’ve come with the report of my findings.” Gustav left the scroll on the desk and stood from his chair to stretch his aching muscles. He nodded towards the Purged and commenced his commonplace pacing along the tall bookshelves along the eastern wall. “Go on, Malchior.” He muttered and raised his weary hand to his chin.

Malchior bowed down low before speaking: “The imports from Pilta have increased fifteen percent over the past month. As you asked me to investigate, the men on the boats are all of the Inquisition- none of the ones I questioned were civilians.” Gustav stopped to look at the chin of his young manservant, as it was the only part of him visible beneath the hood. His lips were, as usual, contorted into a frown to rival his own- as if he suspected the true scope of the supposed problem.

“And what did they have to say of the state of Pilta? Did they have anything else to report?” Malchior was quick to shake his head.

“No, my Lord. They all spoke of an outbreak of black-boils within the city, but they ensured us that Duke Titus has sealed the walls until they could contain the spread. Without bringing Father into the investigation, I cannot employ any higher-leveled psychomancers to verify. All I’ve had to rely on is my own ability, which-…" Gustav knew of Malchior’s ability well- it was why he had been chosen for his manservant to begin with. The Empath bowed his head a measure lower before continuing:

“Most felt... dread. Others were frightened. A small number of them felt guilt. I lack the experience to know what to expect during a plague, but I can imagine those emotions being out of place.” Gustav turned to face his tall bookshelf of collected works. If the traitor's claims were true, then this would require his swift attention- if they were false, Titus would undoubtedly be offended not only with Bartholomew, but with his father, as well. The question remained... was the evidence- as presented before him- enough to warrant rerouting Ingvard from his crucial mission?

“My Lord... as this is a matter of interior affairs, should we brief Father and the Emperor?” Gustav maintained his forward stare for a demonstrative moment later, before shaking his head.

“No. Reroute Ingvard- tell him that he is free to make use of whichever protocols he deems fitting. He has my full Authority.” Malchior froze and let the gravity of the words sink in. He knew what the First Legion’s ‘full authority’ could potentially refer to.

“Yes, My Lord.”

As Melchior finally strode off to relay his orders, the High Inquisitor strode back towards the desk, where he stared down at the scroll as if it would leapt at him and attack at any moment. The poisonous paper- if true, could have immeasurable consequences for years to come, not only for the city of Pilta, but for the entire Empire, should worst come to worse. He stretched his fingers out to unfurl the scroll, to read its signature once more and muttered a silent:

“Likewise, Bartholomew...”