Chapter 3: The Gaoler’s Game

The Borderton dungeon was a crypt of silence, its damp stone walls drinking in every sound save the faint drip of water from the ceiling and the skitter of rats through the straw. Alan Grey sat cross-legged near the bars, the cold iron pressing into his shoulder through the tattered tunic. The straw beneath him was a soggy, rancid mess, and the knife wound on his thigh throbbed with every subtle shift. The bell tolled again, its deep clang rolling through the cell, marking dusk on his first day—the sun's last light fading beyond the high, fist-sized windows, casting long shadows across the claw-marked floor. "Day one's nearly dust," he muttered, rubbing his bruised wrists, the purple rings stark against his skin. "Two days left—no warrant, no appeal, just a medieval torch party." A faint smirk curled his lips, the kind he'd thrown at perps who thought they'd beaten the rap.

His profiler brain churned, weaving the threads from Pete's visits. Greenvale's blue flames—fifty feet high, Old Tom's tavern yarn—too controlled for nature, too vivid for dragons. Henry, the sheriff, pinning it with Church muscle and a cloaked woman's whisper at the chapel last night. "Textbook setup," he mused, tapping his scarred cheek, a tic from late-night case boards. "Someone's staging a hit, and I'm the fall guy. But who's got the reins?" Ten years in the FBI had taught him every chain had a weak link, and Pete—gruff, twitchy Pete—was bending under the weight. "Time to crack him," Alan said, voice low, cracking his knuckles. "No backup, no good cop—just me and a play."

The iron door groaned open, and Pete's heavy boots thudded closer, his grizzled silhouette looming in the torchlight flickering from the corridor. He carried the battered tray—another slab of bread that could double as a cudgel, a jug of murky water sloshing at his hip. "Evening special, torch-man," Pete growled, tossing the bread through the bars with a grunt. It thudded into the straw. "Two days till you're cinders—eat while you can." Alan caught it mid-air, crust scraping his palm, and leaned against the bars, voice dropping to the calm, probing tone he'd used on jittery suspects. "You're clocking overtime, Pete. Henry paying you double to keep me fed, or just scared to cross him?"

Pete's eyes narrowed, hand twitching toward his club, a tell Alan clocked—nerves, not just bluster. "Keep your nose out of it, Grey," he snapped, slamming the jug down with a clang that echoed off the stone. "Henry's the law—says you torched Greenvale. Church knights were sniffing the ashes last night, backs his word." Alan's profiler instincts flared—new thread: Church knights at the scene, post-fire. "Physical presence," he noted silently. "Not just scripture—this is boots on the ground."

"Knights, huh?" Alan said, tilting his head, casual but sharp. "Out there last night, poking through cinders? What'd they find—dragon scales or Old Tom's empty tankard?" Pete shifted, boots scuffing, his scowl deepening. "Found ash and bones—elven bones, they reckon. Blue flames tore through, hellish stuff, just like Tom said. Henry's calling it dragon fire, and the knights nodded along." Alan's smirk widened, thin and dangerous. "Bones and ash—convenient. Smell anything funny out there, Pete? Sulfur, maybe? Or just Henry's coin?" Pete's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping, but he didn't bite. "You're fishing, torch-man—won't hook anything but fire."

Alan pressed, voice low and steady, the edge he'd honed breaking liars in the box. "Sulfur's a tell, Pete—blue flames don't just happen. Ten years cracking cases, I've smelled cover-ups before. Henry's dirty, and those knights aren't saints. What's their angle?" Pete's hand froze mid-scratch, bloodshot eyes locking onto Alan's for a heartbeat before darting away. "You don't get it," he rasped, voice dropping. "Church knights rode in from the cathedral—black cloaks, silver crosses. Henry met 'em with that woman last night, muttering about 'cleansing.' They don't care about truth—just results." Alan's brain lit up—cathedral knights, black cloaks, "cleansing." "Bigger fish," he thought. "This ain't local."

"Cleansing," Alan echoed, leaning closer, bars digging into his shoulder. "Sounds like a purge, not justice. That cloaked woman calling shots, or just whispering in Henry's ear?" Pete's knuckles whitened on his club, a crack showing—fear, not defiance. "Didn't see her face—dark hood, voice like ice. Henry jumped when she spoke. Church's got hooks in him, Grey—deeper than you know." Alan's smirk sharpened—ice voice, dark hood, power over Henry. "She's the linchpin," he noted. "Not just a shadow—command."

"Hooks, huh?" Alan said, voice cutting now. "Sounds like you're tangled too, Pete. What's Henry got—coin, threats, or a blade at your back?" Pete's face darkened, but his eyes flickered—guilt, raw and ragged. "You're a dead man digging, torch-man," he growled, turning away. "Fire'll bury your questions." Alan's voice sliced through, sharp as a blade. "Pete—Alice. My sister. Chapel's her haunt. Tell me she's still kicking." Pete stopped, half-turning, his scowl softening a fraction. "Saw her this morning—praying, coughing like death's knocking. Sickly thing—won't hold out long without you."

The words slammed into Alan like a fist. His grip on the bread tightened, crust biting his palm. A memory flared—dusk light fading through a shack's cracked window, Alice hunched by a sputtering fire, stitching his cloak with trembling hands. "For when you're out there," she'd rasped, coughs racking her thin frame, pride shining through her fevered eyes. He'd taken it, jaw tight, knowing it was her fight—for him, for them. "She's a damn warrior," he growled, voice low and fierce, chest burning deeper than any scar. "I don't leave warriors behind—not in the field, not here."

Pete shrugged, trudging off. "Fire don't care about warriors, Grey. Dawn's next." The door slammed, leaving Alan with the echoes and the dark. He sank back, bread clutched, staring at the claw marks—last gasps of the doomed. "Two days—forty-eight hours," he calculated, FBI precision locking in. "Day one's toast—dusk's settling." He bit the bread, nearly cracking a tooth, and spat it out with a grimace. "Could knock a perp cold with this—medieval grub's a felony."

He paced, chains clinking, mind shifting into overdrive. "No panic—work the play. Rule three: break the link, pull the thread." Pete was buckling—guilt and fear, a cocktail begging to spill. "Blue flames—sulfur hint, chemical or magic. Church knights at the scene, cathedral ties, 'cleansing'—this reeks of a purge." He snorted, profiler smirk returning. "Henry's a puppet, that woman's the hand. Who's she fronting?" His mind spun sketches—fanatics, power brokers, or something with claws and a grudge. "Ten years busting psychos didn't prep me for holy rollers, but a weak link's a weak link."

The bell's echo faded, dusk deepening beyond the windows. Alan's smirk hardened into steel. "Two days to bust a fantasy rap from a cage. Beats bleeding out in a sting." He gripped the bars, staring into the gloom. "Alice is out there—praying, fighting. She's my edge—file's the break. Time to turn the screws, Pete."