The courtroom was a cold, austere chamber of stone and wood, its high ceilings arching like the ribs of a long-dead beast. Light from narrow windows cast bars of light across the floor. A small brazier in the corner struggled to dispel the chill, its flickering flames casting uncertain shadows.

  Weylan and William followed the proceedings hidden among the audience. Two of the dozens of concerned citizens that had appeared to witness the court hearing. When rumors surfaced that the Brotherhood would be brought to justice, many of the cities’ inhabitants had converged to watch. William, who had been busy spreading the rumors and leaking the date and time all over the city, looked smug at the full court room. So much for the Brotherhood’s plan to keep the proceedings under the rug. He still feared the court official would try to dismiss the case out of fear of retribution. Public scrutiny would make that much harder.

  Weylan felt nervous, sitting right in the open, if mingled in the crowd and with a short beard, thanks to a hair growth potion and disguised with clothes in a garish colorful color scheme. He had even used one of Williams cremes to lighten his tanned skin. William himself had used a disguise kit and some second-hand clothes to look like a peasant right from the field.

  At the head of the chamber sat Magistrate Aldric Quent, the court official, a man whose face was etched with years of duty and caution. He nodded to the court wizard who circled the room with measured steps, touching each of the five inlayed silver runes on the walls. A silvery light flashed through the room when he touched the last. With the tone of ancient tradition, he intoned. “All illusions and shadows shall be dispelled, enchantments broken, and controlled minds freed. No lie shall be spoken, no false testimony given.”

  The court official addressed the room. “I will hear arguments now. Begin.”

  Jago the steward stepped forward, his tailored coat immaculate and his expression calm. “Your honor,” the Steward began, holding up a sealed document, “this certificate from the Church of Nistrul confirms the time of Luthgar the Blind’s death. The sale of his farm was therefore invalid, as the death occurred before the mandatory waiting period had elapsed. Any property transfers based on that contract are therefore void under royal law.”

  His gaze lingered on the legal representative the Brotherhood had sent. A sleek, snake-like man with a calculating smile named Marcus Tullius. Dressed in an understated but immaculate black attire he radiated smug confidence. The only indication of his allegiance was a discreet silver pin of Nistrul’s sigil.

  Marcus Tullius stepped forward, his tone smooth and practiced. “Ah, yes, the certificate. A fascinating piece, your honor, but hardly conclusive. While the Brotherhood acknowledges the validity of Nistrul’s church’s rites and respects its place in the law, this certification lacks essential details. For example, it does not indicate any intent to deceive on the part of the buyer. The Brotherhood contends that there is no evidence to suggest the buyer had knowledge of Luthgar’s death before the sale was finalized. It also does not prove the seller intended in any way to withdraw from the sale. His will to sell is clear and should be honored.”

  The Steward’s voice grew colder. “The body was buried in a rune-marked casket designed to preserve it, hidden on the outskirts of the farm. A curious coincidence, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Marcus Tullius spread his hands, his tone almost apologetic. “A tragedy seems to have happened, certainly. But not one that implicates my client. In fact, the preservation of the body aligns with local customs and superstitions. There is no evidence linking the Brotherhood to any wrongdoing.”

  The official frowned, his gaze lingering on Marcus Tullius’s two bodyguards. Their nondescript clothing did little to mask the menace in their postures. “The court will not entertain speculation. Is there any evidence to suggest deliberate concealment of the death?”

  Marcus Tullius’s smile widened. “None, your honor. Unless the Steward has something, he has yet to present?”

  The Steward hesitated, a flicker of frustration crossing his face, then it returned to a neutral expression. “Be as it may, but the fact stands, that the sale is void. It does not matter if the buyer knew about it or if any trickery was intended.”

  Marcus Tullius opened his mouth to respond, but the official held up a hand. “Enough. The steward is correct. The sale is void. That much is clear. The property must therefore be returned…”

  Marcus Tullius’s expression darkened, though his tone remained cordial. “Of course, your honor. The Brotherhood has always been cooperative in matters of law. Sadly, the deceased has no known heirs.”

  The court official’s hand trembled slightly as he made a hasty note in his ledger. “Very well. The sale will remain under review, and the property will be held in trust until the investigation is complete.”

  William clenched his fists under the table, doing his best to maintain a neutral expression. Inside, however, frustration bubbled like a kettle on the verge of boiling over. To him, the court official’s demeanor was clear as day. A subtle relaxation in his shoulders, the faintest exhale of relief. It wasn’t the reaction of a man weighing justice. It was the reaction of someone dodging a dangerous responsibility.

  He had feared this from the start. Any official with a single life to lose would hesitate to cross an organization as powerful and ruthless as the Brotherhood. The Magistrate would therefore try to hide behind protocol and use the thinnest excuse to avoid prosecution of the Brotherhood.

  The other spectators felt the same way. The murmurs of dissatisfaction spread like ripples in a pond. Spectators shifted in their seats, the scrape of chairs against the stone floor growing louder with each moment. Some leaned forward, glaring at the court official with open frustration, while others exchanged heated whispers.

  Weylan’s sharp eyes caught subtle movements among the crowd. Hands slipping into pockets, reaching under cloaks. His stomach tightened. They weren’t reaching for snacks, that much was certain.

  A group of city guards stationed near the back of the room stiffened, their hands moving to the hilts of their weapons. They exchanged wary glances, their eyes scanning the increasingly restless audience. One of them muttered something to a superior, who nodded sharply and stepped forward to better position his team.

  Weylan’s grip on the edge of his chair tightened. Things were about to get ugly.

  Steward Jago coughed politely, a practiced gesture that immediately drew the room’s attention. He held up his hands in a calming motion, his voice cutting through the rising tension like a knife. “That won’t be necessary,” he announced.

  The murmurs subsided, and all eyes turned to him.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  He snapped his fingers and an assistant hurried forward to bring him a document folder. Jago opened it with deliberate care, extracting a single parchment. He held it aloft for the court and audience to see before continuing. “The farmer Luthgar, also known as Luthgar the Blind, left a will donating all his worldly possessions to the Church of Lieselotte, the goddess of home and family. Specifically, to support the maintenance of the city’s orphanages.”

  A wave of murmurs swept through the audience again, this time tinged with confusion and intrigue.

  Marcus Tullius’s smirk faltered, his lips twitching as he quickly masked his surprise. His recovery was swift, but Jago’s sharp eyes caught the flicker of unease.

  The Brotherhood’s representative folded his hands with an exaggerated air of calm. “An interesting revelation, Steward Jago,” he said smoothly. “But one wonders if the authenticity of this document might warrant scrutiny. Perhaps it was... conveniently produced to bolster an otherwise weak case?”

  Jago met his gaze with steely confidence, his tone clipped. “The document has been duly notarized and holds all of the official seals. Its authenticity is beyond question. I trust the court is well-versed in the penalties for falsifying a notarized will.”

  The court official shifted uncomfortably, clearly torn between the powerful weight of the Brotherhood’s influence and the undeniable legality of the document presented. He adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. “This will does complicate matters,” he began cautiously. “It would appear that the transfer of property to the Brotherhood is invalid under these circumstances. The rightful recipient is... the Church of Lieselotte. I will draft an official verdict within the hour.”

  Marcus Tullius turned to the Steward, his voice low and serpentine. “The Brotherhood does not forget those who meddle in its affairs. You would do well to remember that.”

  The Steward met his gaze, his voice quiet but firm. “And the law does not forget those who twist it.”

  Marcus Tullius’s smile didn’t falter as he gestured for his bodyguards to follow. “The law is a tool, Steward. In the right hands, it bends beautifully.”

  The Steward returned his smile. “That it does.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Team NPCS, William, and Steward Jago gathered in the cozy backroom of a bustling tavern. The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of lanterns casting long shadows on the wooden walls. The smell of roasted meat and freshly poured ale mingled in the air as William recounted the day’s events to those who hadn’t been present at the courtroom.

  Laughter and cheers filled the room as the group toasted their small victory. Tankards of beer clinked together while Ulmenglanz sipped water from a wooden cup, her distaste for stronger drinks evident. Spirits were high, though a tinge of tension lingered in the air.

  William leaned forward, his tone turning serious as he addressed the steward. “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he said, thoughtfully. “Why would a poor farmer go to the trouble and financial cost of having his will officially notarized? That’s no small expense.”

  Steward Jago smirked, setting down his tankard with a soft thunk. “The will holds all the necessary seals and signatures,” he replied smoothly, his voice laced with satisfaction. “And I really hope those seals have time to finish drying before anyone asks to examine them.”

  Weylan choked mid-sip, barely managing to avoid spraying beer across the table. “You faked the seals?” he asked, incredulous, his voice rising above the hum of the room.

  Jago rolled his eyes, his tone turning dry. “Don’t be dramatic, Weylan. I’m the baron’s steward. It’s my responsibility to oversee and authenticate such documents. Let me be very clear: I have no reason to believe the will is fake or tampered with. The truth spell inside the court room would have reacted very badly if I had. In fact, I personally spoke to the scribe who drafted it for Luthgar. The man quite vividly remembered the farmer’s wishes to leave everything to the Church of Lieselotte.”

  The room quieted slightly as Jago leaned back in his chair, a self-assured grin on his face. “The will was stored in the city archives, perfectly in order. Every detail checked out. I was fully within my rights to waive the usual tariffs and officially notarize it myself. If someone wants to challenge its validity, they’ll have to argue against the full weight of my office and the integrity of the city’s records.”

  Ulmenglanz smirked. “That’s a fancy way of saying you played them at their own game.”

  Jago tipped his tankard toward her in acknowledgment. “Exactly. The Brotherhood thrives on exploiting legal gray areas. It’s about time they were beaten with the same tools they’ve used to undermine others. They obviously used the old trick of not telling their own representative anything. He probably suspected quite a lot, but since he did not know for sure, he could tell the Brotherhood’s side of events without ever lying. Magistrate Quent should have summoned members of the Brotherhood as witnesses, but refused to do so. I tried to get my hands on the people signing the contract for the Brotherhood, but every single one present at the signing seems to be unavailable. According to the Brotherhood, they are logged out or adventuring in unknown locations.”

  William chuckled, shaking his head. “I still don’t know whether to be impressed or worried about how quickly you had that notarized.”

  “Be both,” Jago quipped, raising his drink in a mock toast. “Now, let’s hope this win holds, because the Brotherhood won’t take this setback lightly.”

  The group fell into a moment of reflective silence before Weylan raised his tankard with a grin. “To outsmarting the bastards, one legal loophole at a time.”

  As the laughter subsided and the tankards were set down, Steward Jago leaned forward, his sharp eyes glinting in the flickering lantern light. He rested his elbows on the table, fingers steepled, and regarded the group with a faint, knowing smile. “Well,” he began, his voice carrying a weight of authority tempered with genuine curiosity, “it seems I’ve gotten quite the glimpse into the company my protégé keeps.”

  Weylan raised an eyebrow, caught mid-bite of a hearty slice of bread. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jago gestured around the table with a casual wave. “You’ve surrounded yourself with quite the assortment of talent, Weylan. A dryad healer, a raven familiar, for which I still could not deduce the corresponding wizard, a duskgnome ranger, and…” his gaze lingered on William for a moment, “a self-proclaimed investigator with a knack for causing legal headaches.”

  Trulda, who had been leaning back in her chair, grinned. “We’re not exactly the most conventional team, but we get the job done.”

  “I noticed,” Jago said with a smirk. “And that’s exactly why I’d like to get to know you all better. Weylan is my steward-in-training, after all, and I hope it’s clear he needs to learn more than just bookkeeping and estate management.”

  Ulmenglanz regarded Jago thoughtfully. “Are you saying you want to work with us?”

  Jago’s grin widened slightly. “Let’s call it professional curiosity for now. Weylan’s part of my responsibility, and by extension, so are the people who stand with him. My work has always consisted of finding the right people to do it.”

  Trulda raised her tankard. “Then let’s consider this a start. To teamwork!”

  Everyone looked up after drinking, since all got the message, they had honestly forgotten would be coming.

  William grinned as he read his own.

  Mystery Quest Complete: "Justice for Luthgar"

  Through courage, wit, and determination, you have successfully brought the truth to light. The will of Luthgar the Blind has been upheld, ensuring his possessions will aid the city’s orphanages and not line the coffers of the Brotherhood. Your actions have struck a blow against the Brotherhood’s stranglehold on Mulnirsheim, but their shadow still looms.

  Rewards:

  1000 gold coins

  High xp

  Law skill increased to Journeyman I

  He grinned broadly. The rumors were true. Mystery quests really were the most lucrative. He leveled up right from level 3 to level 6, so it must have been about a thousand xp. He still had no combat skill except the Knife skill he got with his class and never leveled. Now he had three feats to choose and enough money to hire a professional trainer. There was no way he'd just go into the woods to kill Konnroot or other harmless woodland creatures to train his combat skills. Much less Goblins or other intelligent races.

  Weylan chuckled. “Nice. The questgiver system lets me see who participated. Darken’s team, the Vanguard of Innovation, got a reduced reward for at least trying to solve the problem. As have a few citizens I’ve never heard of. I think one of them is the neighbor who brought the problem to the guild’s attention in the first place.” He turned to William who looked a bit startled at the air in front of him.

  The investigator furrowed his forehead. “Say, what is a skill feat?”