The Chronicles of Saintland’s Dark Blade

The Borderton dungeon was a vault of gloom, its silence heavy and suffocating, pierced only by the faint drip of water from the damp stone ceiling and the rustle of rats in the straw. Alan Grey leaned against the rusted bars, the cold iron biting into his back through the tattered prisoner's tunic. The straw beneath him was a fetid, sodden mess, and the knife wound on his thigh pulsed with a dull ache. The bell tolled again, its mournful clang echoing through the cell, marking the close of his first day as dusk's shadows crawled up the high, fist-sized windows, swallowing the last slivers of daylight. "Day one's bleeding out," he muttered, rubbing his bruised wrists, the purple marks stark against his pale skin. "Two days till the fire—no badge, no backup, just a medieval execution clock." A faint smirk tugged his lips, the kind he'd flashed at perps who thought they'd slipped the net.

His FBI-trained mind churned, piecing together the threads. Greenvale's blue flames—fifty feet high, Old Tom's tale—too precise for nature, too staged for dragons. Sheriff Henry, framing him with Church knights patrolling the ashes and a cloaked woman whispering "cleansing" at the chapel. "Setup's tight," he mused, tapping his scarred cheek, a profiler's tic from late-night case boards. "Henry's a puppet, that woman's the hand—Church is the muscle. But who's bankrolling it?" Pete's cracks—guilt, fear—were the lever, and Alice, out there fighting, was his lifeline. "Evidence is king," he growled, resolve hardening. "Time to play the board."

The iron door groaned open, but the footsteps weren't Pete's heavy thud—they were light, faltering, shadowed by a faint, wet cough that cut through the stillness. Alan's head snapped up, profiler instincts flaring. "Not the usual shift," he muttered, standing despite the stab in his leg. A frail figure emerged from the gloom, cloaked in a patched grey hood, golden hair spilling out in damp tangles. She clutched a bundle to her chest, her thin frame trembling as she neared the bars. "Alice?" Alan's voice cracked, a mix of shock and dread. She looked up, her gaunt face pale under the hood, blue eyes fierce but sunken with exhaustion. A cough racked her chest, harsh and ragged, and she braced herself against the bars, breath fogging in the chill air.

"Alan," she rasped, voice frail but edged with steel, "I couldn't wait." She shoved the bundle through—a crumpled parchment wrapped around a small, soft loaf of bread, a far cry from Pete's bricks. Alan caught it, his hands closing over hers for a heartbeat, feeling the fever's heat through her icy fingers. "What the hell are you doing here?" he growled, profiler calm clashing with brotherly panic. "You're sick—you shouldn't be anywhere near this cesspit." She coughed again, wincing, blood flecking her lips, but her gaze held firm. "Pete let slip—two days till they burn you. I bribed him—Martha's coin, one she owed him from last harvest. He's gruff, but he's got a soft spot for me."

His chest tightened, a raw burn no bullet ever matched. Memories flared—a quiet dusk, wind rattling their shack, Alice hunched over a table, tallying their last scraps on a scrap of parchment. "You're the smart one," she'd teased, her cough cutting through a stubborn grin, handing him the numbers like a lifeline. Now, here she was, risking her fading strength in this dungeon, still fighting for him. "Damn it, Alice," he said, voice low and rough. "You're tougher than any agent I've run with. But this—" He gestured at the cell, the bars, the looming fire. "This isn't your play."

"It's ours," she shot back, her whisper fierce despite the tremble. "They'll take you, the farm—everything. I won't lose you too." Another cough shook her, and Alan's profiler mask slipped, raw fear bleeding through. "You're half-dead already," he said, gripping the parchment. "How'd you even dodge the guards?" She managed a weak smirk, a flicker of her old fire. "Slipped in with the chapel beggars—Pete's owed Martha since she patched his leg last winter. One coin, one blind eye—he let me through the back gate at dusk."

Alan's grip tightened, pride warring with dread as he unrolled the parchment—her shaky scrawl: Greenvale fire, blue flames, Church knights patrolling ashes at dawn, Henry whispering with a cloaked woman at the chapel last night, voice like ice. His profiler brain kicked in, filing each scrap. "Knights at dawn—scene lockdown," he muttered. "Cloaked woman's the thread—ice voice matches Pete's tale." He met her eyes, sharp despite the pallor. "You caught this at the chapel?" She nodded, wincing as another cough hit. "Hid behind the pews—heard 'em through the prayers. They didn't spot me."

"You're a damn natural, Alice," he said, voice tight with awe and terror. "But this—" He gestured at her frail frame, the blood on her lips. "You're killing yourself for me." She straightened, defiant despite the shake. "I'd rather die fighting than live alone. Martha's holding the farm, Betty's with her—they're safe for now. But you—" Her voice broke, eyes glistening. "You're all I've got, Alan. That file—Henry's case log—it's in his office. I can get it."

His profiler calm shattered, replaced by a brother's roar. "No way! You're not raiding a sheriff's den—you're coughing blood!" She flinched, but her jaw set, unyielding. "I'm not some kid anymore. You taught me—evidence wins, right? That's your rule." Alan's breath caught, his own FBI gospel flung back at him. He'd drilled it into her over late-night talks—how to spot lies, how to move quiet—never thinking she'd turn it on him. "Alice," he said, voice dropping to a low, desperate plea, "I've lost partners to less. You're my sister—not my operative."

"Then don't lose me by burning here," she whispered, leaning closer, coughs punctuating her words. "I'll get it—logs, statements. You taught me stealth—I can do this." Alan's chest burned, torn between rage and respect. She was him—too stubborn, too brave. "FBI didn't prep me for this," he muttered, half a laugh, half a curse. He gripped the bars, profiler mind racing. "Alright—listen up. Henry's office—back room, top left drawer, locked. That's where logs sit—standard stash. Don't touch anything else—traces screw you here too. If you're nabbed, you're sick, lost, looking for me—play fragile. Got it?"

She nodded, eyes fierce despite the fever. "Got it." He pressed the bread back through. "Eat—Martha's, right? You need it more." She took it, hesitating, then rasped, "Tomorrow—file or bust. Dusk again." Another cough, and she slipped into the gloom, her frail steps fading. Alan sank back, parchment clutched, staring at the claw marks—ghosts of the damned. "Two days—forty-eight hours," he calculated, FBI precision locking in. "Day one's gone—dusk's here."

He unrolled the notes, eyes narrowing. "Knights at dawn, cloaked woman's ice—Church is flexing hard. Henry's not alone." He snorted, profiler smirk returning. "Alice, you little badass—don't you dare fade on me." The bell's echo died, dusk deepening beyond the windows. "File's my break. Game's on, Henry—FBI's in play."