The blinding sunlight reflects the mosaic on the window glass, filling the room with different shades of green and blue. Isak closes one eye by instinct to not get blinded by the brightness. With the other eye — he is still observing what the man in front of him is up to. That man, or more precisely — the secretary of the Royal recruitment office, is in the middle of conducting an interrogation on a new aspiring — or not so much — recruit.

“So, have you ever made your mother cry?” the man asks.

Isak eyes widen, the question takes him off-guard. Anything that could distract his mind is gone in a second: blazing sun rays; busy town streets behind the large windows; screeching of the carriage’s wheels; and shouting from the nearby market, making its way up to the office. He concentrates on different thoughts, flying and whirling one after another, and all the memories that this question has stirred.

The secretary rummages through the papers, dips the quill with iron nib into the black ink, and writes something on one of the papers, waiting for an answer. Judging by the annoyed expression, the interrogation isn’t going so well.

The lavish recruitment post, which this particular secretary is responsible for, is used to apply for all professions royal and noble, including that of Royal Chevaliers — knights in charge of guarding the Palace and its surrounding grounds. Isak would often come across the place on his patrols as a town guard, noting how greatly it stood against the other exterior of the town.

A carefully painted sign board; large arc doors, made with polished woodwork; ornaments with symbols of goddess Dauron on the iron fence and mosaics — all in all, more wealthy and prosperous than the most successful craftsman's shop in town. And each time Isak passed near this immovable reminder of wealth, one subtle feeling or an unwelcome notion, somewhere at the back of his mind, would try to convince him to try it. To apply for something that, as his mother says, is too high up in the skies to achieve.

In the end — finding himself interrogated in that very building wasn’t as much of a willful decision.

Isak lost his job. Or better yet — was fired.

And there is only so much available work in the provincial town of Evuitt and his home village, Isak couldn’t afford anything but to take a chance. One that he dreamed of, but also stifled and muffled deep inside. And stifled to such a great extent that, even now — at the very place, Isak finds himself second-guessing the decision.

In a moment — the secretary snaps his fingers, pulling Isak out of a daze.

The recruit, surprised, finally lets go of the mind-wandering, “Um, I think so.” After a second-long pause, he nods a few times, “Yes, I did make her cry.”

“Quite bad,” the secretary stands up, his chair squeaking against the floor. With a thoughtful look on his face, he starts to circle around the recruit in slow stride, his hands behind his back, as if such movement would help him to conjure all the essential questions, “Have you ever stolen something?”

“Food. When I was little,” Isak answers with no pause.

“Terrible.”

Isak raises his brows, “I wouldn’t have survived otherwise,” — he confronts the recruiter; an involuntary melancholy shows in his voice.

The secretary places a trembling finger against his own mouth, signaling a polite call for silence. Or rather — to shut up.

“The Excellent Deuron wouldn’t accept it. And you understand why, because sin is…”

“...absolute,” Isak ends the phrase, which he has heard many times before.

“I could have finished without you,” the man places a hand on Isak’s shoulder. His tone was calm, but somehow threatening. Isak notices, some nails on the man's fingers are missing, the remaining ones look rotten and covered in ink. He, at the very least, was reaching the age close to a hundred. But he wasn’t ready to retire from such a prestigious role as a recruiter and simultaneously — as an arbiter of fates and aspirations. And he crushed on a routine basis.

The recruiter continues the stride around the room, asking question after question, trying to gouge every absolute sin that he could find out of the young recruit. Due to the age of no more than his early twenties, Isak wasn't able to collect that many. Not that he was in a hurry.

“Overall experience?”

“Five years as a town guard.”

“Fine. Military academy?”

Isak chuckles at the assumption, “Too poor for that.”

“I see.”

“Fighting experience?”

“I did fight a few times. It was just some town’s troublemakers, but… they were armed.”

“You think that’s enough?”

“Better than nothing,” Isak shrugs. It isn’t a good defense, but he preferred not to embellish his past actions with false tales of defeating fifty men alone in a dangerous alley or fighting a bear with bare hands. It's not a tavern, where the audience would prefer those stories much better.

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“Better than nothing,” the secretary repeats, but with an added tone of contempt. “Half-bad. How often do you lie?”

“I try not to.”

“Are there places where you try to?” the secretary attempts to retort.

“Look, for instance, you wouldn’t tell your mother something that she would be worried about,” Isak sneers, thinking back to one of the first questions, “I wouldn’t want to make her cry.”

“So, there are so many things that could make her cry, you prefer to lie about them?”

“That’s… an exaggeration,” Isak tries to deflect but acknowledges that this battle of wits isn't conducted in his favor. He is the one, who is being being questioned one-sidedly.

Morality or lack thereof is measured in absolutes for representatives of many noble professions. With no exception to Royal Chevaliers, which are treated to one of the highest degrees of harshness. Chantry of Deuron and Royal House are flowers of the same garden, so such an attitude is of no surprise. Isak isn’t sure he is up to the task of matching those expectations. He tries, at the very least. And he wouldn’t call himself a terrible human being, for a start.

“Not great,” the secretary comments once again. “Have you ever wanted something that others have?”

“I did.”

“More than once?”

“More than once.”

“Why?”

“I just thought… it wasn’t fair sometimes.”

“Awful. You are not the one to judge that, you can’t see through the eyes of Her Excellency,” presumably, the man says that phrase on many occasions as it sounded monotonous and devoid of emotions.

“I guess, I don’t,” Isak sighs, quietly.

The man stops the stride for a moment but pretends not to notice a sly tone, “You have a sibling?”

“Yes. A brother.”

“Have you ever hurt him?”

Isak bites his cheek, before letting out, “I did.”

“Disgraceful,” the recruiter begins walking in circles again. At that point, perhaps, he made more than hundreds of laps around the room. “Have you ever partook in drinking?”

“Yes.”

“How bad was that?”

Isak was about to say "I don’t remember" for comedic effect but chooses not to, “Not to the point of being drunk.”

“Half-terrible. Do you want a family?” the man continues.

“Well, I’m here, so… — no.”

“Are you ready to give up the chance to have one?”

Isak nods, “Yes.”

“Then, are you ready to give your livelihood to the service of Deuron and the Royal House?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ready to accept the vow of silence?”

“Yes.”

“The vow of chastity?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t hear much enthusiasm.”

“Yes,” he repeats. This time, with a forced wide smile.

“Not worse than before,” the recruiter comments, ignoring the insincerity. “Have you ever loved someone?”

“As in — family or…?”

“The latter.”

“I didn’t.”

“Great,” he makes one final assertion, before going back to the desk. Then, at a quick pace — as fast as he could afford at that age, quill shaking in his hand, continues his writings.

“Oh, I forgot,” he suddenly exclaims. “Why do you want to become a Chevalier again?”

Isak looks away in hesitation, reasoning himself about what kind of answer he should present. And which would be evaluated better.

“I want the truth. It’s not for me but for The Blessed Deuron and her keen eyes.”

Isak sighs, “Money.”

“I see. Greed!” the man demonstratively announces as if he discovers a missing ingredient in the unsavory meal. “Right, the very personalization of greed is right in front of me.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t say that… I mean, I won’t be the one using them and… I once dreamed about being one, a Chevalier, it wasn’t serious but…” Isak bites his tongue. Nobody is listening anyway, but he couldn’t help but protect himself from the sudden exclamation.

The recruiter throws a stern glance as if Isak is the most disgusting thing walking on this mortal coil, before turning his attention back to the paperwork. An hour or so passes as the man tries to meticulously collect the notes, lists and questionnaires.

At last, he drops the quill, it rattles against the wooden desk. “What can I say…” he raises his thumbs to the temples and massages them — to ease the incoming headache of talking with such a monster in his eyes, “I’ve seen people worse than you. We can work with that. Royal Chevaliers are short on manpower… especially before the” — he raises his voice— “upcoming Tournament.”

Isak tries to hide his grin. His mood fell further and further down with each passing moment of the interrogation, so such an outcome comes as a surprise. “Really?”

“Don’t get so eager. Letting you, in such a state, to be anywhere near the Palace would be a disgrace. You will have to repent on that full bag of sins.”

“No problem,” the new — and now truly aspiring — recruit complies with the challenge as if he takes on some minuscule, trivial task.

“Disagree, there is a problem… The punishment for failing, I assume, is known.”

“Lethal punishment,” Isak confirms, his excited tone gone cold in an instant.

“As soon as early morning, go to the nearest Deuron Temple and ask them for a Penance Trial. And as Her Excellency knows, your eventual death isn’t on my conscience. It is of your own free will,” the man raises his eyes to the ceiling as if it would help to ease any repercussions. Which may come or not. Usually — they don’t.

“And then?”

“What then? Are you sure of your success?”

Isak doesn’t say anything, but there is an odd conflicting mix of doubt and confidence in his mind.

Yet, the secretary replies, “After, you show me the verification.”

“Will they write me a paper or something?”

For the first time, the recruiter laughs. Hysterically. He starts sounding breathless, almost nearing a coughing fit, but stops himself in time, “You’ll see.”

At that — the interrogation ends, right as the sun is about to set down, painting the recruitment post's mosaic window in an orange tint. The conclusion isn’t decisive, but there is a chance. A chance, leading to something far darker than any imaginary bag of sins on Isak’s shoulders. But nevertheless, his shoulders aren’t under much of a strain.