Niklas sprinted away from the lingering zealots and made for the light chasm. A long bridge spanned the light shaft at three hundred meters, which opened through all five levels.

“You, drone! Stop!”

Niklas dared a glance over his shoulder. The three zealots who stayed behind pounded the deck in hot pursuit. The leader’s mask marked him a master zealot. Luckily, none of the other bowing officers or priests joined them.

“Stop!” the master zealot barked.

Niklas ran faster. His legs were stiff and ached from his testing the previous day.

Niklas scrambled to the bridge and started running across. The densest branches were overhead. Three hundred meters, and he could disappear into the offices on the other side. As he ran, he sensed something off. He didn’t hear the zealots' footfalls behind him. Had they stopped?

Striiike!

A bolt of yellow light streaked past Niklas and shattered a branch, throwing smoking splinters into Niklas’ face.

Niklas dropped with a cry. Adrenaline surged through him as he spun. The zealots had stopped at the head of the bridge, but the leader held a pistol with yellow smoke trailing from the barrel. A Pyrlux pistol!

“No!” Niklas cried as he threw his hands up in his panic. “Please!” he begged. “No!”

Without a word, the zealot motioned him over with his Pyrlux pistol. Yellow lights pulsed along lumaulic channels along the weapon's body. Powerful and unstable, one hit from that thing would liquefy his organs.

Niklas looked behind him. Over two hundred meters separated him from the other side. It was a straight line; he’d be an easy, unarmored target.

Niklas glanced down. Twenty meters further down on the second level, a bridge intersected with the one he was on. It was at least a twenty-meter drop, and several Drones were crossing it.

Reluctantly, Niklas started to walk back across the bridge toward his pursuers. The two standing behind the leader drew zealot blades, and the Master zealot lowered his weapon.

Niklas turned and charged back away from them. He heard one of the zealots curse, and Niklas screamed.

Striiike!

At the last second, Niklas vaulted the rail and dropped into the dark chasm as the rail exploded behind him.

He jumped too early. His momentum carried him but not far enough. Rather than landing on the cross-bridge on level two, his face slammed into the rail, and he fell back. He frantically grabbed the lip of the bridge, holding on for dear life, his feet dangled over the edge. He grew dizzy at the remaining drop to the forest floor.

Niklas tasted blood in his mouth.

“Oi!” a drone cried on the bridge. “What happened, man?”

Three drones hurriedly grabbed Niklas by the wrist to tow him back onto their bridge.

“What were you thinking?” one of the drones snapped as they pulled him to safety under the rail. Blood ran down Niklas’ chin. “You’re mad taking that jump.”

Niklas pulled his mask off to spit out a mouthful of blood. Already, his lip began to swell.

“You’re bleeding,” another one noted. “Do you need a medic?”

Niklas looked up. “No,” he gasped in horror, seeing three figures gliding down from the bridge above toward his bridge on level two. Their robes billowed out to the side, catching air and allowing them to glide gracefully down to the second level.

“What In Gyva’s name-”

“Get off!” Niklas cried as he pushed them aside and continued his sprint.

“What’s your problem?” one of them snapped after Niklas.

The three zealots landed on the bridge and shot past the startled drones.

Niklas’ bottom lip was numb, but he didn’t have time to worry about that. He had to lose the zealots. He fumbled to put his mask back on in preparation to disappear into the crowd of drones on the other side, but while running, It was impossible to get it on without slowing.

“Stop that drone!”

Down there, the lower enlisted respected the zealot’s authority. Five drones started running toward Niklas.

“Shrap!” Niklas cursed. Fortunately, the oncoming drones stopped the zealots from shooting. Niklas looked down and saw another intersecting bridge on the first level. He tried his desperate gambit again.

This time, Niklas timed his jump right. He vaulted the rail and dropped onto the bridge on level one.

With a sickening pop, Niklas cried out from the searing pain that flashed through his knee as he landed on the bridge of tier one.

Using the rail for support, he pulled himself up and began to limp as fast as his body would allow. He looked back to see the zealots gliding toward him on level one. He was running out of options. He hopped painfully with every other step. He just couldn’t force himself to run.

Maybe he should just take the punishment, though he couldn’t begin to guess the penalty for speaking to a Mother. The fact that he ran would only make it worse. They had every right just to kill him and call it good.

He groaned in agony as he shuffled along. Mask still clutched in hand, and hopping on one leg, he pulled himself along the rail with his free hand. Where was Edgar when he needed him?

Edgar’s chastening voice came to mind: Remember, we are Loga’s and Loga’s fight.

Niklas dismissed the memories from his head. Never before had that standard sounded so stupid. These were the elite of Sharderin society, the presiding party. They had the authority to enforce the law, and Niklas had done the unforgivable by speaking to a mother!

Niklas hobbled off the bridge and shambled around the massive light shaft. He headed to a large tree that shot up through the openings. At its closest, it stood five feet away from the rail.

The zealots landed and trotted after Niklas at a leisurely stroll. “Where are you going?” one of them demanded.

The drones on this level cleared away in a wave, denying Niklas the cover he needed. Accidentally giving a fugitive cover would be a mistake, especially with zealots on the hunt.

“Aren’t you motivated, Relrin drone.” another said in amusement.

Niklas limped over to the tree, clutching the rail with a shaking hand. Each breath took a painful degree of effort. He knew he was done but couldn’t bring himself to stop.

A five-foot opening separated the rail from the tree which grew up through the city. The distance from the first level to the ground was easily twice that of any other two tiers.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Go ahead. Jump,” the zealot wearing a mask that marked him a master zealot, taunted, foreseeing Niklas’ plan. “It will save us the cleanup.”

The others laughed at his jest.

With a groan of pain, Niklas stepped over the handrail. He looked at the zealots. They didn’t try to stop him.

Niklas panted as he held onto the rail with shaky hands.

What foul luck had driven him to this? Had he fallen out of favor with Gyva? Did speaking with Gyva’s daughter indeed offend her so much?

Niklas looked down and then back at the zealots. The fall or the zealots? Choosing between being burned in an oven or boiling water would be easier.

“Well?” the Master zealot demanded.

Under normal circumstances, the jump to the tree would have been manageable, but with his bad knee, it looked twice the distance it was.

Groaning impatiently, an apprentice, Acolyte, drew his blade and stepped towards Niklas.

Niklas leaped forward with his arms outstretched, reaching for the tree.

Crack!

Something bit into Niklas’ foot, jerking him back and stealing his momentum.

Niklas cried out loud as he swung upside down back under the deck. He lost hold of his mask, and it dropped down to the forest floor below.

He looked up to see a braided whip tightly coiled around his ankle. Two of the zealots held him dangling upside down, threatening to drop him at any moment. The ground lay far below, peaking between several lower branches.

“Did you think you could evade justice so easily, drone?” the master zealot asked. “No, not from us…now, what to do? Drop you on your head and call it good…”

Even listening to his taunts was difficult. Blood rushed to Niklas’ head, and he felt like a giant was sitting on his lungs. Niklas thrashed and looked around frantically for any way out.

He couldn’t see an escape, so he called out to the one who was always there when He needed him. “Edgar!” Niklas cried. “Edgar, help!”

The zealots snickered, but Niklas’ brother wasn’t there, and no amount of wishing or praying would change that.

“Master, he’s getting heavy,” one of the apprentice zealots said, letting Niklas drop a few inches before catching him.

Niklas screamed and waved his arms before realizing he wasn't falling. “Edgar!”

Remember, we are Loga’s and Loga’s fight, Edgar’s cunning voice reminded him.

“I can’t–”

Niklas slowly spun, suspended like a weight on a string. The tree was only five feet away. Edgar would be so disappointed if he wasn’t at least trying when they dropped him.

Niklas threw his arms forward, bending at the waist, and then threw them back behind him, arching his back. He drifted back a few inches. The pendulum of a drone threw himself forward, picking up a forward swing. Rocking back and forth, he swung closer then further from the tree.

“What are you doing?” the master zealot asked in amusement.

Now drifting several feet, Niklas continued swinging himself to close the distance.

“Come on!” he grunted. He threw himself forward, curled up, and pulled out the Reapers knife Edgar had given him. Niklas flicked the switch with a snap, and the blade sprang out. He curled further, pulling himself up to his ankle. With the tension in the braid, Niklas touched the razor-sharp edge to the whip just above the knot, and it snapped.

Niklas dropped fast. Branches slammed into him, jerking him back and forth. Twigs scraped and cut exposed flesh with their coarse fingers. The tree thoroughly beat him on his way down but stole dangerous momentum.

Niklas hit the dirt forest floor. His ears rang, and he couldn’t breathe. He writhed stiffly for several seconds before his lungs returned to him, and he gasped a choked breath. His body smarted everywhere. He saw his Reaper's blade an arm's distance away and weakly grabbed it. The motion hurt. He groaned before deactivating and concealing the weapon.

Arm over arm, Niklas pulled himself toward the base of the tree. “Mother Gyva,” he coughed, and specks of blood hit the dirt. “Spare me, merciful Mother. Stay the dogs which hunt me.”

Niklas could feel his heartbeat pulsing through his whole body. He felt inflamed and broken. He wheezed a couple of hoarse breaths, but his strength failed him.

A gentle gust of wind whistled through the branches. In contrast to his burning body, it breezed like a cool but soft feather. He slumped but didn’t see any zealots following. Niklas had never heard the voice of God as directly as some, but he imagined that She had many ways of making Her presence known. He couldn’t help but feel maybe She was looking at him.

With heavy breaths, Niklas pulled himself up against the tree. He didn’t have the strength to crawl any further.

He closed his eyes but couldn’t afford to fall asleep. What if some faceless found him? He felt himself fading quickly. But it was peaceful, as though Gyva’s gentle hand was rocking him to sleep.

Something cold and sharp touched Niklas’ exposed throat, and his eyes opened.

The three zealots stood before him. One of them held a zealot dagger to his neck.

“Drone Niklas Loga, don’t sleep. We’re just getting started.”

No! Everything in him screeched, and he moaned in protest. It wasn’t over. But why?

“Drone Niklas, for crimes against the Mothers, for looking at them, for showing your face, for touching, for seeking to raise your position, for offending, and causing the Mothers undue distress,” the Master zealot said, “we cannot let your crimes go unpunished.“

The zealot master reached into his robes and produced a pair of iron bites, the simple pieces of metal laced around his fingers to add an edge to his punch.

Niklas tried jerking away, but he only managed a light flinch, and the Master’s two acolytes, clearly experienced in restraining people, held him fast.

The master zealot struck Niklas in the face.

Niklas gasped. His vision flashed red. Niklas had been hit many times before, and as jarring and painful as it had been, this was the first time anyone had hit him with an iron bite. The strike tore across his jaw. He very well could suffer permanent disfigurement to his face.

The master zealot struck again and again. Niklas could tell each strike cut his face as the metal bit into his flesh.

He repetitively struck Niklas in the ribs before finally hitting him in the gut. Niklas started coughing as soon as he could catch his breath, and a drizzle of blood-rich saliva dribbled from his lips.

“Tie him.”

The two jerked him to his feet and pulled off his jacket.

“Master, please!” Niklas managed.

They ignored his plea and produced a rope.

“No!”

“Don’t beg. You have no Valor. Face justice like a soldier.” The master zealot pulled out another whip.

Two whips? Niklas thought. What kind of sick sadist carries two whips?

They tied Niklas arms around the tree, forcing him to hug its trunk. He didn’t have the strength to resist.

They tore his loose shirt down the back. Niklas couldn’t see but heard the sound of the whip whirling behind him. He clenched his jaw. Niklas had been flogged before.

The lash came down, and Niklas screamed.

Niklas clawed at the tree for several minutes as the Master zealot expertly lashed at him repeatedly. Each second stretched too long. Niklas prayed for it to end, but it seemed like the more he begged, the worse and longer It got. It wasn’t until he was numb and faint that it stopped.

The two zealot acolytes cut Niklas loose and dropped him before their master.

“Look at me, drone.”

Niklas groaned and looked up at him.

“We’re not done yet. No, your punishment must be more severe.” The master zealot’s voice was no longer amused but bored. So they were tired of their games and would finally cut to the chase. They were going to kill him after all.

Niklas still had his knife, but he doubted he would even have the strength to draw it, let alone fight.

“Do you want us to kill you?”

With great effort, Niklas nodded.

“Beg.”

“No,” he said weakly.

“No?” the zealot asked. “Why not? You were begging earlier?”

Niklas strained to look at him again. “Valor. If I’m going to die. I will keep my valor.”

“You think you still have valor, Relrin? You think there’s room for Relrin drones in the clan?!”

“Not… Relrin,” Niklas breathed through swollen lips.

The master zealot frowned. “You really think you’re a Sharderin?” He asked, and he crouched next to Niklas. “The Relrins took everything from us. They stole my world. They destroyed everything that was good.” He grabbed Niklas by the braid and jerked his head up. “You have Relrin blood. Everything that’s wrong with this world runs through your veins.”

The master zealot grabbed Niklas roughly by the face and drew his hand back, wet with blood. “You see this?” He held the bloodied hand in front of Niklas’ face. “This is why you have no valor. This is why you are no drone. Why do you think you can be a part of the clan?”

Niklas glared up at the master zealot. “Because,” he coughed. “They took everything from me too.”

“Not everything,” The zealot sneered, dropping Niklas’ head. “I’m the one who will take everything from you. The halls of valor are closed to you, Relrin!” the Master zealot said.

Niklas wasn’t thinking right. His mind seemed to be drunk on pain. How could the halls of Valor possibly be closed… oh no.

The zealot dropped something to the ground. Niklas’ mask. With the helmet sealed, it would stop bullets, but disengaged, it would be quite easy to split into pieces.

“Relrin. You are faceless.”

“NO!” Niklas screamed.

The zealot raised his boot and stomped down on the mask. Niklas watched in horror as It shattered. He saw his whole fractured with it. Why didn’t they just kill him?

“No, no, no”! Niklas cried, disbelieving, as he crawled to shattered pieces of his face of valor and frantically tried to gather the pieces. His face was gone. He could not make it to Stigki’s halls of valor without it. He was doomed to Stigki’s Pit.

The zealot acolytes grabbed Niklas by his ponytail and pulled him up to look at their master. The zealot produced a signet ring and slipped it onto his middle finger. He made a fist, and the seal let out a metallic hum.

“Stop,” Niklas wheezed.

The rune on the ring started to glow orange.

“Plea-”

The master zealot pressed the brand into Niklas’ face, just under his right eye.

Niklas squealed and thrashed, not to evade the searing metal but to escape the mark he would forever bear. The mark of the faceless.

The zealots dropped him.

“No, no!” Niklas cried any hope for a valorous death gone. “Kill me, please!”

“Do it yourself, faceless.” The zealots turned and walked away.

Niklas crawled to gather the pieces of his mask and cradled them together.

Niklas was grateful that nobody was around to see him. He rocked back and forth, and for the first time in his memory, he cried.