In the vast, shadowy expanse of his dreams, the colossal, levitating entities had all stirred, all oriented in the same direction. In this dark, boundless void, with no markers to gauge distance, it was challenging to discern their movements. Yet, he felt an undeniable sense of motion—swift and purposeful. As for himself, he felt as though he was in freefall, hurtling through the abyss at a dizzying pace. He would have screamed, had there been air to draw breath. The entities, vast and indifferent, seemed to disregard him, much like a hurricane might overlook a mere leaf in its path. Yet, amidst this overwhelming sensation, he felt an unfamiliar, unsettling presence.

There was another figure, glimpsed just barely at the corner of his eye. Every time he tried to focus on it, it would shift, remaining perpetually at the periphery of his vision. But he could discern something profoundly unsettling about its face—something unnatural in its movements. Faces weren't meant to contort in such a manner. Within that distorted visage, he sensed a connection to the ancient behemoths. It was as if they had transformed this being into a conduit, a mirror reflecting their inscrutable essence. Through this entity, they could observe while remaining concealed. He felt like an insect pinned stuck in a glass bottle for studying, his struggles futile against their overwhelming might.

Awakening with a start, he cast the sweat-soaked bedsheet into the basket for the maids to collect. He quickly downed a pitcher of water, its coolness failing to quench the lingering dread. Dressing swiftly, he reflected on the past fortnight. Their ill-conceived mission at the monastery two weeks prior seemed a distant memory, overshadowed by a more pressing failure: the continued prohibition from entering the Ancient Forest. He had hoped for a swift diplomatic resolution, but that hope now seemed naive. Time might have healed the rift, especially with beings as enduring as the Dryads, but time was a luxury he no longer possessed. Each morning, two truths greeted him: time was slipping away, and his screams, born from nightmares, still echoed in the waking world.

In the aftermath of their assault on the Faith's slave compound and the subsequent incineration of the fields, the city's rations dwindled. From an already meager supply, it had now reduced to a mere trickle. Even the Faith had to ration their generosity. Previously, passive attendance at their sermons guaranteed sustenance. Now, only overt demonstrations of faith and conviction could secure even the scantiest morsels.

The fields, bereft of the Dryads' influence, failed to recover. As the chill of winter approached, those tending Buren's lands frequently reported empty yields. Their reports were often accompanied by pleas for leniency, conditioned by their past experiences with less forgiving nobility. Buren, empathetic to their plight, advised them to do their best. However, he also dispatched guards to inspect their homes for concealed food reserves, a common practice among farmers to ensure their families' sustenance. Just thinking of their situation made him remember the pangs of hunger and his fingers and toes grow cold and stinging, so he could well understand their plight. Thus, first-time offenders received stern verbal reprimands. Repeat transgressions, however, demanded stricter consequences.

On a brighter note, the brothels and the arena thrived, buoyed by affluent patrons from various city quarters. This ensured that, at least financially, the district remained stable. Moving to his desk, Buren noticed the latest tax revenue projections. Atop the pile lay a letter from Azure, already opened and perused by the ever-watchful eyes that monitored his public correspondence. He settled into his chair and unfolded the missive.

Dear Buren,

I hope this letter finds you well. My previous correspondence remains unanswered, and I'm left to hope it merely went astray during its journey from the Ancient Forest to your capital. I implore you once more to consider relocating closer to me. The city's tumultuous life, with its relentless stress and intrigue, is taking a toll on both your physical and mental health. I believe a change of environment would be beneficial.

In time, I am confident that my sisters will come to perceive you as I do. Once the majority stand with you, the Elders' resistance will be moot. They are not our rulers, but guides. Presently, many Dryads rely on the Elders' judgment, having not witnessed your nobler qualities firsthand. My lone voice has yet to sway them.

I too was haunted by nightmares during the war. But that chapter has closed, and it's time you found solace away from the lingering shadows of the battlefield. I am certain that, with time, the dreams that torment you will fade. Until then, we possess remedies that can grant you peaceful slumber.

I eagerly await your response and hope to see you soon.

Warm regards,

Azure.

Buren delicately refolded the letter, tucking it away in his drawer. The truth was, he couldn't respond to her. Not while the unspeakable plan smoldered in the recesses of his mind. A plan he had conceived without fully acknowledging its existence, pretending it was merely a fleeting thought. He reassured himself it was just a mental exercise, a mere hypothetical. It was akin to those fleeting, irrational urges one might feel when standing on a precipice, the inexplicable thought of jumping, only to be jolted back to reality, questioning one's own sanity. Or so he told himself.

He rose from his chair, realizing he had procrastinated his next move for far too long, constantly searching for an alternative path. Donning his dark mantle, he pulled the fur-lined hood over his head. This time, he exited through the main door, making sure to inform the gatekeepers of his destination: the primary cathedral of the Faith.

As he walked the streets, it felt as though he had relocated to a different city in the past few weeks. The treacherous mud that once swallowed boots and stained trousers had been replaced by firmer ground for carriages and plank pathways for pedestrians. The once common sight of squatters and gaunt loiterers had diminished. The guards had enlisted them to repair the roadways in exchange for a modest wage, a meager meal, and the privilege to stay within the city walls. Given the increasing desperation of raiding bands outside the city, with unsettling rumors of cannibalistic raiders circulating, many found this arrangement preferable.

His guards had established a commendable presence in the district. Tales of what he had done to the previous guard captain had spread, though the reasons varied with each retelling, none of them coming even close to the truth. Regardless, the stories kept the new recruits disciplined, gradually shaping the guard's reputation into one of chivalry and honor, which in turn attracted individuals with high moral standards. As he walked, he noticed the townspeople offering friendly nods and smiles to a pair of such guards.

Buren kept his identity concealed beneath his cloak. He was well aware that his reception would be less warm, as many still perceived him as a malevolent tyrant driven by violence and personal indulgence. Passing a bathhouse where women compromised themselves to meet the tax he had imposed, he conceded that the Faith's missionaries hardly needed to exaggerate his actions to turn public sentiment against him.

Upon entering the Central District, he discreetly raised his face to glimpse the cathedral. From the exterior, little had changed since King Devon's funeral. However, the entrance was now flanked by scarlet-clad Knights of Penance. Another grim addition was the stocks, where men and women were confined by their feet or necks and wrists. Iron cages hung from the walls, imprisoning stripped individuals who shivered from both the elements and the taunts of passersby. Buren spat at the ground as he passed them: punishment he could understand, but these people were in the restrains of their own volition, as a public showing of their shame and atonement.

Several of the devout lingered in the elongated pews, even though the sermon had concluded some time ago. Most had shifted their attention to the priests distributing sustenance to the true believers. Buren approached the secluded booths crafted from somber metal. Settling into one, he perched on its unyielding metal seat and drew the curtain closed. A panel slid open, manipulated by the priest in the adjacent booth. However, Buren couldn't see him due to the intricate metal lattice that divided them.

"Confessing your sins in private is the initial step, my friend," the priest began solemnly. "Speak your truth."

Buren paused, taking a deep breath. He had mentally prepared a narrative, hoping it would persuade the Faithful of his genuine repentance. "The deeds I committed to survive the war haunt my every night," he started.

The priest remained silent, prompting Buren to continue, "And the hunger, the atrocities it drove me to commit in those streets..."

"Such as?" the voice behind the lattice probed.

"Injury. Theft. I would've descended even further if circumstances demanded."

"Like deceiving a priest?" the voice retorted evenly.

Buren momentarily faltered, but his composure remained intact. "What do you imply?"

"Every day, I bear witness to countless tales of the downtrodden. Over time, I've honed my ability to discern genuine remorse from mere pretense. Those who merely parrot what they believe will earn them our charity. You, my friend, fall into the latter category. The words you've shared don't truly burden your soul; they're tinged with deceit, not desolation. Unless you unveil the true darkness within you, those memories that cling to you like scars, the Faith cannot guide you."

Internally, Buren scrambled. He had crafted various tales of woe for several potential aliases, depending on what seemed most effective. However, he began to doubt any of them would fare better than his initial attempt.

From the subtle sounds of movement, Buren surmised that the priest was preparing to depart from the booth. He hurriedly spoke, "The truth, then?" He whispered to himself, his mind racing through dwindling options. "Perhaps those persistent thoughts can be of some use now."

"Many rely on me, but there are times yet I wish I could just leave them behind and forget," he began, his voice heavy with emotion. "I feel more their prisoner than their leader. They resent me, disagreeing with my methods and decisions."

The priest seemed to settle back into his seat, prompting Buren to continue, "I also hate my wife and find myself drawn to another woman. A union with her is impossible, and she would despise me if she knew of the dark intentions I hold for her family, her people."

"And what might those intentions be?" the priest inquired, a hint of compassion in his tone.

Buren clenched his jaw. " It is too terrible to say."

After a thoughtful pause, the priest solemnly responded, "I believe you. I also trust that we can guide you through this internal tempest, helping you confront and ultimately conquer this darkness. Then, my friend, you will find solace and joy. Today, you've taken the first step."

A previously unnoticed slot in the partition slid open, revealing a weathered metal coin. One side bore the image of a clenched fist, while the other showcased an eye with the number '14' etched beneath.

"Present this to any of our brethren here, and they will assist you further. Return for the sermon at week's end to continue your path to redemption."

"I am prepared to proceed now," Buren interjected.

"Many are eager to shed their burdens swiftly," the priest replied, "but the journey is demanding and seemingly infinite. It's wise to muster your strength first." Buren sensed the priest's departure, leaving no room for further discussion.

Clutching the token, Buren emerged from the booth and showed it to a nearby novice. The young man gestured towards a queue of weary souls. Buren took his place at the end, observing that many clutched their tokens with fervent, white-knuckled grips. When his turn came, he accepted a piece of hard bread, drizzled with a meager serving of gravy by another novice.

Exiting the cathedral, Buren noticed a beggar extending a hopeful hand. Without hesitation, he offered the man his bread, swiftly continuing on his way before the recipient could glimpse his benefactor's face.

The early day sun cast long shadows on the bustling streets. Buren moved through the crowd, the hum of countless conversations washing over him. But amidst the cacophony, a distinct sound pierced through—a woman's desperate cry. He turned his gaze to its source, spotting an altercation in an alley adjacent to a brothel. A woman was being accosted by two men.

A cursory glance around revealed no guards of his in the vicinity. The other pedestrians, though clearly aware of the commotion, chose to quicken their steps, feigning ignorance. Buren wished he could do the same. But with a resigned sigh, he approached the scene, each step heavy with the weight of responsibility. The safety of his citizens rested on his shoulders, and he couldn't ignore their plight.

"Hey!" he bellowed, drawing the attention of the two men. One had the woman in a chokehold. As he neared, Buren noted the men's striking resemblance to each other, likely brothers. Their lavish attire and gem-encrusted signet rings hinted at a wealthy lineage, though he couldn't pinpoint which merchant family they hailed from. The woman, with her heavily made-up face and short, frilly dress, was unmistakably an employee of the brothel.

"We paid for extra, and that's what we're getting," the man holding the woman retorted defiantly.

"They said they wanted it out here, but now they're trying to drag me off somewhere," the woman interjected, her voice laced with anger rather than fear. "That wasn't the deal."

"The deal is whatever I say it is," the man snapped back.

With a swift motion, Buren flung back his mantle and pointed at the man with one of his iron claws. He hoped the mere sight of his identity would be enough to deter them. Their eyes widened in recognition, mouths agape.

"I won't warn you again," Buren growled.

While one brother began to retreat, the other, still gripping the woman, hesitated. Buren did not. He lunged forward, seizing the man's wrist with an iron grip. He forced the man's arm away from the woman and pinned him against the wall. With deliberate slowness, Buren began to twist the arm, pushing it to its limits, all the while maintaining unyielding eye contact with the man.

"I'm sorry!" the merchant's son cried out, his voice echoing with genuine fear. "I won't do it again, my lord! I won't damage your merchandise!"

"Your nam—" Buren began, but his words were cut short by a searing pain in his back, near his left shoulder. Releasing the man, he spun around to find the very woman he had just defended, brandishing a bloodied knife.

"It's your fault I'm here!" she spat, tears of rage streaming down her face. "You forced me into this life!"

The merchant's sons took their chance and fled. Buren didn't pursue. The woman, her chest heaving with fury, clutched the knife with both hands, ready to strike again. Maintaining a cautious gaze, Buren adjusted his cloak to shield his identity and began to circle her, slowly retreating back to the main street. Once there, he seamlessly merged with the throng of people, becoming just another face in the crowd. The woman, realizing her quarry had escaped, let out a frustrated scream, drawing a mixture of sympathy and disdain from the passersby.

Back in the safety of his castle, Buren assessed the wound using a mirror. The bleeding had already ceased, and the cut wasn't as too deep. He cleaned it with alcohol and changed into a fresh, deep blue tunic. The bloodied and torn shirt was tossed into the fireplace, joining the remnants of other garments that had borne witness to his tumultuous journey. He realized he was running low on suitable attire and made a mental note to send for a tailor. The attack, while unexpected, did not shake him as much as one might think. He was certain he had chosen the best course of action, regardless of public opinion. This injury was just another sacrifice for the greater good, and it wouldn't be the last. The physical pain, in a way, was a welcome distraction from the tormenting thoughts that plagued his mind.

Deciding to engage in some weapons training to clear his head, Buren made his way to the basement. En route, he encountered Flynn, dressed in his finest attire, boots gleaming from a recent polish. The boy looked like a deer caught in lantern light, clearly up to some mischief, though Buren couldn't quite discern what it might be.

Buren's gaze traveled the length of the squire, his expression demanding an explanation.

"I'm attending a match at the arena," Flynn blurted, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

Buren's piercing stare remained, sensing there was more to the tale.

"...with Lady Inanna," Flynn admitted, hesitating slightly. "She requested me as her guard. She believed someone familiar with our customs would be beneficial."

Buren deduced there was more to Flynn's flustered demeanor than just a simple assignment. He sighed, placing an iron-clad hand on the young man's shoulder. "Keep your distance from her."

Flynn began to protest, "I would never—"

"For your own sake," Buren interrupted. "She's not to be trusted."

Flynn defended, "She deserves a chance, my lord. Living atop Apex Mountain, it's understandable she'd need time to adjust."

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Releasing Flynn's shoulder, Buren inquired, "So, a match?"

Flynn's face lit up, "Yes. She mentioned watching people of the lower classes beat each other senseless reminded her of home."

"By the Flood," Buren thought, shaking his head. "Just ensure you return unscathed."

Flynn chuckled, "It's merely an evening in the city. What could possibly go wrong?"

Buren withheld the myriad of potential dangers that sprang to mind, simply nodding in farewell.

Altering his initial plans, Buren donned another of his black, fur-lined mantles. He settled in the dining hall, partaking in a modest meal of dried meats and fruits, all the while discreetly monitoring the main entrance. As the grand doors closed behind his wife and her entourage, he rose, swiftly navigating through the scullery. He exited via a side door meant for deliveries and scaled the castle wall. From his elevated position, he spotted Inanna's carriage. Dropping to the street, he used his claws to slow his descent. He darted across the road, leaping onto a nearby rooftop, tailing the carriage from above.

When the vehicle halted before the arena, Flynn emerged first, extending a hand to assist Inanna. She descended with an elegance that seemed innate, bestowing upon Flynn a gentle smile that seemed out of character. An usher led the way, likely guiding them to their reserved seats. Like a silent predator, Buren trailed them, settling into a shadowed recess on the arena's roof. Cloaked in darkness, he remained unseen, unless one specifically sought him out in that very alcove.

From his vantage point, Buren could survey the entirety of the arena, including the elevated section reserved for esteemed spectators, situated above the common seating. The open-air coliseum, originally constructed for horse races, had seen its purpose evolve over time. As the district's prosperity waned, the races ceased, and the space transformed into a marketplace. When Buren had first discovered it, merchants were scarce, but refugees had claimed the space, erecting makeshift tents and utilizing the public facilities. These men were later employed to refurbish the arena, with many serving as guards or assistants to the fighters. The most formidable among them, especially those with prior combat experience, became the initial contenders. Buren had ensured that the tournaments, organized almost immediately to satiate the public's thirst for spectacle, had rules that prioritized the fighters' safety. Only in the final round was the acceptance of surrender optional, a decision made to heighten anticipation and encourage betting.

Inanna emerged onto the elevated terrace, the sole entrance to which was heavily guarded to ensure exclusivity. Flynn trailed closely, accompanied by a few of her personal guards. She took her seat with Flynn beside her, while the guards formed a protective perimeter around them, careful not to obstruct her view. She whispered something to Flynn, eliciting a grin from him.

Below, two combatants entered the arena from opposite ends, their confident strides and puffed chests signaling readiness. One was clad in studded leather armor, equipped with a short sword and wooden shield—standard gear provided by the arena for those without their own. The other, draped in a vibrant yellow cape, wore matching chainmail. His helmet, also yellow, concealed his face and was adorned with two black plumes that soared over a foot in height. He wielded a rapier, its sharp tip dancing in the air as he saluted the crowd with a flourish.

The announcer, using a horn to amplify his voice over the crowd's chatter, introduced the fighters. The leather-clad man was revealed as the son of a farmer whose lands had been tainted during the war. The crowd's response was sympathetic, albeit tepid. The yellow-clad fighter, introduced simply as "The Wasp," was described as a figure shrouded in mystery yet renowned for his past glories. His theatricality clearly resonated with the audience, as evidenced by the thunderous applause and cheers that followed. The two fighters assumed their positions, eyes locked onto each other, ready for the duel to commence.

"Ready!" the announcer boomed, allowing the tension to simmer for a breath before intoning, "Set!" The crowd's anticipation swelled, their excitement palpable, and as their cheers crescendoed, he unleashed the command: "Fight!"

The farmboy lunged, his sword describing a broad arc reminiscent of a sickle's sweep during harvest. The Wasp, nimble and practiced, ducked beneath the strike, tapping the lad's leather breastplate with his rapier's tip. It wasn't a forceful hit, but enough to unnerve the young fighter, sending him stumbling backward. The Wasp advanced with graceful footwork, contrasting starkly with the farmboy's clumsy movements. To Buren's trained eye, the lad lacked the foundational knowledge of balance, footing, and the nuances of swordplay. Yet, his primary focus remained on Inanna and Flynn, the duel serving merely as a sideshow.

As the Wasp deftly parried another of the farmboy's strikes, the force sent him sprawling backward. The crowd erupted in surprise and excitement. However, Buren discerned the fall's deliberate nature, recognizing that the Wasp maintained control throughout. Above, on the terrace, Inanna appeared wholly engrossed in the spectacle. In her enthusiasm, she clutched Flynn's hand, their shoulders brushing as she leaned into him, her movements animated.

Buren wasn't convinced by her display of innocent excitement, suspecting her act to be as contrived as the choreographed dance unfolding in the arena. Flynn, on the other hand, seemed entirely taken in by her charade, just as the majority of the audience was deceived by the Wasp's feigned vulnerability.

The farmboy gripped his blade with both hands, thrusting downward with the same force he might use to drive a fencepost into the earth. But the Wasp, agile and swift, rolled aside. In a heartbeat, he was back on his feet, his bright yellow cape billowing with a flamboyant flourish. He launched into an aggressive dance, his rapier's point darting through the air faster than the eye could follow, a masterclass in swordsmanship. The announcer's voice, filled with awe, narrated each move with poetic fervor.

Cornered and outmatched, the boy cowered behind his shield, retreating under the weight of the crowd's jeers and shouts. The Wasp paused, standing erect with his sword held vertically, bisecting his masked face into symmetrical halves. The farmboy, spurred by the crowd's impatience, made a desperate swing at his opponent's head. But his inexperience betrayed him; he telegraphed his intent by drawing his sword far back. In a flash, the Wasp's rapier met the boy's blade, sending it spiraling through the air. It landed, tip first, embedding itself in the ground several yards away.

The crowd's excitement reached a fever pitch. With a series of swift, non-lethal strikes using the flat of his blade, the Wasp disarmed the boy of his shield also, forcing him to one knee. The rapier's tip hovered menacingly just below the boy's chin.

A hush fell over the arena. The audience, collectively holding its breath, awaited the final move. Slowly, the Wasp lowered his blade to the leather padding on the boy's chest. He then raised his free hand, gesturing to some markings etched into the leather. From Buren's distant vantage, the details were unclear, but the immediate reactions from the announcer and those in the front rows indicated something remarkable.

"The wasp!" the announcer bellowed, his voice strained from the evening's excitement. "He's etched his signature symbol—a wasp—into the lad's chest! It must've been during that dazzling flurry of strikes! Such unparalleled mastery of the blade!"

While much of the audience was engrossed in jubilation, Buren's keen eyes caught the kneeling lad's swift motion. Retrieving a concealed knife from his boot, the young fighter deftly pushed aside the blade that held him at bay and lunged at the Wasp. He seized the swordsman's arm, forcing him to the ground and pinning him with surprising strength. With fervor, he battered the yellow helmet, each blow echoing the violent dance of metal against the ground. The crowd's initial shock gave way to a cacophony of mixed reactions—some jeered at the treachery, while others bellowed for blood, indifferent to whose it might be.

Desperately, the farmboy fumbled with the clasps of the helmet, seeking to expose the Wasp's vulnerable throat. From his vantage, Buren observed Inanna burying her face in Flynn's chest, shielding herself from the brutal spectacle. Flynn, hesitantly, wrapped his arms around her, offering solace. But Buren knew it was not her that needed shielding from harm.

The Wasp refused to go out without a fight. With a sudden jolt, he unbalanced the boy atop him. Seizing the moment, he yanked the lad's face down and delivered a crushing headbutt, the metal visor smashing into the boy's unprotected nose. Blood spurted as the Wasp, with a swift maneuver, sent the lad sprawling face-first into the dirt. Rising with fury in his eyes, the boy barely had time to react to the gleaming rapier's swift motion. His knife was knocked away, and a blunt strike to his temple left him dazed and reeling. He collapsed, signaling his surrender with crossed wrists over his brow.

The Wasp, ever the showman, paused for a dramatic beat before theatrically sheathing his blade. His fluid motion culminated in a deep, gracious bow to the enraptured audience. The amphitheater resonated with deafening applause and cheers, the crowd's adoration for the enigmatic swordsman in yellow seemingly boundless.

Inanna seemed utterly entranced by the spectacle. Overwhelmed by the favorite's triumphant comeback, she impulsively pressed a kiss onto Flynn's lips. Rising to join the cheering crowd, she behaved as if the kiss was a mere spontaneous gesture, devoid of any ulterior motive. To Buren, however, it seemed a calculated move, designed to ensnare the unsuspecting squire who appeared all too eager to believe her every action.

Buren's jaw tightened. How could Flynn be so easily beguiled? He had always suspected Inanna would exploit any means to mock and belittle him, even to the extent of making him the subject of ridicule. He figured she would be willing to whore about with just about anyone to insult him and make him a laughingstock, a cuckold. Yet, she had managed to surpass even his worst expectations, manipulating his most trusted confidant right under his watchful gaze.

The evening progressed with more bouts, each as intense as the last. Throughout, Buren's attention remained fixed on Inanna and Flynn, their interactions reminiscent of a hapless prey ensnared in a cunning spider's web.

As the final combatant fell, the announcer declared the day's entertainment concluded, urging the crowd to return the next day for another round of warriors vying for honor in the blood-soaked arena. Buren discreetly trailed Inanna and Flynn, relief flooding him as they headed straight for the castle. He had dreaded the possibility of them diverting to an inn or some secluded residence, which would have forced him into a more direct confrontation. Slipping into the castle just ahead of them, he resumed his earlier position in the dining hall, feigning deep interest in his beer flask while eavesdropping on their conversation.

"That was the most exhilarating experience I've had in this dreary town," Inanna remarked with genuine enthusiasm.

"Yes, it was quite the spectacle," Flynn replied, his tone casual, almost too familiar given their respective statuses. "Though, I couldn't shake off this eerie sensation of being watched all evening."

"Truly? With you by my side, no unsettling thoughts could ever breach my mind," she remarked, her voice dripping with feigned innocence, a sly smile playing on her lips. She bid him goodnight, leaving him momentarily spellbound. As she ascended the staircase, Flynn's gaze lingered, a wistful sigh escaping his lips. Lost in his reverie, his expression was one of a smitten dreamer.

His daydream was abruptly shattered, much like a delicate watercolor exposed to a sudden downpour, as he nearly collided with Buren, who had been silently observing from just behind him.

"Sir!" Flynn exclaimed, taken aback. "How may I assist you?"

Buren's voice was firm, his gaze unwavering. "Keep your distance from her henceforth."

"Sir?"

"She has guards aplenty; she won't be taking one of mine."

Flynn's confusion was evident. "But what if she specifically requests my presence again?"

"She has no authority to do so. Should she desire your company, she'll have to seek my permission."

"But—"

"Enough!" Buren's voice held a sharp edge. "From now on, you will dedicate yourself entirely to the tasks I assign. When you're not engaged, you will stand guard outside my quarters. I suspect someone has been prying."

"You wish for me to guard your door all day?"

"And night, especially if I'm away."

A flicker of defiance flashed in Flynn's eyes, but as Buren leaned in, fixing him with an intense, penetrating stare, that spark quickly dimmed.

"Objections?"

Flynn's posture deflated. "No, sir."

"Good."

With that, Buren made his way up the stairs to his chambers. He inspected the straw he'd wedged between the door and its frame — a makeshift alarm that would fall if the door was opened. It remained undisturbed. Yet, he knew a meticulous intruder might anticipate such a measure and replace the straw upon exiting. Having Flynn, someone he could somewhat trust, as a guard would be beneficial. Not only would it ensure his quarters' security, but it would also shield the young guard from Inanna's manipulative clutches. It was a strategic move, beneficial for both parties, even if Flynn failed to recognize it.

Deciding to retire early, Buren settled into bed. He anticipated an eventful dawn and was uncertain of the challenges the morrow would present. Approaching the next phase of his plan with a refreshed mind and body could very well be the difference between triumph and disaster.

The haunting melodies of the choir echoed from the cathedral, beckoning the masses to the impending sermon. As Buren ascended the cathedral steps, he had deliberately timed his arrival. Arriving early, he had lingered until a crowd had gathered, allowing him to blend seamlessly among them, an inconspicuous figure shrouded in a dark hood. He chose a pew towards the rear and to the side, a strategic position that afforded him a clear view of his surroundings and an easy escape if needed.

This area was typically occupied by those of lower social standing. The very destitute either stood near the exit or, if lame or crippled, lay in the narthex. The air was thick with the pungent aroma of unwashed bodies, the mustiness of tattered garments, and the foul breath of the downtrodden. Nobility, with their noses turned up, would hasten down the central aisle, eager to distance themselves from the stench and claim their reserved seats closer to the front. Buren, however, was unfazed by the odors. He mused that it would do the silk-stockinged fools good to get buried under the half-decomposed viscera of a walking cadaver from the Malignant One's army, like he had. Such an experience had a way of recalibrating one's tolerance for unpleasantness.

Many of King Duriel's allies were in attendance, though the king himself was conspicuously absent, as was his custom during the early hours. A minister, distinguished by his pristine robes and ornate chains, emerged from behind a curtained passage near a massive stone statue. Beside the statue stood a large object, concealed beneath a burlap shroud.

An altar boy, garbed in novice robes, cleared his throat loudly, commanding the attention of the congregation. As the murmurs subsided, the minister's resonant voice filled the vast space.

"Welcome, friends, to today's unique ceremony. Throughout the week, we've delved into the tenets of our Faith and the true nature of our world. Today, we shall apply this knowledge, embarking on a journey of purification, cleansing ourselves and our world from the taint of malevolence. The purifying fire that blazes within the hearts of the devout shall guide us. Those bearing the Tokens of Penance, please raise them high for all to see."

A smattering of hands rose, the dim light reflecting off the metallic tokens. Buren, too, retrieved a coin from his cloak pocket, the very one that had secured him provisions earlier, and held it aloft. Those with tokens were instructed to form a line in the nave, moving past the seated congregation.

The minister's hands came together, his voice filled with warmth. "It brings me great joy to see so many brave souls ready to embark on this profound journey. It may be arduous, but the rewards are unparalleled. Now, the bearer of the token marked with the number fourteen, please step forward and kneel."

Buren's brow furrowed in suspicion, but he confidently stepped forward, bypassing the line to kneel before the minister. He presented the coin on his upturned palm, keeping his gaze lowered. The minister's gentler tone made Buren wonder if this was the same man who had taken his confession days prior.

"Splendid," the minister remarked, examining the coin. "I summoned this man because I sensed a depth of suffering and guilt within him, a complexity that surpasses most. We all stand to benefit from witnessing his act of penance, this man who conceals both his face and his innermost turmoil. If you are prepared to advance in your faith, cast aside your cloak and face your first trial."

A grimace flickered across Buren's face, hidden within the shadows of his hood. He had anticipated this moment, having observed novices of the Faith subjected to similar rituals. But he had reached a point of no return. There was no room for hesitation on his chosen path. With resolute motions, he discarded his cloak, shirt, and boots. The crowd gasped collectively as his metallic arm was unveiled, but the minister merely offered a knowing smile. Buren's ruse had not deceived him.

"Now, turn and lay bare your sins for your brethren to judge," the minister commanded, his voice dripping with a smugness uncharacteristic of a man of faith.

Buren's gaze swept across the sea of faces, noting the initial shock gradually morphing into mounting anger. He met their collective glare unflinchingly, refusing to be the first to look away.

"That would take too long to enumerate," he declared. "I say we let the people here speak in my stead."

The minister paused, contemplating Buren's suggestion. "Very well," he finally conceded. "That would have been the subsequent phase of the ceremony, in any case."

He signaled towards the burlap-covered object. An altar boy, clearly prepared for this moment, rushed forward and whisked away the covering. Beneath it stood a cage, shaped to fit a man, with compartments designed to secure the arms, head, and even the legs.

"Kindly step inside," the minister coaxed, his voice dripping with feigned sweetness. "Here, you will confront any accusations others might level against you, providing ample material for your later reflection on your past misdeeds and failings."

With a resolute posture, Buren entered the cage. The altar boy swiftly secured the lock. The chill of the steel bars bit into his flesh, and save for his eyes and fingers, he was immobilized, ensnared as if in the grasp of a titanic metal hand. The nobility seated at the front observed with malevolent delight as novices, seizing handles on either side of the cage, began to push him towards the cathedral's exit. The masses of disgruntled commoners, their faces twisted with disdain, had to be admonished by the minister to refrain from spitting, lest they sully the sacred cathedral floor.

Once outside, a chain equipped with a hook descended from the edge of a soaring buttress above. Men atop the structure operated a massive winch, its mechanism emitting a piercing screech with every rotation, hoisting the cage and its captive into the air. As Buren ascended, the wind intensified, causing the suspended cage to sway gently. Below, a tempest of fury raged as the congregation, now freed from their pews, unleashed their vitriol. Their jeers and taunts melded into an indistinguishable cacophony, though Buren could discern fragments of accusations hurled his way.

The first rotten egg struck the cage, its putrid contents splattering onto his left shoulder. A volley of decayed tomatoes and other spoiled produce soon followed. A man, his attire stained a deep brown, emerged from the crowd bearing two large wooden buckets. Buren deduced from the recoiling of even the most begrimed destitutes that he was a gong scourer, a realization confirmed when clumps of human excrement were hurled at him. Those so consumed by their desire to see him defiled willingly sullied their own hands.

Then came the stones. While the cage's bars shielded him from the larger projectiles, the smaller ones that penetrated left painful welts on his skin. Yet, amidst the onslaught, Buren's disdain for the mob fortified him. They might have physically ensnared him, but their loathing could never truly touch his spirit, for their opinions held no weight in his heart.

While the tumult raged around him, a singular thought blazed within Buren's mind. It was this very thought that had fueled his relentless pursuit of the Gauntlet, even when despair threatened to engulf him, when every step felt like cold spikes were being driven into his joints and muscles, and numbness consumed the rest of his body. He believed, with unwavering conviction, that his journey was imperative. If he faltered, if he surrendered to the overwhelming odds, all would be lost. Such an outcome was imply not an option.

Looking down upon the jeering masses, a maelstrom of emotions surged within him. There was anger — why couldn't they simply do what was right? Why did he have to constantly battle them, even as he sought to shield them from impending doom? Yet, alongside this anger, there was also pity. If the looming threat was as dire as he sensed, they would soon be called upon to make sacrifices far greater than any they had made during the battle against the Malignant One. Sacrifices that would make his current torture pale in comparison.

This unwavering determination anchored him more firmly than the very cage that imprisoned him. It was why he didn't lash out in fury, why he endured every torment. If his path demanded suffering, he would embrace it. If others had to endure pain for the greater good, then so be it.

"And," he thought as a stone hit him in the forehead so blood began trickling into his right eye, "when the thanks I get are like this I might even find a little bit of pleasure if some torment is required of them."

The ceremony continued, with other penitents subjecting themselves to the crowd's wrath. Yet none faced the intensity of Buren's ordeal. As evening descended and the ceremony concluded, he was finally lowered from his aerial prison. As the cage door swung open, he crumpled, falling face-first into the muck below — a vile mixture of the refuse that had been hurled at him. Numbness had claimed his limbs, leaving him with only the stinging sensation of his numerous wounds. Struggling to rise, he was astonished when the Gauntlet, ever loyal, hoisted him up. For a fleeting moment, he felt an urge to caress it, as one would a faithful hound. But he swiftly dismissed the sentimentality; there was no room for weakness now.

As his vision cleared, he saw the minister orchestrating the scene, his presence commanding even in the aftermath of the day's events. Buren couldn't help but acknowledge the man's imposing aura, reminiscent of a charred tree standing defiantly amidst a razed forest.

The minister, producing another token from his sleeve, handed it to Buren. This one bore the number '1' above an embossed eye. "You've embarked on the path of Penance," the minister intoned. "This token marks your initiation. Our Faith does not forsake even its most ardent adversaries, provided they genuinely seek purity. But be forewarned: the journey ahead is treacherous, and for one such as you, the challenges will be manifold. Accept this coin if you're resolute in your quest, or depart and never return."

For Buren, there was no choice, nothing to consider. He was a stone rolling down the mountain, propelled by forces of nature.

He reached for the coin.