The chill of winter began to grip the city, days shortening and food deliveries dwindling with each passing week. The first snow had blanketed the ground a week prior, and Buren, now a novice Penitent, felt its bite more acutely than most. As he traversed the city streets barefoot, the cold snow nipped at his feet, turning the earth beneath him into a frigid, unyielding expanse. While many of his fellow novices wrapped their feet or dared to tread barefoot only indoors or for brief outdoor excursions, Buren roamed the streets from dawn till dusk, his feet exposed to the elements.
His self-imposed deprivation extended beyond just his feet. Most of the meager food he received was given away to beggars. The combination of constant movement and fasting whittled his frame down, accentuating his already lean physique. Every tendon seemed stretched taut, every muscle sharply defined, and his eyes, deep-set, resembled clear, frozen pools at the bottom of dark wells.
Outside of his public displays of devotion and acts of charity, Buren spent hours meditating under the supervision of the ministers and seasoned members of the Faith. He could sit, legs folded beneath him, for durations that even seasoned adepts found impressive. His seeming indifference to the pain of restricted blood flow was a marvel to many. Yet, when he finally moved, the pallor and sickly purplish-black discoloration of his legs revealed the toll of the practice on his body. It would take a quarter of an hour for his legs to regain some color and feeling, at which point Buren would simply resume his meditative posture.
However, there was one aspect of his training where Buren did not surpass his peers: the cultivation of shame and repentance. This was deemed essential by the Faithful for true transformation and purification. During meditation, he would be probed about his guilt, his failings, and the deep-seated anguish that supposedly fueled his devotion. Most novices would display tears of remorse or the evasive gaze of those unwilling to face their inner demons. Some even had the audacity to feign commitment, hoping to reap the rewards without genuine effort. But Buren's eyes held a different story: they radiated pride and unwavering determination. It was a force he couldn't entirely mask, much like a watermill can't hide the relentless stream powering its grindstones day and night.
The clerics, puzzled by this anomaly, sought guidance from their superiors. The directive was clear: observe, wait, and report up the hierarchy until further notice.
The public's thirst for retribution was not quenched by Buren's caged ordeal outside the cathedral. For the initial week, as he traversed the town, he was met with a barrage of insults, shoves, and even stones. Consequently, fellow neophytes maintained a wary distance from him. Some, driven by blind hatred, drunken bravado, or the allure of fame that would come from felling the Bearer of the Gauntlet, even attempted to kill him outright with daggers or clubs. Yet, every serious assault was thwarted by the unyielding iron hand. Tales of shattered jaws and wrenched shoulders soon circulated, and the frequency of these attacks dwindled.
Upon embracing the vows of Penance, Buren relinquished his worldly possessions. However, word from the royal court soon arrived, asserting that he was still bound to oversee the affairs of the Eastern District. His request for release from this duty, though unmade, would undoubtedly have been denied. Thus, while he retained the title of the head of the Eastend castle, the clerics ensured he reaped no benefits from it. Stripped of most of his authority, he was left with mere obligations. Yet, the district, accustomed to functioning without an Overseer, continued its operations, and the guards upheld the law, ensuring stability.
Flynn had been heartbroken by Buren's abrupt shift, perceiving it as a descent into madness. He had been among the crowd, trying in vain to shield Buren from the onslaught. But the mob's fury had overwhelmed him, pushing him out of the square. He could only approach his mentor once the crowd had dispersed. The sight of Buren, battered and humiliated, had been as jarring as the moment Buren had entrusted him with the governance of the castle and Eastern District. Inanna, predictably, had kept her distance. Buren learned that she felt slighted by his choice, deeming it a terrible disgrace to be betrothed to a man who now roamed in tatters, subjected to the disdain of even the most downtrodden.
For Buren, this humble existence would have been preferable to his former life, if not for the pressing weight of his mission. And, of course, the haunting specter of his dreams.
In the early hours, when stars still shimmered in the obsidian sky, Buren was concluding his task of mopping the cloister floor where novice penitents resided. A man, adorned in the leather satchel and riding jacket characteristic of a Faith messenger, entered, carelessly tracking mud across the freshly cleaned surface. Without preamble, he announced, "You're expected at the Cathedral at sunrise."
Buren, unperturbed, simply rewet his mop and began cleaning the fresh trail of dirt.
The messenger, taken aback, inquired, "Are you not the Bearer of the Gauntlet? Or were you, before these vows?"
Buren cast a fleeting, almost dismissive glance his way. His metallic arm was in plain sight. If that wasn't evidence enough for the courier, then nothing would be.
The man, sensing the slight, huffed, "Just ensure you're there on time, or I suspect you'll rue the oversight." He departed, deliberately muddying the floor further in his wake. Buren, after completing his chores, made his way to the Cathedral on foot.
A sermon was scheduled that day. As he approached the main entrance, a Penitent knight halted him, silently directing him towards a staircase leading to an overlooking gallery. From this vantage, Buren observed the congregation assembling below. A minister emerged, announcing the commencement with the Chant of Anger. He signaled the choir, who began with raw, guttural growls. Initially discordant, they soon harmonized into a fierce, pulsating melody. The congregation joined, their voices melding into a primal rhythm that seemed to transform them, making them hunch and flex as if ready to pounce. Buren, overwhelmed by the haunting echoes reminiscent of the Malignant One's legions, steadied himself against the railing.
"Not feeling the urge to vent?" a resonant voice inquired from behind. Buren spun around to find the High Reverend, resplendent in his white and gold attire, his eyes concealed behind a golden mask. An attendant stood by his side, ready to assist given the Reverend's bound hands.
The Reverend continued, when the only answer he received was a stare he could not see, "You don't strike me as one easily swayed by such base emotions as anger. I'd wager it takes far more intricate provocations to ensnare you."
The High Reverend continued, his voice unwavering despite Buren's reticence. "I receive mixed accounts from your mentors," he mused, seemingly untroubled by the weight of the conversation resting solely on his shoulders. "Some praise your unparalleled dedication, while others find you inscrutable. What am I to make of such a dichotomy, my friend?"
"I strive for the highest Penitence," Buren murmured, his voice barely audible, weakened from prolonged silence and deprivation.
"I do not doubt your drive. Yet, your motivations remain enigmatic. It's clear that someone of your stature cannot be relegated to mere menial tasks within our cloister. A resolution is needed. How should the Faith regard one who is seen by some as a hero and by others as a fiend? Not long ago, this very Cathedral echoed with denunciations against you. Now, we address you as a brother. Such a shift could shake people's trust in the integrity of our Faith. The masses either need a tale of your redemption through the Faith or witness your destruction for your perceived blasphemy. There's no room for ambiguity. We must either embrace or expel you. Thus, we offer you an opportunity to affirm your commitment."
"And what is expected of me?" Buren inquired.
The Reverend's lips curled into a knowing smile. The haunting cadence of the chant enveloped them, providing a veil of privacy for their exchange.
"I've heard you're not particularly fond of our sermons, preferring the tangible rigors of our practices," the Reverend observed. "Would you concur?"
Buren merely inclined his head, a gesture lost on the masked man.
"Can you articulate the most important principles of the Faith you claim to have embraced?" the Reverend pressed, his smile tinged with condescension.
Buren's silence deepened, chilling the space between them. In truth, he found the entire religious doctrine distasteful. He had been navigating its ranks with the dual intent of achieving his personal objectives and distancing himself from what he perceived as a regressive and manipulative sect. The acts of humility and dedication were straightforward; they demanded physical endurance, allowing his mind to wander. But engaging in theological discourse would mean voicing beliefs he didn't hold, a prospect he found repugnant. However, he was prepared to feign allegiance if it furthered his cause. Opting for silence, he weighed the risks of fabricating a response against admitting his indifference to their teachings.
The High Reverend's smile deepened, taking pleasure in Buren's reticence. "Ah, a profound silence! Perhaps you believe that no single doctrine should overshadow the others. That it isn't the mere memorization of dogmas and tenets that matters, but the genuine pursuit of Purity and Penitence in the tangible world. I wholeheartedly concur." His voice was thick with irony. "Such academic pursuits are best left to those with ministerial aspirations. You, it seems, are more inclined to embody the Faith's work in the world. Nevertheless, allow me to refresh your memory on the foundational beliefs you might need to impart to the uninitiated, should you venture as a missionary."
He paused, wetting his thin lips before launching into his exposition. "In the dawn of time, humanity existed in harmony and equality. Resources were shared, ensuring everyone's needs were met. Absent were the vices of envy, greed, and fear. But then, the Great Deluge arrived, unleashed by malevolent daemons and monstrous beings. Our forebears sought refuge atop towering peaks, amidst the canopies of ancient trees, or upon any buoyant debris. Despite the scarcity, they continued to share, ensuring communal survival. Recognizing the indomitable spirit of humanity, these dark entities devised a more insidious strategy. Their aim was to corrode the very essence of human virtue, rendering us susceptible to their malevolence. The first to emerge from their ranks was the Dryad, who appeared on the shores after the receding tides. Though her alien nature initially evoked suspicion, her ability to cultivate food was seen as a divine boon. The councils of survivors, driven by compassion, accepted her offerings, believing it a necessary compromise. Alas, this act marked humanity's first descent into darkness. Those who consumed the Dryad's fruits developed an insatiable craving, leading them to betray their kin. Their desires were further inflamed by the seductive allure of these forest enchantresses, introducing humanity to the torment of unbridled lust. This was but the beginning. Giants, daemons, satyrs, the undead, homunculi, spirits, and other abominations followed, each bestowing their own unique curse upon mankind. From the giants came wrath and the lust for dominion; from the satyrs, the peril of herd mentality; and from the undead, an insatiable gluttony."
As the High Reverend spoke, the choir below reached a crescendo, their voices a cacophony of raw emotion, reverberating off the cathedral's ancient walls.
The High Reverend's eyes, though hidden, seemed to gleam with a mix of amusement and challenge. "Ah, the age-old tale of man's fall from grace. When unity and brotherhood were replaced by envy and deceit. Where once there was selflessness, now there's avarice; where there was kinship, now there's ambition, each man vying for dominance. From these tainted desires sprang tyrants, murderers, drunkards, thieves, courtesans, and traitors. This is the world we've inherited." He arched his back, stretching as if to encompass the vast expanse beyond the cathedral's walls, even though his bound arms restricted the gesture.
"Yet, the memory of that idyllic era, that earthly paradise, persisted. It was passed orally down through the ages, a beacon of hope. The path to reclaiming our rightful state is clear: we must purge the corruptions that plague our souls, using both fire and pain as our crucibles. Moreover, we must eradicate the sources of these corruptions—be they malevolent creatures, irredeemable individuals, or oppressive systems that perpetuate inequality."
Buren's exhale was audible, a mix of realization and skepticism. The Faith's extreme practices and their relentless crusade against other races now made a twisted kind of sense.
The Reverend's lips curled into a knowing smile. "You must have questions. Speak them."
Seeking clarity for his mission, Buren inquired, "If the Faith champions equality, why do titles like 'novice' and 'High Reverend' exist?"
The holy man's grin widened, revealing an unsettling array of teeth. "A fair query. The truth is, we are far from our ideal state of harmonious equality. To guide the masses, we must utilize the structures they recognize, structures that resonate with their current disposition. Only then can we dismantle these very systems. Consider it this way: when constructing a house, one doesn't commence with the roof. It would collapse without support. One must first lay a sturdy foundation. Our existing hierarchy serves as that foundation."
Buren pressed on, "Where exactly is it stated how people used to live before the Flood? This is not the only story I've heard about it, travelling the lands."
"Indeed, few topics are as rife with conjecture. What sets us apart, despite the claims of others, is our unbroken lineage of oral tradition."
Buren's skepticism was palpable. "But what if someone fabricated this narrative, falsely claiming it was passed down? Am I simply to accept this on 'faith'?"
The Reverend regarded him with a patient smile, akin to one reserved for an inquisitive child. "The truth has been passed down, unaltered, entrusted to those whose unwavering devotion and integrity ensure it remains pure. While words etched in stone can be altered or destroyed, those engraved upon the heart remain steadfast. If any deviation occurred, as might happen when a novice first attempts to memorize it, it would be swiftly rectified by the more learned among us. Thus, our teachings have remained untouched by time or intent. As for the term 'The Faith,' it's merely a name bestowed upon us by the masses. Many of us have adopted it, but our original path was known as 'The Path to Harmony.' 'The Faith' is certainly more succinct, and once we've eradicated all other superstitions and philosophies from these lands, there'll be no need for further distinctions. A singular term will suffice."
"Eradicated?"
"Yes, to achieve true harmony, all beliefs and practices birthed from afflictions must be purged. Some revere the forests and the Dryads within, others bow to daemons, and yet others worship gold. All will be cleansed in time."
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
"How?"
The blindfolded man chuckled softly. "That, my friend, is where individuals like you come into play. Many approach us, seeking relief from their torment, which means purging them of their afflictions. As we've discussed, this is a multifaceted process. You, aspiring to become a knight of our order, will be tasked with embodying our purpose. The discipline will cleanse you of many agonizing desires, all while you aid in purifying the world of unnatural taints and excising the maladies afflicting society."
He gestured to his attendant, who lifted a cloth sack from the ground, revealing the haunting visage of the Knight's of Penance's helmet.
"Are you prepared to embark on your mission to save the world?" the Reverend inquired. Below them, the fervent chant abruptly ceased, leaving the congregation gasping for breath. Yet an undercurrent of rage still pulsed from the walls, from the vacant pedestals where statues once stood, from the remnants of defaced murals, and from the sculptures of upraised fists. It was a fury that could be harnessed for destruction or creation.
Buren took the helmet, cradling it upon his metallic palm. He stared deep into the void of its eyeholes, and in that moment, the abyss stared back.
It found him ready.
The blade Buren had been entrusted with felt unduly heavy in his grasp. Its weight wasn't solely due to its subpar craftsmanship or the poor balance of the longsword. Weeks of malnourishment and physical inactivity had sapped his strength. While his metallic arm wielded the blade effortlessly, his diminished physique struggled to maintain equilibrium. The attire of a Penitent Knight aspirant consisted of a red robe, overlaid with a leather breastplate and forearm bracers. The sword and helm were the ensemble's sole metallic components, save for the chain from which a metal fist totem dangled.
Buren silently followed the knight he'd been paired with, flanked by another aspirant. Neither had offered introductions or greetings. Both seemed to have taken a vow of silence, speaking only when absolutely necessary and solely on matters sanctioned by the Faith. This suited Buren just fine. All he knew was that they were on a mission, heading towards the Northern District. This elevated part of the town was where many nobles had erected their grand estates. Commoners gave them a wide berth as they passed, with the impoverished avoiding eye contact and the affluent displaying disdain.
Crossing a stone bridge over a stream that demarcated the district boundaries, the transition was palpable. Dirt roads gave way to meticulously swept cobblestones. Ramshackle wooden huts were replaced by imposing granite structures, their terraces overlooking the stream. From these vantage points, nobles could either watch commoners washing clothes or derive amusement by tossing coins into the water, observing the desperate, often non-swimmers, plunge after them.
The guards stationed at the bridge's end, tasked with preventing vagrants from entering, posed no hindrance. Their gleaming armor, adorned with intricate designs, contrasted sharply with the worn gear of their Eastern counterparts. The latter bore the scars of multiple users and battles, with patches covering lethal or incapacitating blows, before being handed down to the next recruit.
The trio passed a decorative fountain, its water crystallizing at the edges, and a manicured park where a few resilient yellow leaves clung to trees. The rest lay in tidy heaps on the ground.
Turning onto a broad avenue lined with archways leading to courtyards of multistory residences, each arch bore the emblem of its resident family. Their knightly guide approached one such entrance, and the stationed guard promptly stepped forward to challenge them.
"Halt," he commanded. "State your business—"
The knight swiftly presented a vellum bearing the official seal of the Faith's Chief Inquisitor, bypassing the guard before he could muster a response. Ever since King Duriel had granted the Faith exclusive religious recognition within the city, it had zealously pursued its mission of purging perceived impurities. Those unwilling to renounce their former beliefs risked involuntary purification by the Knights and Inquisitors. The King seemingly permitted the Faith to dispense its unique form of justice, with pleas from the aggrieved falling on deaf ears at the court. The populace felt compelled to adhere to the Faith's edicts, regardless of personal convictions. The guard's expression of impotent resignation captured this sentiment perfectly. He knew he should bar them and they had no real grounds to enter, but doing so might cause him to be imprisoned deep within the penitentiaries, possibly never to be seen again.
As they entered the grand foyer, adorned with portraits and stone busts of the family's patriarchs, a startled housemaid hurriedly retreated. Confronted with the same parchment, a flustered butler gestured towards the staircase, urging them to wait for the household's master. However, the knight's determined ascent was as inexorable as an encroaching storm.
Upon reaching a bolted master bedroom door, the knight finally acknowledged Buren, gesturing towards the barrier. The directive was unmistakable. Buren positioned himself, noting the door would swing towards them. Its robust construction would deter most, but Buren possessed a distinct advantage. Adopting a crouched stance and anchoring himself with his left hand, he thrust his metallic arm towards the door near the handle. Splinters flew as his hand punctured the wood, locating and ripping out the bolt. As he swung the door open, the knight motioned for him to stand back, taking the lead.
Inside, a man, presumably the house's lord given his striking resemblance to the portraits below, was emerging from bed, hastily draping a green satin sheet around his waist. Beside him, a younger man's eyes peeked out from beneath the covers, his tousled brown hair the only other visible feature.
"What is the meaning of this?" the nobleman demanded, his initial shock giving way to indignation. In response, the knight proffered the parchment, which the noble scrutinized with growing disbelief.
"Obscenity of the flesh? What in the Flood does that that even mean?"
"Your debauchery has so tainted your judgment that you indulge even with one of your own gender, corrupting them in the process," the knight intoned from behind his mask.
The other man interjected, "He's innocent. I approached him."
The nobleman, with a defiant wag of his finger, retorted, "I've told those priests, and I'll tell you the same: you've no right to intrude upon my private matters. My family is not one to be trifled with."
"You've strayed from reason, so consumed by your affliction that you're blind to your transgressions," the knight intoned. "Therefore, we must intervene for your sake and the good of all."
Swiftly, the knight seized the nobleman's forearm, signaling Buren and the other novice to restrain the younger man. But the nobleman, in a desperate move, flung his blanket over the knight's face, causing him to stumble. Seizing the moment, the younger man drew a concealed knife from beneath the pillows, lunging at the disoriented knight.
Buren, with practiced ease, unsheathed his blade, deflecting the attack and striking the young man's wrist, breaking the bone with a snap. As the knife clattered to the ground, the other novice lunged, pinning the young man and pulverizing his face with his fists.
"No!" cried the nobleman, rushing to intervene. But the knight, recovering swiftly, delivered a gut-wrenching punch, leaving the noble gasping. Rising, the knight then headbutted the noble, whose bloodied brow bore testament to the force of the blow. He fell on his buttocks, stammering a protest of some sort. The Knight raised his leg, aimed, and brough his heel down hard on the man's genitals so they were crushed between boot and hardwood floor. The noble screamed in a pitch that would have been the envy of any choirboy, then slumped to the ground. His partner had stopped moving as well.
"Won't be needing those where you're going," the knight sneered, stepping away from the mangled form beneath him. He hoisted the whimpering noble onto his shoulders, making his way out. Buren and the novice began to drag the younger man, but the knight's stern gesture halted them. They left him, battered and unconscious, on the floor.
A rotund man, sporting a thick mustache, burst into the room, his horrified gasp echoing behind them. As they descended the grand staircase, he hurried after, breathlessly exclaiming, "Wait! I was assured my boy would be unharmed. He's been brutalized! I demand compensation, I'm going to have to look for him until he recuperates and neither of us can work while he's still on the mend, and we already struggle to survive."
The knight halted but did not turn, his voice cold and dismissive. "Count yourself fortunate we spared him. His soul may be tainted, but as my mandate pertains only to this misguided noble, your boy has another chance. Should he falter again, we will return."
He exhaled sharply. "Where is the payment I was promised?"
"The Faithful are in your debt for shedding light on the corruption within this household. Rest assured, you will receive what was agreed upon."
Outside, the lone guard had summoned backup, now flanked by two sword-bearing men. Buren's hand instinctively rested on his blade's hilt, though he sensed no imminent threat. The guards resembled cornered mice; they might lash out in fear and desperation, but their true desire was to be left unscathed. Their challenges were weak, their demands to halt half-hearted. When the group simply walked past, the guards didn't dare follow. Buren marveled at the Faith's pervasive authority, its ability to quell resistance with mere reputation, far more effectively than he ever could with the Gauntlet. What a waste, he mused, for such power to be used to police private lives, destroy art, and persecute dissenters. Such might could be harnessed for the greater good.
Yet, he held his tongue. This nobleman, however blameless in Buren's eyes, was a small price to pay in the grand scheme. But he made a silent vow, committing the family's insignia and traits to memory. If the man survived, Buren would ensure he and his lineage were recompensed for the unknowing sacrifice they made for his mission. This promise extended to all who, knowingly or not, had aided his cause.
After delivering their captive to the Inquisitors, the group disbanded. Buren began his journey back to the monastery, expecting a modest bedroll and a meager serving of oats. However, upon reaching the gate, the doorman halted him, instructing him to relocate to the Knights of Penance's garrison, situated near the Cathedral.
Navigating the town once more, Buren found himself before a modest keep, nestled in the shadow of the towering cathedral steeple. Across from it lay a vast field of rough-hewn stones, marking the site of a once-sacred pond. Legend told of the city's founder, who had cunningly led a pursuing manticore into the pond, drowning the beast. A marble bust, depicting the creature with its fierce mane and human-like visage, still guarded the city's southern entrance. The Faithful had drained the pond, transforming the space into a square that served as training ground for the Penitent Knights and a venue for large public events.
Buren's red robe billowed as he crossed the stone-laden expanse. After introducing himself to the guard, he was directed to the quartermaster—a lean man with a perpetual frown. Buren was then shown to a barracks, where he'd share space with nearly thirty other novices. The accommodations were sparse, with beds lined side by side, offering no privacy or storage.
Dinner was a welcome surprise—a hearty stew and a chunk of bread, the most substantial meal he'd had in weeks. The dining hall was silent, save for the clinking of dishes, under the watchful eye of the quartermaster.
" Maybe they do have some sense after all," Buren pondered, savoring his meal. "Starving warriors would be of no use."
Post supper, while others retired, Buren attempted to embark on the Path of Penance—a barefooted pilgrimage through the town's streets. However, the gate guard halted him, explaining that all followed a regimented schedule. Unlike the monastery, where novices vied to endure the harshest trials, here, adherence to the timetable was mandatory. Buren's request for alternative sleeping arrangements was firmly denied.
As he reentered the barracks, he felt the weight of many eyes upon him—some wary, others hostile. Their scrutiny mattered little to him. They could gawk at his metallic arm, the scars that marred his lean physique, but he would never betray his secrets. However, sleep posed a challenge. Every night, nightmares threatened his sanity, causing him to thrash violently. In his sleep, he might even mutter something that he would prefer to keep to himself. All but one of the candles was blown out and darkness descended in the room. With a look of grim determination Buren stuffed a sock into his mouth, hoping it would be enough to muffle him, and stared at the ceiling, willing himself to stay awake as long as he could. It was going to be a long night.
The gag always left his mouth parched, reminiscent of leather scorched and abraded, and his jaw ached from the strain. Yet, it served its purpose. Over the subsequent weeks, neither the novices closest to him nor the night guards ever disturbed his slumber. Lying awake often, Buren observed that many among them were tormented by nightmares, their restless struggles mirroring his own. His nightly ordeal seemed to blend seamlessly into the collective nocturnal unrest. The cloth he bit down on was a mild discomfort compared to the extreme measures some took to suppress their own demons.
Their days were now dominated by manual labor and martial training, all under strict supervision. Buren's prowess was evident, especially during the mock battles. Once the novices had mastered basic swordsmanship and shield use, these skirmishes often ended swiftly in his favor. His meals, though not lavish, were more substantial than what most city dwellers had access to, save for the nobility. He could feel his strength returning; his muscles grew, and the once-prominent sinews were now slightly obscured. As his physique adjusted to counterbalance his metallic arm, his dominance in the training bouts became even more pronounced. Soon, the blacksmith lamented the state of the training equipment, which often returned battered after Buren's sessions.
One day, Buren was assigned to gather intelligence. Through this task, he glimpsed the inner workings of the Inquisitors. His contact, lured by the Faith's reward for information leading to the "purging of corruption," revealed that a certain nobleman, notorious for his drunken rages, often mistreated his servants. Buren initially thought the tale too commonplace to warrant action. Yet, to his astonishment, he, alongside a Knight and another novice, were dispatched to apprehend the noble. The Grand Inquisitor subsequently seized the noble's estate. The spoils were distributed: some went to the maltreated servants, some to the impoverished, and a significant portion enriched the Faith's coffers.
Buren realized that the noble with the male lover had been betrayed in a similar manner. The young man's father, disapproving of the relationship, had seen an opportunity. By informing the Faith, he could profit while ridding himself of the undesirable suitor. Such arrangements proved lucrative for the Faith. They not only bolstered their reputation through perceived acts of justice but also expanded their intelligence network. Often, the assets they acquired far outweighed the rewards they disbursed, especially when informants were willing to betray kin for gold and the promise of the Faith's favor.
At midday, Buren found himself not facing the usual recruits, but the quartermaster himself in a duel. Their combat was observed by high-ranking officials from every branch of the Faith: the Penitent Knights, the Inquisitors, and the clergy. The bout was brief; Buren's first, unnaturally powerful strike disarmed the quartermaster, causing him to inadvertently strike himself with his own shield. By the time the quartermaster recovered, Buren's blade was poised at his throat. The esteemed assembly departed without revealing their conclusions or decisions. However, that evening, Buren discovered a letter on his bunk bearing the seal of the Grand Commander of the Penitent Knights. Breaking the wax seal, he read the summons to report to the commander's office the following noon.
The commander, unarmored and without his helmet, was engrossed in dispatches and requests from every region where the Faith held sway. Yet, the eye and fist emblems, intricately embroidered with gold thread on his scarlet robe, marked his elevated status. With a gesture, he indicated the chair opposite him. Buren sat, patiently waiting as the commander finished his paperwork. Once the last document was signed, the commander set aside his pen and fixed his gaze on Buren. Like many of the Faithful, his face bore deep lines, his expression stern, and his head and face were cleanly shaven.
"Novice of Coldwood," he began, "It's rare to encounter a recruit with such exceptional skill and discipline. But given your background, it's hardly surprising."
Buren nodded in acknowledgment.
"Many still argue that you should be imprisoned, or even publicly executed. Some cite your unnatural arm as reason enough, others whisper that you've consumed the blood of the Malignant One, branding you a soulless monster to be burned. And then there are those who believe your execution would endear us to the masses. What's your take on these sentiments?"
Buren's derisive snort conveyed his disdain.
The commander's stern mouth twitched upwards, hinting at a smile. "Such views are hardly worth our time, especially those who pander to the whims of the common folk. You're fortunate, for I believe that a weapon, no matter its origin, should be wielded against corruption and vice. And, to me, you're just one more piece of armament in the armory."
If the pun was intentional his face and tone hid it perfectly.
"I'm not entirely convinced of your so-called conversion from your past ways," the commander continued, "but even the sharp-eyed Inquisitors haven't detected any deceit in you. As long as you execute your duties with the same precision and tenacity you've demonstrated thus far, your innermost beliefs matter little to me. Perhaps you're merely seeking public favor? Somehow, I doubt that. Continue on this path, and you'll find yourself on a sure road to purification by fire."
Buren responded with a simple nod.
"You'll be joining a select mission into a wilderness where some of our previous teams have encountered resistance. A larger force would draw too much attention, so the strategy is to consolidate strength in a small unit. This team will protect the missionary tasked with guiding the locals away from their pagan practices. You'll report to the mission's leader."
Buren nodded again in understanding.
"I suspect the High Reverend, in his wisdom, chose this mission's composition to test both you and the leader he appointed. The name of your commander might be familiar to you. You'll be serving under Field Commander Traum."
At this revelation, Buren did not nod.