In the hours before dawn, Buren stepped into the temple's dining hall. He had already washed away the sweat of the previous night's haunting dreams, the frigid waters of the pond having purified both his mind and body. He had hoped to encounter Anod, but the footprints and broken ice revealed the monk leader had already come and gone.

The once-lively hall now bore a somber atmosphere. Simple meats and stews were served, accompanied by spiced goat's milk and a generous dollop of butter. The gazes that met him were wary and searching, their eyes reflecting the soft luminescence of the minerals that lit the room. No longer was he the intriguing outsider, a source of jest and conversation. Now, with their fates hinging on the final test, Buren represented a threat.

This newfound seclusion suited Buren. He half-expected one of the monks, like Jigten, to make a move, even at the risk of excommunication. After all, wasn't such a sacrifice justified to protect one's kin?

Such were Buren's thoughts as he chose a seat with his back against the wall, ensuring no one could approach him unseen. Though his appetite was minimal, he forced himself to eat, knowing he'd need the sustenance.

After his meal, he ambled along the parapets, hoping the walk would aid digestion before the impending dawn and the subsequent Trial. The sky was cloudless, with the moon casting a dominant presence. Perhaps it was the altitude, but the celestial orb appeared grander, revealing more of its orbiting stars. Its pale surface, adorned with golden and silvery veins and rectangles, shimmered brilliantly, as did the perpetual lights that many believed to be vast diamonds. Yet, like most, Buren dismissed such fantasies of lunar riches as the whims of dreamers and protagonists of folk satires.

In stark contrast, burning low in the horizon, the Red Eye glowered like an ember. The one astrological portent one hoped not to see prior to anything important. According to oral tradition, it had burned with an unusual intensity, painting the sky crimson just before the Great Flood. Its reputation was further cemented by the common belief that its malevolent glow caused daemons, ghosts and the rest of their dark kind to stir. On such nights, good, humble people did well to lock their doors and refrain from even thinking evil thoughts.

Yet, Buren spared the Red Eye only a fleeting glance. Whatever the odds stacked against him, he could not turn back, so it mattered not whether his struggle would take place on a calamitous day. He wouldn't seek excuses or be distracted by superstition. In this battle of fates, he intended to be the curse upon his adversaries, not the one cursed by the stars.

As dawn's first light pierced the horizon, Buren made his way to the temple square, the nexus of the final challenge. Monks began to gather, maintaining a cautious distance from him. Anod, the last to arrive, stood tall as the sun crested the skyline.

In a voice resonant with authority, Anod declared, "Today, the Challenge reaches its culmination. Victory remains within grasp for both contenders, hinging on their prowess in this final Trial—The Poles."

Two monks advanced, kneeling and presenting ornately carved wooden staves. These intricate designs of swirling vortices, flora, fauna, and depictions of men in their prime physicality displayed the Corporeal Form's ideals. Yet they were not just for show, as they were obviously of sturdy make and, despite careful honing and varnishing, had scratches and dents telling of earlier battles. Anod handed one to Buren, who tested its weight and balance.

"Perfectly balanced," he appraised.

As Anod approached the vases of red and green paint, Buren anticipated the third Messenger to come forth, as tradition dictated. But Anod hesitated, lifting his gaze.

"Today's Trial is unparalleled in our annals. Its significance is paramount. Our sacred teachings dictate that the one who channels the corporeal to determine the Trial must also partake in it. Yet, after profound reflection and consultation with our most advanced members, another interpretation has emerged. The one to face the Challenger need not be the Messenger, but the one most attuned to the corpus."

With deliberate motion, Anod smeared green paint upon his chest.

"It can be the Living Incarnate."

A chill swept over Buren. He locked eyes with Anod, a mix of betrayal and disbelief evident in his gaze. As Anod marked Buren with the red paint, the firm press of his warm palm lingered on his chest for a moment longer than on the previous days. Anod matched the gaze of his brother-in-arms of bygone days, his look a mixture of gentle sadness and unwavering resolve. Taking up his staff, he led the procession with unwavering purpose.

They arrived at a chasm, a flawless circular void carved into the mountain, reminiscent of a marketplace in size but instead of stalls there was just a fall descending into an impenetrable shroud of mist. From the abyss, stone pillars of varying heights emerged. Anod's voice carried over the assembly, "The Trialists shall engage in single combat, striving to cast their adversary into the depths. The Challenge concludes when one falls or willingly leaps to solid ground."

Buren assessed the pillars. They gradually tapered, with the wider bases of the stilts on the side of the arena to his left allowing a firm stance, while the narrower tips to his right would barely support the ball of a foot.

Anod continued, "It would not be proper to delay the resolution, so the Trialists are on a time limit." He gestured to massive stone blocks suspended above. "At set intervals, the monks will release a swinging block trap and keep it going, compelling contestants to shift to narrower poles or be cast off. Should both fall simultaneously, the Challenge goes to the side with the most tokens at the Trial's onset, in this case, the Temple."

He indicated black markings on the pillars. "Dangling below these marks is deemed a surrender."

With a contemplative look skyward, Anod offered, "There remains an opportunity to withdraw."

Silence reigned.

Closing his eyes, Anod intoned, "Then let us step into the Circle."

The monks operated two winches, lowering plank bridges to the broadest masts, one marked in green and the other in red. The swaying scaffold groaned under Buren's weight, the mist below churning ominously. He leapt onto the pylon, using his staff to maintain balance. Anod, with measured steps, crossed the gangplank and alighted on his designated perch, standing as rigid and unwavering as the column itself.

On solid ground, the three Messengers took their positions.

"Eh!" the first intoned- The countdown had begun.

"Tu!" the second echoed. Buren's gaze was locked onto Anod, but the monk's eyes were shut, lost in deep concentration.

"Goh!"

With that, Anod's eyes snapped open, and he lunged forward, each step sure and swift. The monks began a fervent and rhythmic chant.

"Mustn't be cornered," Buren thought, leaping forward. Though the platform was wide, he took a moment to steady himself. Anod, however, had rapidly closed the gap, his eyes never leaving Buren, who was forced to watch his own footing.

With a swift motion, Anod aimed a strike at Buren's midsection. Buren tried to parry, but the force sent him reeling backward. His lightning-fast metal arm shot out and grasped the nearest post, its claws digging into the stone, and flung him back up. He soared over Anod, landing behind him, effectively reversing their positions. Buren danced out of Anod's reach, prodding him with his staff's end. The nudges wouldn't topple the monk but would buy Buren time to strategize.

Anod's every move was deliberate and forceful, his determination unwavering. Buren could see that Anod was resolved to win, even if it meant felling a once-beloved comrade.

Buren's thoughts raced, seeking a resolution where he could triumph without ending Anod's life. He would have to somehow force him to surrender.

"Break his will," he concluded. "With no reason to fight, I might convince him to stand down."

"Defeating me won't change anything," Buren shouted. "If I fall, the Faith's Knights will come, and they won't rest until this sanctuary is ashes."

Anod's only response was a powerful thrust that would have cracked Buren's skull if he hadn't dodged.

"Are you really so eager to kill me for nothing? The man to whom you owe your life?"

A fleeting expression of anguish crossed Anod's face, but he quickly masked it.

"I must do this for you, my friend," Anod murmured.

Buren's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Your body keeps moving but you're not in this world," Anod continued. "I sense the immense suffering within you, and couldn't guide you to a path of healing. A swift end is a mercy now."

He gripped his staff tighter, a lone tear betraying his emotions, or perhaps he had allowed it as a show of his sentiments.

"I act out of love, brother. Before your journey into darkness goes any further. In death, balladeers will still sing of your heroism."

"There won't be any singers when what I've seen comes to pass," Buren retorted, his voice low and fierce.

"I've spent these nights reflecting upon your words, your visions, and come to realize it doesn't matter if they are real or not. If they are mere phantasms, your actions are misguided, and they must be halted. . If they're true, however, our people and these lands are are not ready to mount another fight against such odds. You will tear what little hope and respite they can have and throw them against certain defeat and death. That is not right, either."

"There is a chance. I just need to find it."

"You cannot be certain of that. And even if such a hope lingers, my allegiance remains with this temple. I cannot stand by and watch them be sacrificed for a hope of a chance."

"But you're willing to sacrifice me for no chance at all?"

Anod's voice faltered, a hint of emotion breaking through. "It is you who have already sacrificed yourself to the altar of the mind and its visions. I merely seek to grant you peace."

Before Buren could retort, a shout from the monks heralded the release of the first swinging block. Both combatants were forced to leap to narrower platforms to avoid its path.

Buren sought to maintain a gap between them, but Anod's relentless pursuit, combined with Buren's focus on his precarious footing, allowed the monk to close in. Anod lunged, and Buren, driven by sheer instinct, narrowly evaded the strike. However, he teetered, leaping to an adjacent column to prevent a direct plummet. A normal man would have fallen on the pile on his stomach and been stuck there, unable to get back on his feet or make it to any other stake. But Buren, with the Gauntlet's might, was far from ordinary. Using his metallic arm, he hoisted himself into a one-armed handstand, aligned with the column. With a forceful push, he vaulted, twisting mid-air to land securely on a distant platform.

Yet, Anod was already upon him. "I vow to bury that accursed Gauntlet, erasing every trace of its existence from our annals!"

Buren's thoughts raced. "I'm no match for him like this. Correction, my body is not." His gaze fell upon the Gauntlet. "Time to stop thinking on my feet and get a handle on the situation."

With newfound determination, Buren lunged, not aiming for a landing but gripping a column above the demarcated line. Fluidly, he swung from one column to the next, propelling himself in a near-vertical zigzag across the arena. Reaching the opposite edge, he clung precariously to the slenderest of columns, whose width was that of the human thumb. The designers of the arena had apparently taken this approach into account as well, since the swinging blocks extended even below the black line on the poles, so any hanger-ons would be knocked off. Anod pursued relentlessly, ignoring the pain that must have shot through his soles with every landing on such thin platforms. The arena's design accounted for such tactics, with swinging blocks threatening even those clinging below the black line.

Buren maneuvered around Anod, who showed no signs of fatigue. But their battleground was rapidly diminishing. As more blocks swung into play, synchronized to form a pendulous stone barrier, their maneuverable space dwindled. Soon, they were confined to a single line of the slenderest columns. Anod's soles bled as he doggedly chased Buren, their lethal game of musical chairs growing ever more desperate.

Buren knew he would have to make his move now. "If Anod refuses to yield, then I must force his hand," he resolved. "Touching solid ground means surrender, so I'll just have to throw him there before both of us are killed."

As Anod neared, Buren feigned an attempt to flee. Instead, he spun around a pole and lunged at the monk, wrapping his legs around Anod's waist, his ankles locking behind him in a vice-like grip. They both toppled and would have plummeted to the depths if not for the Gauntlet clamping onto a nearby stake. Channeling its formidable strength, he swung them like a pendulum, the force of the Gauntlet casting them both in the air. Buren released his hold and kicked at his opponent to send him away.

Yet, Anod had anticipated this move, letting go of his staff to latch onto Buren's leg. As they descended together, Buren's hard claws dug deep scratches into the stone rod he grasped onto, barely above the demarcation. The gargantuan apostle of muscle hung on to his ankles, his immense weight straining Buren's body, every muscle and sinew stretched to its limit. He groaned from the tension.

"Climb! End this madness," Buren growled at his friend, his voice strained with exertion. "We'll try that again, and this time you'll go willingly, so neither of us has to die."

Anod let go with one hand and, for a fleeting moment, Buren believed he had heeded his plea. But instead, Anod's hand formed a fist.

"I'm going to stop this lunacy, all right," he said, aiming his fist at the slender pole struggling to support their weight. Buren had seen him break bricks and logs with one punch; the support would not stand a chance.

Anod smiled, and his voice was soft, tinged with melancholy. "I had hoped it would end something like this: going on without you would have been like going on with just half my body."

"Stop!"

Anod's muscles tensed, ready to strike. The monks' warning cry echoed; the final block was released.

Buren's staff remained in his grasp.

Anod inhaled sharply, like he taught others to do just before hitting.

With a primal scream, Buren struck Anod's temple with the staff, simultaneously kicking the hand clutching his ankle.

The weight tearing him down vanished. He watched, grief-stricken, as Anod was consumed by the mist. Their eyes locked one final time, Anod's filled with grief and sorrow that seemed not for himself, but for Buren.

The swinging block hurtled his way. Buren hurled himself to safety, collapsing on solid ground. There was no feeling in his legs. In his whole body. No emotions, either. He was numb, his sensation shrouded, like his friend, swallowed by the mists. He felt dead and gone. He had gone with Anod. Could still join him, like he would have liked. What difference would it make to one already dead inside whether they still drew breath or lay crushed at the bottom of an abyss? Why would he keep going?

"Duty," whispered a voice from the recesses of his mind. "Remember your duty."

He didn't want to. But he did.

He turned away from the precipice. It had never been about what he wanted to do, but what was needed of him. He extended his metallic hand towards the monks, palm upturned in expectation. The sight of him made them balk: he was pale white in the face, his bluish lips, like a corpse.

"Tokens," his voice rasped, laden with pain. "I won."

Tears streamed down the monks' faces, yet they maintained their composure, unlike the overtly emotional professional mourners in the city. That was their way of handling emotions: they would not suppress the natural impulses of their bodies, but would not let their minds carry them away. In Buren, even the need to cry was deadened, and he walked back to his equipment like his legs were wooden and his heart of stone. The weight of the tokens in his pocket was a constant reminder of the price paid. The accusing stares of the monks meant nothing to him; his own reflection would be much harder to stand.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Collecting his belongings, he vacated the communal area before the grief-stricken monks could return. One never knew what would happen when a group of such tormented people gathered. Although he yearned to leave the accursed mountaintop, the Challenge's Concluding Ceremony was scheduled for the morrow, and he had to be present to assert his demands. His desire for solitude was also driven by caution; a calculated assassination attempt was not beyond the realm of possibility, even when it was categorically forbidden.

The convalescent monks resting on the beddings wailed as they saw him, deducing what must have happened between him and their leader. He ignored them, gathering his essentials for a night outdoors.

Navigating a rugged, trackless stretch of the mountains,where going forward was half crawling and half climbing, he eventually found solace atop a hill. Encircled by jagged boulders, a spring bubbled forth, its waters destined to join cascading waterfalls. Over time, these waters would erode the mountain, much like the trials that seemed to be wearing him down. Except for the Gauntlet, which appeared impervious to time. Drinking from the spring, he avoided his reflection. Setting up traps and alarms, he prepared his resting place beneath a slanted monolith. After forcing a few bits of meat and bread down his throat, he preoccupied himself in the meticulous care of his weapons, giving the polishing of his sword more undivided attention than ever before. That way, willingly becoming absorbed in the motion of rubbing and appraising the sheen it gave to the blade, his troublesome thoughts and feelings receded to the background.

"The mind is indeed a wellspring of suffering," he mused, recalling Anod's words.

He intensified his efforts, willing himself to focus solely on the blade. A restless night awaited him.

Nightmares and awakenings before dawn were what he was used to, but sleep eluded him entirely that night. He had honed his sword to perfection, stopping only when his raw, bleeding hand could bear no more. He tried to concentrate on planning his next move, on speculating what the entities of his dreams were, exactly—on anything that could be of use. But memories of Azure, Anod, Flynn, and others he had forsaken haunted him. All this sacrifice, for what? To save strangers who spat on him in the streets? To defend a treacherous ruler and his decaying realm?

But that was what his nature drove him to do. It would not let him rest. He had long since learned he would act the shepherd, no matter if it for a flock of sheep, wolves or pigs. As long as he drew breath.

In the dim glow of dying embers, he examined the razor-sharp talons of his metallic hand.

"As long as I draw breath..."

Drawing a long, pointed claw to his throat, he realized that with a mere flick, it could all end. Perhaps as Anod had wished. Perhaps it would indeed be for the best. Someone else might step up, the people might find their own salvation. His visions really might just be dreams of a troubled mind.

His resolve hardened, teeth gritting behind clenched jaws. Yet, the finger remained motionless. With a gasp, he let his hand fall, collapsing from his seated position onto his back. Giving up when there was work to be done was not something his nature would allow, either.

He screamed at the endless darkness above and beyond him, to the Red Eye watching high above. His cries reverberated through the mountains, causing even the creatures of the Hidden Valley to reconsider emerging from their dens.

Dawn found the temple's inhabitants congregating for the most solemn ceremony in their history. Every face bore the weight of sleepless sorrow. In the absence of the Living Incarnate, a council of esteemed members led the rites. Their words washed over Buren, barely registering. When prompted, he reaffirmed his demands, to which the council acquiesced, severing all ties with the village. Victory had never tasted so hollow.

With his belongings packed, Buren departed as soon as the ceremony concluded. Yet, a group seemed even more eager to leave: injured monks, supporting or carrying one another, made their way to a precipice. They paused at the edge, their serene gazes meeting Buren's.

"We won't be a burden to our brothers," one declared. " The collective body needs to be strong to survive the harsh times ahead."

Without a moment's hesitation, they stepped off the edge, vanishing as if they were mere figments of his imagination.

Buren left the devastated temple, swearing never to return. Descending the mountain, he utilized his claws to slide down the rocky face, creating a cascade of sparks, a descent swifter than any rappel. At the base, he discovered the mangled remains of the self-sacrificing monks. The ones whose faces hadn't been smashed still wore a calm smile. For an instant, envy gripped him—not for their death, but because they had been part of something they loved so much that they felt content as they died for it. Buren's purpose, in contrast, only distanced him from what he held dear.

His walk across the tundra was uneventful; nothing came to offer even a momentary distraction from his ruminations. Approaching the village, he noted the untended fields and the fortified gates, now bolstered with carts laden with stones and wooden pikes. The crimson banners of the Faith fluttered prominently above the parapets and rooftops. Remembering his oversight, he quickly donned his novice robe and weeping helmet, which he shouldn't have removed to begin with.

A sentry atop the walls called out to him, and he halted before the sealed gates. Muffled arguments echoed from the other side. Growing impatient, he rapped forcefully on the gate.

"Hold!" a voice commanded from within. "Entry is restricted without the Knight-Commander's say-so."

"Apparently, our mission of conversion is a success," he thought. "Now, the Faith calls the shots."

The timber barricade was drawn back, and the gate opened just wide enough for him to pass. He was met by peasants armed with rudimentary weapons, with Traum and the mission members standing behind them.

"You took your time," the Commander remarked tersely. "Did you at least find their base?"

Buren approached Traum. He placed his left foot in front of the right, leaned forward and twisted his chin against his right shoulder—the customary sign of requesting a suspension of his vow of silence due to crucial information. Traum regarded him coldly for a moment before tilting his right ear by his mouth.

"The Corporeal Form has been vanquished," Buren murmured. "They won't trouble this village again."

The Commander's eyes narrowed. "That wasn't your objective," he snapped.

"Who cares?" the missionary said. He had sneaked in close enough to eavesdrop. He addressed the gathering villagers: "Hear this! The Faith has triumphed over the wicked. You are liberated!"

Confused murmurs turned to cheers, and the jubilation spread like wildfire. "Down with tyranny! Hail the Faith! Equality for all!" they chanted, and rushed to knock on doors and tell everyone the news.

Traum's glare lingered on Buren. "Prepare for our departure," he ordered coldly. "We leave at dawn."

As they journeyed back, Buren scouted ahead, a position Traum had ordered to prevent being waylaid again. The day was clear, and the bioluminescent lichen illuminated the path, making his task straightforward. The missionary, having compensated for the early start by dozing in the back of the cart, now shuffled over.

"I had my doubts about you, Gauntlet-Bearer," he admitted. "But you've proven invaluable to our cause."

Aware of Buren's vow, the missionary wasn't expecting a reply. Even without the vow, Buren wouldn't have dignified him with a response. ""You're a living, breathing demonstration of the Faith's power to cleanse corruption and redeem even those steeped in dark forces," the missionary continued. "I'll ensure our superiors hear of this. A man of your abilities shouldn't be relegated to mere patrols. You should be out cleansing the land and souls of the people."

The missionary then launched into a tirade about the pervasive corruption and the need for its ruthless eradication, which, in his view, meant exterminating all non-humans. Buren let his prejudiced fanaticism flow past: he would not let his distaste show and jeopardize the good word he had work so hard to obtain.

"The sooner I climb the ranks, the quicker I can leave these rotten zealots behind," he reminded himself.

The missionary seemed to interpret Buren's silence as agreement. After concluding his monologue, he gave Buren a hearty pat on the back and retreated to the wagon.

Throughout the day, Traum seemed intent on pushing Buren especially hard, assigning him one chore after another without respite. Whether it was fetching water, gathering wood, foraging for plants, leading the vanguard, or patrolling the camp, Buren executed each task flawlessly. Yet, Traum always found something to nitpick, from the creases in Buren's robe to the length of his strides. Buren recognized these criticisms for what they were: feeble attempts to undermine him. Was this the best the Commander could muster? A series of petty provocations? Buren realized that Traum must have understood that if Buren kept up his stellar performance he would soon find himself outranked, and did everything he could to put even a slight smudge on his esteem. The Commander's attempts were almost laughable.

That evening, they set up camp at the border of the tundra and the diluvial forest. Familiar, non-luminous plants carpeted the ground, interspersed with cold-climate shrubs and spindly trees. Sent to gather more firewood, Buren ventured deep into the woods, reaching a small river. A sensation of being watched prickled his skin. Turning, he spotted Traum on a nearby hill, silhouetted against the moon. Buren could sense the enmity in his gaze, despite the distance and him wearing the helmet that he apparently never removed.

Traum descended the hill, his movements somehow stiff. Buren's first thought was that the man was forcing himself ahead, but then realized his error—he wasn't pushing to advance; he had to strain to hold himself back. He could tell by the way he had to keep flicking his hand away from the hilt of his sword, and how every step looked like it might launch him into a sprint. Traum was a rabid dog struggling to tear at him and the man holding the leash at the same time.

Buren saluted him while still holding a bushel of sticks, a move that was perfectly appropriate according to the code of conduct, yet still conveyed a hint of impertinence. Buren was sure the Commander picked up on it, but what could he do?

In the ghostly moonlight, the two metallic visages locked in a silent standoff.

"I see through you," Traum finally hissed, his voice grating with barely suppressed emotion. "Perhaps I'm the only one who does. Everyone is so elated to have you do their bidding they don't realize you're not really on their team. There is nothing—" he pointed his finger at Buren's chest—"nothing you wouldn't do to reach your own ends. And when they see that, it'll already be too late. They think that just because you're not out for your own profit, because you sacrifice yourself most of all for others, that they can count on you to to do the right thing. But they don't see the real you, the dark...dark..."

He clutched the sides of Buren's helmet as he finally found the words: "Nothingness that is behind all that glory and radiance of yours! You're no hero. A hero takes up the right battle, even when he knows it is hopeless. Especially when he knows it is hopeless. For you, there is nothing but the battle, the fight for what you think is for the greater good, but that is just as like to destroy all as it is to save them."

He released Buren, taking a step back, his voice dripping with disdain.

"They think your heart is in the right place when you have no heart at all."

Buren stared back, but this time his silence was stunned rather than dismissive.

"I can tell which way the wind is blowing," Traum's voice was a low rasp. "But mark my words, I see through your facade. Don't get too comfortable: I know I can't take you here, in single combat, but understand that I will find a way to stop you. When you least expect it, I'll slid the knife between your ribs. No one plans and prepares like you do, but I will concentrate my efforts on digging up some flaw in your scheme and exploiting it to undo you. Let these words weigh on your mind every time you relax: I will be waiting."

With that, he turned, his movements barely restrained, and retreated into the shadows.

Buren remained still, and for the first time felt how cold the night truly was. His earlier underestimation of Traum now seemed a grave error. While Traum's hands might be tied at the moment, there was no telling what he might pull in the future. Buren wished he had never humiliated the man so back at the tourney—if he had known what kind of an enemy he would so create, he would have just crushed his skull right then and there.

The Faith's ceremony was an opulent affair, especially for such a traditionally austere order. The Grand Cathedral was adorned with golden candelabras and ornate tapestries depicting tales of sacrifice and the vanquishing of corruption. Thick drapes obscured the windows, ensuring no natural light seeped in. Strategically placed braziers illuminated the space. These hefty metal contraptions, reminiscent of stoves, were ingeniously designed. Craftsmen had carved intricate patterns into their sides, overlaying them with colored glass. The result was a mesmerizing play of restless light and shadow on the walls, depicting tormented souls besieged by daemons, phantoms, Dryads, and other malevolent entities. At the heart of this tableau stood a Knight of the Faith, resplendent in scarlet, his metallic visage a beacon amidst the encroaching darkness, driving the malevolent figures into retreat.

Today, Buren was to be inducted into the esteemed ranks of these Knights, vowing to champion the tenets of the Faith and shield the vulnerable from malevolent forces, be they monstrous creatures, seductive Dryads, or insidious thoughts. The Faith often held such ceremonies publicly, showcasing its might, and today's turnout was unprecedented. The Cathedral was teeming with attendees, all eager to witness the Faith's latest prodigy: a man once tainted by darkness, now redeemed through unwavering penance. It had been ages since anyone who had fallen so low had risen so high, with previous instances bordering more on myth than history.

Or so the demagogues of the Faith joyously proclaimed on the streets. They had been working double-time to remove from public memory their earlier tirades where they had promised the Faith would not rest until all the victims of the Gauntlet-Bearer's greed and lechery would see themselves avenged. The narrative had shifted: What really mattered was that the evil in him was burned away, and now he would continue his atonement by spreading that flame to every corner of the lands still festering with impurity and malfeasance. As the Faith's Iron Hand.

The booming blast of horns heralded the commencement of the ceremony. Emerging from behind a grand curtain, the Reverend was guided by two aides, each clasping one of the blind man's hands. As the trumpets' blare subsided, a brief silence was punctuated only by the distant wail of an infant. With a voice that rivaled the horns in its resonance, the Reverend began his sermon.

"Today, we stand at the crossroads of history," he intoned. "While every triumph over darkness is worthy of celebration, today's event will undoubtedly be etched in the annals of our time. We bear witness to the redemption of a once-great hero, the teaching of the Faith saving a champion who had fallen from grace, because of his liaison with unclean sub-humans and those under their influence. The most concrete evidence of this forbidden consortment being the Treaty, a vile accord that equates the whims of demons and their ilk with the rights of men. Those who endorsed it betrayed not only themselves but all of you! They ensnared the Gauntlet-Bearer, binding him to the will of malevolent entities. But that ends today!"

His fervor sent droplets flying, misting those seated in the front row. They didn't seem to mind.

"His deeds have proven his commitment. We welcome him into our fold, but let it be known: his path to redemption has only just begun. He must redouble his efforts to atone for past transgressions. No longer shall he be swayed by the malevolent murmurs of monsters. Instead, he will be guided by the righteous wisdom of our esteemed elders."

With a sweeping gesture, he beckoned, "Rise, novice, and approach."

From his kneeling position on the cold stone, Buren rose with measured grace. He wore a ceremonial version of the weeping helmet, adorned with intricate gold detailing and pristine polish, gleamed in the dim light. His vibrant scarlet robes, freshly dyed and immaculate, shimmered with embroidered Faith maxims in gold and silver thread.

He advanced to the designated spot beside the Reverend, recalling their rehearsal, and awaited further instruction.

The Reverend continued, adhering to the ritual script. "Through your Path of Penance, you've come to recognize the malevolent forces that plague both you and the world around you. You've demonstrated prowess in combating these evils, both internally and externally. Thus, we deem you worthy of the title of a Knight of The Faith. But remember, your journey is far from its end. Now, turn to your brethren and confess the dark compulsion that once drove you, and name the wicked entity you vow to pursue until its eradication."

Buren had steeled himself for this moment, yet the impending betrayal pained him. The lie he would have to tell, that he would have to live, felt like swallowing shards of glass, like standing atop a bed of embers.

"Azure, forgive me," he silently implored.

In a voice honed by countless rehearsals, Buren intoned, "The curse of the Dryads blinded and tainted me." He had gone over his spiel so many times his mouth moved practically on its own. It almost felt as though another spoke through him, uttering these abhorrent falsehoods.

Almost.

"Led astray by their malevolence, I committed heinous acts. But no more. I have seen the purity of the Faith's flame and shall never stray from the path again."

He drew a ragged breath. One might assume that uttering mere words would be trivial for someone who had confronted the Malignant One alone. But, in many ways, it was the most difficult thing he had ever done.

"I pledge to purge the world of Dryads and their malefic influence," he continued, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "Their forests will be set ablaze, their trees uprooted, and their sinister magic subjugated by mankind, as is just."

The people cheered. He could have vomited. Wished he could hack into the vile crowd. But he would do neither. It was just another thing he would have to take. It would all have to be worth it in the end.

On cue, he resumed his kneeling position, head bowed.

The Reverend extended his hand, and an aide presented him with a resplendent mantle. Dyed a deep scarlet, it bore ornate cloth pauldrons and was embroidered with silver threads spelling out the Faith's tenets. With solemnity, the Reverend draped it over Buren's shoulders.

"With this, I confer upon you the title of Knight of Penance. May its weight constantly remind you of your duty, crushing all weakness from you."

He then presented Buren with a gleaming silver longsword. "Let this blade be an extension of your will, burning away your inner corruption and cleansing the world of those who stray from the Path. Your previous life is over. From this day forth, you are Buren of the Knights of Penance, the bane of Dryads and all malevolent beings."

Buren accepted the blade and the title like he accepted sleepless nights and seemingly never-ending conflict: grim conformity born out of a lack of real alternatives.

"Arise, Sir Buren, Knight of—"

"I won't stand for this!"

A collective gasp echoed through the hall as the High Reverend's proclamation was interrupted. Such a brazen breach of decorum was unheard of. Like a stone disrupting a still pond, a sea of faces turned to identify the disruptor.

It was King Duriel, who had gotten up from his front-row seat. He swayed drunkenly and emphasized his words with frantic arm waving.

"You cannot make such a decision without my consent," he slurred defiantly. "I won't permit it."

The Reverend's smile was a portrait of tranquility. "Your Highness, we did deliberate on this matter, and I believed we reached a consensus that there was no cause for alarm."

"Well, I didn't like it then and changed my mind now,"

the king retorted; his voice thick with inebriation. "Revoke his title."

Murmurs spread like wildfire, but most remained paralyzed, fearful of being implicated in this affront to the Reverend's authority. A few, skeptical of Buren's transformation, cheered.

The Reverend, a pillar of calm amidst the chaos, responded, "Your Highness, it's not that simple. He has earned this honor and has yet to give us reason to doubt our decision."

Defiantly, the king declared, "If you won't act, then I shall." He gestured imperiously at the aides. "Strip him of his sword and mantle."

"No," the Reverend intoned, his voice unwavering. "Such decisions rest solely with the Faith's hierarchy. Let us not mar this solemn occasion with public discord, especially when it stems from a mere misunderstanding."

"You claim I am mistaken?" The King's voice dripped with incredulity. "It is you who fail to grasp that he is unfit for such an honor."

"I assure you, we will scrutinize his actions and conduct with utmost diligence. Should he falter, he will be promptly divested of his title."

"Assurances be damned! I am the King, and my word is law!" His gaze, fiery and bloodshot, darted between Buren and the Reverend. With a dramatic flourish, he pointed at Buren. "Enough of this charade. Guards, kill that man."

The royal guards, caught in a moment of hesitation, drew their weapons and advanced.

"Knights," the Reverend commanded. In response, the assembled Knights of Penance unsheathed their arms, forming an impenetrable shield around Buren, who remained kneeling amidst the turmoil.

The King's face contorted with rage. Before he could voice his fury further, the Reverend intervened, "Everyone, depart. This ceremony has concluded. We shall confer with His Majesty to clarify this minor oversight in the proceedings. Let it be known that the bond between the Faith and the Crown remains unbroken. You should remember that of this historic day."

When the crowd hesitated, the Knights expedited their exit with firm pushes and stern orders. In moments, the cathedral was emptied of all but the central figures.

With the absence of prying eyes, the Reverend's demeanor shifted, his visage taking on a steely resolve.

"Now, let us negotiate," he said, his voice dripping with barely concealed disdain.