Incessant chattering filled the amphitheater as peasants flooded to their seats. Worn wooden pews lined the walls, devoid of cushion and comfort. At the focal point, in view of every seat, was a grandiose golden stage adorned with jewels and trimmed with platinum. A simple throne sat in the center, waiting for someone to fill it.
A cloaked figure waded between pews, unable to find an open seat. Security shouted for them to find a seat lest they be removed from the amphitheater. The cloaked figure wandered away as the group of security personnel wrung their hands and brandished their weapons of choice: katanas with jeweled hilts. Causing a scene could cause them to lose their one chance at unveiling the truth. They wouldn’t miss it, no matter what measures had to be taken. With a quick apology, they scurried away.
When security wasn’t looking, the cloaked figure leaped into the rafters. Producing a jet-black jewel from under the cloak, they whispered a word. A quick shimmer surrounded their cloak, and they blended into the surroundings. Without a charm for detection, the naked eye would never be able to spot them. It was almost time. The Supreme-Chancellor would arrive and deliver his Holy Decree.
A silver-haired man, clad in red and gold robes, was escorted to the stage. Six men flanked his left, and six women flanked his right. The Twelve Zealots. They stood at attention behind the throne, and the Supreme-Chancellor sat. One of the Zealots placed a small white crystal in front of the Supreme-Chancellor, floating just in front of his mouth. A gong sounded through the theater, quieting all present.
The Supreme-Chancellor began, “I’d like to thank you, the citizens of Diara, for taking time to attend. I empathize with all of your plights to put food on the table and keep a roof over your heads. That is why I’m excited to announce the Holy Decree for you, the people, who support the righteous conquest we are on.”
Cheers erupted from the crowd. Joyous crying and hoarse laughter mixed through the gathering as they hugged one another. The Supreme-Chancellor waved his hand, a large diamond ring adorned his middle finger, and with a twinkle of the diamond, the crowd was pressed into their seats.
“The Holy Decree, as stated by me, your Supreme-Chancellor, entitles the people of Diara to a tithe increase of only ten percent, half of last year’s increase.”
Silence veiled the amphitheater. It was so quiet, the cloaked figure was worried his breathing may compromise his location. Diara had been subject to one of the worst natural disasters ever seen in the past year, yet their tithe was still increased. No aid was given, no shelter, no gifts of food. Instead, they were subject to an increase like every year prior. The cloaked figure clenched a fist, their knuckles entirely whitened. This wasn’t fair.
“I know you all have suffered this past year after a Radiant Shower. It ate through your harvests, scarred your people, and eroded your lands. But, what I have seen as a result is nothing short of astounding.” The Supreme-Chancellor paused for a short breath. A narrow, yet toothy grin overtook his face. “You all have been brought closer together, a strong bond formed out of disaster. What more could be asked of the people than to love one another so closely?” He spread his arms wide as he stood up and paced the stage, continuing, “While times are tough, you have all been working as a single unit, instead of separate families. The people of your sister colony, Emera, wouldn’t know what to do without conflict. Yet, here you all are, loving one another regardless of relation. You still found a way to produce your tithe this year, despite catastrophe. Who works harder and more honestly than you, the people of Diara?”
One of the Zealots glanced to the ceiling. Squinting, they breathed a near silent word. The glasses they wore sparkled before a wave of magic washed over the lens. Someone was hiding in the rafters. They nudged the Zealot next to them, a young woman with auburn hair and freckles. She looked in the direction, and whispered a word to her ring. A ball of fire conjured in her palm, and just before she tossed it, the Twelfth Zealot grabbed the Supreme-Chancellor and escorted him through a hidden door in the floor. The doors slammed shut as another Zealot chanted an incantation, the pendant around her neck shimmering with each word. The ball of flame soared up to the rafters, fizzling as it struck just to the side of the mysterious figure.
The First Zealot walked forward. The tips of his spiked red hair gave a gentle bounce with each step. “You filthy assassins never learn. Come down, and I promise a quick execution.”
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The cloaked figure waited in the rafters, uncertain what to do. This wasn’t part of the plan. They knew if it was a single Zealot they could escape with ease, but eleven of the twelve were present. At best, they could injure one, maybe two. Nothing permanent, but it would slow them down for future operations. Maybe an opening for the resistance to work with was the potential result.
Unless it was possible to escape from the Zealots here and now.
The cloaked figure descended from the rafters and landed in front of the stage. “I wouldn’t dare threaten the life of our beloved Supreme-Chancellor. There were no seats remaining, but I needed to see him with my own eyes. We are graced with his presence once every decade. I was too young to attend last decade, but now that I am eighteen, I have a right to witness his Grace.”
“Why the mystery? The cloak and the hiding? If you were an honest citizen of Diara, you wouldn’t need those things,” the First Zealot scoffed.
“That is my ignorance. I am a transplant, not a native of Diara. I was brought here as a young boy, but my parents died shortly after we arrived. I was orphaned. Only through the generosity of the people here was I able to thrive. Over there,” he pointed to the right, “Grandma Celes fed me as a young boy and let me work in her bakery. Ask her.”
The First Zealot looked over to the old woman. The moment their eyes met she tilted her head down. He noted her graying hair and wrinkled face. Her hands were worn and callused. “Is what he said true? Did you feed a young boy and let him work for you?”
She lifted her head halfway, not daring to meet his eyes, and stammered, “Well, yes, it is true, but-”
An oppressive force washed over her before she could finish. The First Zealot’s ruby eyes were filled with rage. “You’ve answered the question. That is enough.” He turned back to the cloaked man. “Remove your cloak. You’ll receive ten lashes from me for your sneaky behavior. Don’t let me catch you again. You will not survive those consequences.”
The man let out a grunt, and removed his cloak. He turned his back and faced the crowd with a smile. He raised his hands in the air and waited. Shackles of magic gripped his wrists and held him in place.
A whip of fire grew from a gem grasped tightly in the First Zealot’s palm. He licked his lips as he delivered the first lash. A resounding crack rang through the amphitheater. The guilty did not utter a sound, but the crowd gasped in horror. A slash, burnt and bloody, graced the bare back of the man. Nine more times the whip cracked, delivering what was considered a divine punishment.
The shackles released the guilty man. He replaced his cloak over himself, turned to the First Zealot, and bowed deeply. “Thank you for your lenient and just punishment. It was my honor to be here today.”
“Get out of my sight before I change my mind,” the First Zealot spat.
Without a moment’s notice, the doors swung back open and the crowd was ushered out. Security guided them out and through the streets back to the residences. The people of Diara lived in just a handful of large buildings, crammed together shoulder to shoulder. Just before entering the building, the cloaked man whispered another word, and shimmered out of sight. He touched a hand to his lower back, whispered another word, and sprinted off faster than any human should be able to.
He ran for an hour, covering tens of miles, before stopping at the base of a cliff. Placing his hand on the door, he whispered, “Liev.” A door formed in the rock, swung open, and he dashed inside. The door closed behind him as though it never existed.
“Well, look who’s back. What did we learn, Andro?” A broad-shouldered, bearded man greeted him as he stepped into the dimly lit cavern.
Andro removed his cloak, and showed his smoldering back. “Well, I learned just how angry the First Zealot can be. Wicked temper, but his whip didn’t sting nearly as much as I imagined. Maybe I should’ve fought back,” Andro laughed.
A tall woman with narrow cheeks and slender eyes stepped out, her braided blonde hair draped over one shoulder. “What about the Supreme-Chancellor?”
Andro turned to her, his expression dropped. He clenched a fist and grit his teeth as he mumbled, “He’s younger than how you described him. He had silver hair, not white. His face was hardly wrinkled. He seemed in high spirits, and walked with ease. According to you, he should be in his second century, and aging rapidly. Why is he younger, Char?”
“It’s simple, Andro. You’re too young to have pieced it together, but for those of us a bit older, it’s plain as day. The Supreme-Chancellor must be immortal,” she answered.