Soulburned: The School of Souls

Prologue: Burned or Branded

“I will not lie to you.” The Archmage said, “This will be the most pain you’ve ever experienced.”

A group of prisoners kneeled before the Archmage, lined up in a row before a marble dais. A large font of black fire burned from a hole in the center of the stone stage.

The Brazier.

“The Shriving Flames will burn through your flesh,” The Archmage continued, “Your bones, and into your very Soul.”

The Archmage paced across the dais in between the Brazier and the prisoners.

The prisoners, all naked, were varied in appearance, age, gender, and social status. The Hunters spared no one.

Twenty. The Archmage thought.

Never before had twenty been captured at once. The eldest must have been a grandmother. The youngest, a boy with tear-stained eyes, could have only seen a handful of springs. The Archmage swallowed a lump in his throat as he strode past the crying child.

“I would spare you all this, if I could.” he said, careful not to make eye contact with the prisoners.

The prisoners’ wrists, ankles, and necks were bound and gagged by ethereal chains. The magical restraints were made of a dark, incorporeal mist, but held a solid form. The chains stretched up into the vaulted ceiling of the chamber, pulled taught by some unseen force, then disappeared into a larger cloud of the strange mist.

“You have been brought here to be Burned by the Shriving Flames.” The Archmage said, emphasizing the word burned, adding a grim weight to it, filling it with power.

“Your souls are tainted.” He said, “You bear the marks of a Sorcerer.”

One of the prisoners, a large muscle-bound woman, struggled against her chains and tried to stand. The misty chains wrapped around the woman solidified, then constricted. The woman stopped struggling and fell back to her knees, but continued glaring at the Archmage.

Flanking the prisoners were six Tower Guardians, battle mages who carried Shrive Blades, large, two-handed great swords that emanated a black fire, matching those of Brazier. One of the Guardians moved and silently stood behind the woman who had struggled. He ground the point of his weapon into the marble floor, the threat of violence left unvoiced.

“The powers granted by such a mark, are gifted by the Thymos, the portion of our Souls that is fueled by emotion, our spirit… It is uncontrollable… and lethal.”

The Archmage stopped pacing and finally allowed himself to peer into the eyes of the prisoners.

“To leave you un-burned, would be to leave a gaping wound upon reality, an unstable connection between this world and the Void…a doorway through which the Accursed could return.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The scale of this Burning had drawn a crowd, made up of both nobility and the middle class of Sclera. They began to murmur. This was not the usual ceremony.

“Which is why, for nigh four centuries, any found marked with a spirit glyph on their chest, The Sorcerer’s Mark, have been cast into the Shriving Flames. Their souls burned from existence, their bodies returned to the Void, and the wound their presence created on this world… cauterized

Another prisoner struggled, and the chains grew tighter on him as well. His struggling ceased, but the man continued to whimper through his gag.

“No longer.” The Archmage said.

Shouts of protest and accusations of heresy erupted from the crowd.

The Archmage held up his hand, it flashed green, and all sound in the room was immediately smothered. Lips moved, but no sound escaped them.

The Archmage could feel them pushing against the Silence. One of Tower Guardian’s tensed, the black flames surrounding his Shrive Blade intensified, and the large chamber grew imperceptibly darker.

The Archmage glared at the Guardian. He relaxed, and black fire retreated into the sword.

“Our enemies have begun wielding a magic unknown to us.” The Archmage continued, addressing the crowd now, and not the prisoners. “In our last battle, the Lesser Fire was extinguished. We can no longer rely solely on the Guardians to repel these barbarians from our walls. They attempt to summon the Accursed! We must look to the ancient magic for salvation!”

The room erupted into noise once more, and again the Archmage cast Silence, illuminating the room in a green glow.

“Through our studies, here in the Iris Tower, our Artificers have discovered new runes. Runes that when added to those of the Sorcerer mark… render it inert. The Sorcerers bearing this new mark will no longer be able to access their Thymos, and so pose no dang-”

More shouts of protest, the shock of the crowd broke through the Archmage's illusion.

Another flash of green Silence, and calm returned to the chamber.

“We do not abandon doctrine recklessly!” The Archmage boomed. The black fire of the Brazier grew behind him. The silence persisted, even after the spell’s end.

“These prisoners will be given the choice, to be Burned, as prescribed in the scripture, or be Branded.” This new word, spoken by the Archmage, was also filled with power.

Curiosity gripped the crowd, and their pushing against the Silence lessened. They were not relaxed, but restrained. The presence of this many Tower Guardians contributed greatly to preventing them from turning into a mob.

“They will live, and enter the Iris as students... but as shells of their former selves. They’ll only be able to access their Spirit while guided by a Wizard and under the guard of a Mage.”

The Archmage waved his hand, and the chains lifted the first prisoner, the woman who had tried to stand, up into the air. The chains moved her to the center of the dais and left her floating over the opening of the Brazier.

“Thymos, guided by Logos, and protected by Eros.”

A large, round, branding iron materialized from mist in the Archmage’s hand. The intricate pattern of the brand burned hot with the Shriving Flames of the Brazier, yet cast no light, but darkness visible.

The gag disappeared from the prisoner’s face, the dark metal melted into mist and joined the cloud above. The woman gasped.

“Will you take the Brand, and become my sword?” The Archmage asked.

“Go to hell.” The woman said.

The chains suspending the woman vanished, and she dropped into the maw of the Brazier, disappearing. The black flames flared.

There were no screams as she Burned… there never was.

Most of the would-be Sorcerers chose the Brand… and those screams would live with the Archmage forever.