The auction continued, Dellen's gaze shifted to another group that seemed to radiate an aura of calm and serenity. They stood apart from the rest, their clothing adorned with intricate patterns and symbols, hinting at an organization, much like the Aetheric Cultivators.
Looking around the room, Dellen's attention was captured by a more scholarly group, his gaze settled on a bespectacled man with graying hair, his fingers gently resting on a worn leather-bound book. With measured deliberation, he raised his paddle.
The bidding escalated, voices intermingling in a symphony of offers and counteroffers. Dellen felt a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. Each raised paddle sent his heart racing anew. He couldn’t help but wonder what use any of these people had for unforged. There was no doubt in his mind that the groups would not treat them equally, it was a question of who would treat them the least poorly, and if he could influence the auction in their direction.
His eyes darted from bidder to bidder trying to unlock their motivations from subtle cues and gestures. The air was thick with anticipation and tension as the bidding war intensified, with spectators gazes swinging between the different paddles going up, and Dellen’s group at auction before them.
All dropped out but the final two, the woman in crimson robes, notable for her mask and the silver emblem on her robe, and the woman with silver hair garbed in flowing white. Their paddles went up, sending the bid higher and higher until the woman in crimson’s paddle went up unanswered.
The gavel went down.
Dellen looked at the mask of his new owner. Her eyes peaking out from behind the silver.
A sense of trepidation washed over him, he felt all but certain that he’d been purchased by the crueler of the two. Dellen's eyes shifted from the triumphant bidder to the woman with silver hair. There was a flicker of disappointment in her eyes, her gaze lingered on Dellen and the others on stage.
The hulking man led Dellen and the other newly minted slaves to the group in crimson. “You’re done with the easy life for now,” the man rumbled, “The Order of the Red Truth will beat all of the weakness out of you.”
Dellen tried not to react. Who were these people? What did they want?
With a commanding presence, the woman in crimson issued orders to the auction attendants, “Have them delivered for me.” She did not bother with another glance, her attention back to the auction where she was bidding on the next group of slaves.
They exited the bustling auction hall, Dellen glanced back, wondering if anyone else from the Copperopolis would be joining them.
The weight of the mask-wearing woman's ownership settled upon him, both figuratively and literally. There were no slaves in Copperopolis, he didn’t know what it meant to be a slave.
As Dellen was led out of the bustling auction house, he turned to the man leading them, “What city is this?”
“Ravenport,” he replied in a tone that did not invite additional questions.
The streets of Ravenport seemed unfamiliar and alien to Dellen. Unmoving tall buildings loomed overhead, casting shadows. The architecture differed from what he was accustomed to. With that name, he wondered if there was water nearby.
As they made their way through the winding streets, Dellen couldn't help but notice the curious glances of the locals. Their attire, mannerisms, and even the rhythm of their speech hinted at a culture distinct from Copperopolis. He could not help but stare when a man with the lower body of a black-haired horse clopped by on the street. A memory flared of trading with a tribe of auburn-haired horsefolk. He turned his neck to stare in fascination until the man went out of sight around a corner, while the Order continued their march.
Occasionally, merchants and passersby would cast inquisitive or suspicious looks in their direction, their eyes lingering on the chain running between Dellen and his companions that labeled them as possessions rather than free individuals.
The group stopped before tall iron gates, looming high, flanked by imposing statues of stern-faced figures. The gates creaked open, and they marched in. Beyond the gates was a building rising from the ground like a monolith. A formidable facade, accentuated by imposing spires and arched windows, built from darkened bricks, and metalwork painted a dark red.
Green, verdant, gardens surrounded the building. Men and women in robes of crimson, wearing silver masks, raked leaves, or in some cases, sat beneath trees with their eyes closed.
A woman in red came out to greet them, her face was also covered by a silver mask. “Welcome to the Order of the Red Truth. Her gaze traveled over the group. You are so fortunate to be found as you are, unsullied,” her gaze lingered on Dellen, “By the mistakes of so many. Here, we will teach you how to better yourselves and walk the light in the dark.”
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Dellen examined her face, the mask was odd, curved to match the shape of a face, it was made of crossed lines of silver, with gaps so tight as to be difficult to see anything between.
“How should we address you?” Dellen asked.
“A suitable first question, I am Ms. Nightshade.”
Dellen kept the reaction from his face, but her last name seemed inauspicious. “Are you going to keep us chained?” Dellen asked, lifting up his hands as much as the restraints allowed.
“Certainly not, you will be given responsibilities and prayer.”
Responsibilities and prayer, Dellen kept his thoughts from his face, he did not want prayer, but he did want the restraints off. “Please tell me what our responsibilities are.”
“Follow me inside, all will be revealed.”
Dellen thought of how welcome Gilgamesh’s unimpressed comments would have been just then.
They followed Ms. Nightshade into the building. The interior was unsoftened by the touch of wood. The floor was large stone blocks, dimpled by the tread of thousands upon thousands of footsteps.
Passing through a corridor, they caught sight of a figure in red robes, diligently sweeping away dust that had dared to settle. The rhythmic sound of the broom's bristles against the stone filled the air, creating a sense of purposeful industry.
They continued, and Ms. Nightshade led them deeper into the heart of the monolithic building. The corridors stretched like veins, branching out in a labyrinthine fashion, each turn shrouded in shadows. The lighting was dim, with strategically placed oil lamps casting flickering, amber-hued light.
Finally, they arrived at a set of plain doors. Ms. Nightshade opened the doors to reveal rows of beds set against walls. Enough to sleep their entire group. Each bed was sparse yet impeccably clean and orderly. Beside each was a small desk with parchment and a quill.
Ms. Nightshade produce a key, “Welcome all of you, unsullied, to the Order of the Red Truth.” She took her keys and unlocked them from the chain, releasing their cuffs. “All of you will begin new, better, lives here. Please take the closest available bed.”
Dellen moved toward a bed.
Ms. Nightshade’s hand snapped out, almost faster than he could follow. “You’re not going to sleep here.”
Dellen stopped and waited, he didn’t know the rules of this place, but he suspected that anything that looked like defiance would be met with a harsh response.
“You are not unsullied. You have been forged, poorly.” She took his steelskin in her hand, “You still have some worth, you are not yet of the First Trinity, you can be redeemed, like so many before you, but your place is not here.” She led him from the room.
Dellen glanced back to see the Aetheric Cultivators he had accompanied one last time before the door closed.
Ms. Nightshade led him away from the others, their footsteps echoing down the stone corridors. Dellen's heart quickened, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension coursing through him as he wondered what awaited him in his secluded quarters.
He was brought to a new door that led to a private room.
“Evening services are at the first bell. You may do as you see fit until then, so long as you do not speak or seek to leave the grounds unescorted. I recommend that you familiarise yourself with our prayer book.”
He looked at her, nodded, and entered his room. It was a space devoid of warmth, there was his bed, a desk, a book, parchment, a quill, a red robe, and a mask. Somehow the air felt heavy with judgment as if the very walls were silently assessing his worth.
Dellen spent a minute examining the cuts on his wrists, before collapsing on the bed.
He woke to the sound of a bell.
Dellen's eyes fluttered open, his body still weary from the journey that had led him to The Order of the Red Truth. He sat up on the bed, and his gaze fell upon his injured wrists, they were wrapped in fresh white bandages. He didn’t remember putting them on. Pain throbbed with each movement, a constant reminder to give them time to heal.
The sound of a resonant bell pierced the silence again, its reverberations awakening Dellen from his thoughts. Slowly, he rose from the bed and approached the small table where the red robes lay, neatly folded. He slid the flowing fabric on over his clothes, it draped around him, the texture was surprisingly smooth given the severity around him.
Next, he retrieved the mask from the table, examining its design. It was similar, if not identical, to the masks he’d seen members of the order wearing. Bold horizontal and vertical lines intersecting, creating a pattern of stark simplicity. The cool metal pressed gently against his skin when he placed it upon his face.
Stepping into the dimly lit corridors, he was surprised to come face to face with a silver mask. Dellen couldn’t tell their gender, but when they nodded and started to walk, their intent was clear, he was to follow.
They walked through the labyrinthine halls of The Order of the Red Truth. Dellen did what he could to memorise the layout of doors and corridors. Before long, they descended a set of stairs with a throng of silent red-robed individuals.
At the base of the stairs was a door that led to a large, albeit low-ceilinged room. Filling the room were ancient wooden tables lined with benches. The air was warm, and the room felt claustrophobic. On the walls were red banners featuring gears and symbols that Dellen did not understand.
Upon entering the vast hall, Dellen followed his guide and found a seat at a table. There they waited, for the scuffle of feet to die down. The absence of conversation was striking, creating an atmosphere of tension.
A pot of food was brought to the head of the table, and filled bowls were handed down. Waiting for a cue from those around him, Dellen looked at the meal before him. An unremarkable off-white substance. He picked it up with his spoon and took a hesitant taste, it was a bland affair, devoid of any notable flavor. It seemed to mirror the monotonous existence within the order.
Meal complete Dellen looked about, waiting for some signal as to what he could do. No-one had left their seats. Ten minutes of silence later, a bell tolled.
Everyone stood up.
Dellen mimicked them a second later.
The sound of clinking cutlery and shuffling feet filled the air. Bowls and utensils were passed down the long table, to be collected at the end. In an orderly fashion, the robed figures filed out of the dining hall, their footsteps echoing against the stone floors.
Just as Dellen prepared to join the procession, a firm hand closed around his bandaged wrist, causing him to flinch in surprise and a sharp twinge of pain. He glanced up, meeting the gaze of the individual who had guided him to the meal. Their eyes held a hint of familiarity, but their expression remained impassive. Without a word, they stepped forward, indicating for Dellen to follow.