Admittedly, I am not a master of beginnings, and some will question my account with why I did not start here. But as any man who has set ink to paper knows, our lives are but a great multitude of beginnings, and a man ought to choose his start very carefully.

Should I have begun at my birth? That would relay to you many stories personal to me and yet irrelevant to you. Should I have started earlier, with my parents? Are their stories not more important than mine? They begot me, and so I necessarily depend on them. But according to that logic, no story matters except the first one, that of our first parents. And yet, it is not by their birth with which we measure history.

Should I have begun at my elevation? Perhaps you shall learn of it later, but I am not eager to discuss such details now. No, I began with the wolf because his end was another beginning, one that ought to be remarked upon. His was the first life I took along my pilgrimage, and it would not be the last.

Whatever you make of this account, I want you to know these words are penned with blood—and much of it my own.

…

I was not gifted the consolation of a cell. My crime was far too heinous to be thrown into the bowels of Zodiak, where the hair falls out and the flesh sloughs from bone. No, that would be too generous. Instead, I had been confined to my quarters and told to wait until further instruction.

Some might scoff at such a chastisement, but I tell you there is little worse than staying in a home that is no longer yours. What was once familiar and trusted had suddenly turned cold. The world had turned on its head, and the faces I knew turned away. Home was no longer home, and I doubted I would ever have one again.

However, my quarters may as well have been a cell. I had little more than a desk and a hammock. Astronomers were expected to spend most of their time abroad for the purposes of research. Although in recent centuries, most only ventured a little ways past the city gates to spend their coin on drink and fine company. After all, there was nothing left to explore. Nothing was new under the sun—any sun.

A knock on the door caught my attention. Guards with faces of bronze and cloaks of night entered the room, beckoning me to leave with them. I could have resisted, but there was no point. They quietly led me from my quarters to the Chromatic Tower, the tallest spire of the interstitial Observatory. I knew there I would receive word of my sentencing, undoubtedly some form of execution. Privately, I wondered how severe it was going to be. I have heard tales of a School of Torturers who prepared the most grisly of ends, though I never learned if there was any veracity to the rumors. Still, I resigned myself to whatever fate awaited me.

We walked down the arched corridors, passing no one save a few initiates who paused at gawked at us. The Glass Alcazar had always been empty, far too large for its sparse occupants. But as I walked with swords at my back, the emptiness suddenly struck me as something sorrowful. Having now wandered the frozen wastes, I have come to realize a city always mourns without its people.

In quick time, we climbed the spiral stairs of the Chromatic Tower. The staircase reaches so high in Zodiak that strangers to the Alcazar find themselves stumbling or skipping steps as they ascend. Often visitors resort to awkwardly jumping, leaping five or six rungs at a time when they near the top. But we Astronomers treaded lightly, our feet barely pressing against the steps. As part of our vocation, we are accustomed to the different embraces of the heavenly spheres. Indeed, one of the first things we teach novitiates is how to glide gracefully in the lower solemnities.

Before I had time to think further, I was ushered into the study of Master Rigel. Empty shelves meant for a thousand tomes ringed the marble room. Most of the books had been sold, with the rest being lost or destroyed over the long years. Master Rigel had given up on trying to replace them. After all, no one came to ask anymore. Our order was no longer interested in building new ships or deciphering temporal telescopics. And we no longer had the manpower for such pursuits anyway.

His desk was in the center of the room and was similarly sparse, with only a few documents pertaining to the management of the School. Above him, a domed ceiling depicted a faded mural of our founder as he was slaying the dragon Delphyne. I have noticed his gaze was always pointed downward, as if in silent judgement of the people below.

Master Rigel himself was hunched over writing some papers. His blue mantle was threaded with the gold of many stars, and despite its age, remained extravagant to the eye. His wrinkled face glanced up as we walked in. Two silver orbs stared at me. As is custom with the Astronomer’s, all our eyes are dyed silver and decorated with extensive patterns.

“You may leave.” He motioned to the bronze-faced guards before standing up.

The guards nodded and closed the door behind them. Master Rigel cleared his desk, and he stood up—a movement which must’ve been quite painful for him. He always was hunched over, and he needed a cane to walk about. Even in the Chromatic Tower, which was one of the few buildings that reached all the way to the center of Zodiak, proved no comfort for him. He stared at me for a moment before speaking.

“I know it wasn’t you. You should stop pretending.”

“How do you know that, Master?”

“You wouldn’t have ran if it were.”

I looked away and mumbled. “I assure you. I’m not as honorable—”

“This has nothing to do with honor.” Rigel stamped his cane. “You wouldn’t have ran because you wouldn’t have been caught. Instead, you plainly announced your guilt and sent half the School roaming after you in the skyways. I ask again, who are you protecting?”

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“I cannot answer that question, Master.”

“Under threat of death?”

“Under threat of death.”

“And even if I command you?”

I winced at that, but I nodded.

Master Rigel stamped his cane again. “You would break the law of our School?”

“I cannot answer the question.”

Master Rigel groaned and rubbed his eyes. “You always were a stubborn student. Too stubborn. I cannot help you this time, Sirius.”

The old man walked back and forth. His cane tapped the floor rhythmically as he thought about what to do. “They are planning to execute you by suffocation. It will not be quick.”

“When is the appointed day?” I asked.

“Two days from now. Perhaps the day after. They’re going to make an example out of you first. They will have your eyes put out and tongue taken beforehand.”

“Then there’s nothing left to do.”

Truly, I did not want to continue this conversation in front of the man who had taught me, put his faith in me, and now was possibly the only person left in the world who still knew me as the man I was. I remembered the day I left Master Rigel, who instructed all the young initiates, for the tutelage of Master Algol. Nothing had been right since then.

“You still don’t understand the gravity of what you’ve taken responsibility for.” Master Rigel continued pacing. “You’ve sullied the name of our School. Perhaps we could’ve been more lenient in the past. Perhaps we could even protect you…”

My eyes were cast down. The name was sullied either way, even if I had told the truth.

Master Rigel turned his head away. “You know as well as I do the low station of our School. What you may not know is that Zodiak is considering the abolishment of our order.”

“For what reason!?” I nearly shouted. I could not believe the words that were being said.

“You know why. The Astronomers have not produced a new insight or useful tool in hundreds of years.”

“None of the other Schools have either!” I protested. “No one has! Not in a thousand years! There is nothing left to learn!”

“Yes, but you forget. The Alchemists have the Bene drug. The Machinists have their self-sufficient panopticon. But what do we provide? Of what value do the Astronomers produce and produce alone?”

I fell silent, for I knew there was none. There was a reason so many of our School had fallen away to their own lusts. There was a reason why so many did nothing except read old tomes and reminisce.

“The days of the Astronomers are coming to a close, Sirius. Our order will die in the next few generations, and this crime that has been laid at your feet means we have to surrender you to the Lord Praetor or we would meet a hastened end. I ask you once more: who are you protecting?”

I found that I could not answer. I opened my mouth, but I could not speak the words.

Master Rigel sighed. “Very well, you leave me no choice.”

He stamped his cane twice and went over to his desk. Reaching his hand under, I heard the distinct click of a lock. A hidden drawer popped out of the wooden frame. I was curious, but I did not dare look inside.

“I wish I could offer this to you as a gift. You will die more painfully than what the Lord Praetor has planned for you. He can only kill you, but with this, you might perform one last service to our School.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“You weren’t alive for when it was in use. Nor I nor my father nor his father, but there is one law you may appeal. It has nearly been forgotten except by the oldest of us, but this law is still sacred among the Schools. It will be honored even now. Instead of execution, you may choose exile, and deliver a tome to Calrathia.”

I blinked. Of course, I knew the stories of the Pilgrimage. Millennia ago, it was a great honor to make the journey. The greatest secrets were entrusted only to those worthy of the journey. But as the Schools’ great achievements grew to a still, all that was left to send were missives on who had died and who had taken their place. The task was then given over to adventure seeking novitiates who had more air in their heads than sense. Then came the day when the great ships finally failed, and no one could be bothered to repair them.

“I know the road is dangerous, but why would I not choose this?” I asked.

Master Rigel drew a deep breath. “The Lord Praetor will execute you, but if you choose exile, you will be stripped of your mantle. Once you have arrived at the ruined shrine, the Anemoi will be made to hate you. You will be struck from every record. You will never have existed.”

“Is this all that’s left? Death or shame?”

“Name the one you are protecting. I beg you.”

“I cannot.”

Master Rigel lifted the book out of the drawer. It was beautiful. The illuminated manuscript must’ve taken years to craft. Constellations appeared to whirl in little orbits on the trim. The golden text was set on the deepest of sapphire blue. The very title of the book leaped forward off the cover like the wildest of the Anemoi.

Master Rigel stepped forward, holding it out. I was afraid to even touch it, worried that my fingers would taint this treasure.

“If you accept this, you will take an oath to deliver it to Calrathia. I suppose you can sell it and run away. There will be no one accompanying you. If you find the right buyer, it would provide you with a wealth to last the rest of your days.”

“I wouldn’t,” I said.

“I know. If you were any of my other students, I would’ve left you to the Lord Praetor.”

I shook my head. “But why send this on the Pilgrimage? It’s a treasure.”

“This book will be the final accounting of the Astronomers. It is our last act. It is the last record of all that we have learned and achieved. It belongs in Calrathia, not collecting dust in some magi’s library or passed over by a diminutive scholar.”

I could do no else but bow and accept the burden. I broke down and wept, for I finally knew what Master Rigel was trying to offer me. Many men balk at their humiliation and execution, but I embraced this book as would a father to a lost child. I had lost my life, but now I might gain a good death.

…

The stripping of the mantle is not a long ceremony. The individual is taken to the Courtyard of a Thousand Mirrors where it is said all light finds its eventual end. The castigated is made to stand near the Great Sundial, just below where the shadow strikes. An appointed Master takes a knife and cuts the golden string fastening the cloak to the shoulders. He then throws the mantle on the ground where it is to be stomped. From the lowliest novitiate to the highest of masters, everyone steps on the cloak.

From there, the reprobate is grabbed by the arms and made to kiss the dust three times. The first is for the breaking of his vows before the Potentate. The second is for the betrayal of his brotherhood. The third is for the penance of his own soul. It is during this time that the traitor is spat upon and cursed.

A measure of blood is taken from the individual. The Anemoi are made to smell it, and then they feel the sting of a hot iron. From this, they are to forever associate the man with the sin of betrayal.

There shall never be a day more pained in my memory as when I lifted my fingers to the Anemoi, and they recoiled and turned to the sky. Of everything I have suffered and have yet to suffer, I shall never forget their look upon my face. They alone might be called innocent of all the creatures that walk and swim and fly upon humanity’s dominion. Save for Man himself, they are singularly graced by the love of the Potentate.

I was left alone on that stone pedestal, abandoned by everything and everyone that I loved. All that was left to me was the cold. I wrapped myself tightly with a beggar’s cloak, and I took my first steps on a land so old it might’ve died of despair. And as my footprints sank on the snow, I could not help but remember for whom I had lost so much.