Once, I lived in a village when I was a young boy. The forest surrounded us, and the sea of trees seemed like the entire world outside Albyre, our quaint village. My parents and the rest of the villagers, whose names I had long forgotten, were the local shamans who appeased the God of the Hunt, Kazadorn, by offering the entrails of our hunt to a shrine within the forest and making sure that we do not hunt every living being in the forest.

I was an unruly boy who often brawled with the local kids in the village and wandered deep in the forests as my parents oversaw the rituals. Strange visitors bearing necklaces of nine halos often visited my parents and the village head, but I didn’t care what grown-up stuff they were talking about.

One day, as I ran back to Albyre from my trek in the village, I saw the horsemen who wore bloodied tabards of white and blue embroidered with a golden symbol of nine consecutive halos. As they rode through the village streets and dismounted, I quickly found my parents in my home, and instead of scolding me for wandering too long in the forest, they hugged me one last time.

The men broke into our home and rounded us up along with the rest of the villagers in the forest before the altar of wood and bones of Kazadorn nestled under the forest’s tallest tree. The adults were tied together against the altar, while we children were forced to watch and listen to the screaming pyre of burning flesh and wood.

One of the horsemen before us spoke as my parents perished before my eyes.

“This is the punishment of your fathers and mothers, your older brothers and sisters, and your heretical elders. By worshiping an unsanctioned god, they had compromised the Grand Order of civilization. If your parents loved you, then they should've taught you better. So, do not mourn them, but hate them!”

The man dismounted and looked down upon us. He produced an iron brand, burning it from the pyre of our families.

“You are now adherents of the Divine Decree. You will become soldiers of the Bladed Devotion.”

He pressed the burning brand on our foreheads, marking us forever as converts and soldiers of their faith. The first lesson that we’ve been taught was hate.

We were brought to our new home, a keep of the crusaders. Day by day, we were taught to hate the criminal, the heretic, and the sinner. We were taught to love the nobility and the monarchy, for they are the rightful arbiters and enforcers of law and order. We were taught the sanctioned gods we should worship. We were taught that Mann, the God of Conquest; Areti, the God of Justice; Heriea, the Goddess of Matrimony; Ultormminus, the God of Civilization; Ichoruin, the God of Covenants, and many other sanctioned minor gods deemed suitable by the Divine Decree, are the only gods that should be worshiped. Other gods are anathema to the spirit of civilization. We were taught to maintain a ritual, a Sacred Routine, to build character, a form of meditation, and many other rituals to appease the gods. We are adherents of the Divine Decree, the religion of law and civilization. As sons and daughters of heretics, we have to repent by being soldiers of the Bladed Devotion until the end of our service.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

Day by day, we recited the Nine Decrees as we swung with our blunted swords and stabbed the air with our spears as part of our Sacred Routine:

"Thou shall have order in all things."

"Thou shall pursue righteousness."

"Thou shall honor all agreements made.”

"Thou shall maintain the traditions, art, and history of one's land."

"Thou shall follow agents of authority, the crown, government, and their constituents."

"Thou shall uphold, judge, and reveal truths."

"Thou shall uphold the faith and ideals of the written Decree."

"Thou shall maintain the values of society.”

"Thou shall sanctify, preserve the purity and dignity of marriage and family."

Before I knew it, I was in another village, destroying the false idols of the altars of Pagiobe, a village on a hill, isolated just like Albyre. Its colorful roofs and various hanging paper decorations now burned by the crusaders. I was now a young man, a squire of the Bladed Devotion, the only one who survived the harsh trials the crusaders put us into. The children I grew up with were merely bodies to fill their ranks, and soon, their corpses were left behind in the many villages we purged. Only my memory of them became a cemetery where I can mourn them deep within my heart. Before me was the corpse of Pagiobe’s defenders, the first one who wet my virginal blade, his glassy eyes reflecting my silhouette that I didn't recognize.

My rusted mail clinked as I stalked the bloodied streets amidst struggles and screams of Pagiobe’s heretics. At the edge of the village, I saw a young woman holding her infant tight, who froze as I pointed my blade at her.

“Please, spare me! Spare my child!”

Suddenly, my mail became more of a burden, as if her sobbing weighed upon my armor. Like a dowsing rod, I lowered my blade to the ground. Like a fleeing deer, she ran to the forest, and like a hunted animal, her child was impaled by an arrow. Her animalistic screams pierced my ears, with the crusaders’ boots getting louder behind me.

A glove pulled me back, and I heard fabric being torn. The question in my mind still rang as they tied me in one of the wagons heading back to the keep. My orders are not to spare anyone in Pagiobe, yet I broke it. To refuse to follow commands is tantamount to sin. Yet:

“Why did I spare her?”

The price for not answering the captain's question was the scars after a dozen lashings. I lay on the ground in the keep’s dungeon, naked and bleeding. I prayed for the gods I had been taught to worship, yet the crusaders offered my blood to Ichoruin, for I broke my oath. None of the gods had answered my prayers for forgiveness, but I knew it was a virtue that the Divine Decree frowns upon. I had been instilled with the belief that as long as I followed the rules set by my religion, then I was safe. Yet, I do not know what to believe in anymore.

“I think he has enough repenting.”

A voice boomed, dispelling my despair. Beyond the bars, a priest was talking to the crusaders' captain. He was a bald, paunchy man who commanded the authority of even the grizzly crusaders around him.

Soon, they let me out on the priest’s orders, and my wounds were cleansed and bandaged. I found myself in a wagon with the priest in front of me. I remember asking why he rescued me, and he simply said: “You will be useful to me.”