Fingers of daylight outstretched inside of the dingy cell, creeping up around the bodies of the three men who laid inside of it. The warmth of it’s embrace caused Abel and Sheridan to stir from slumber. The bandaged man didn’t react to the rising sun at all, and laid motionless on the floor.

Abel slid over to his body, despite Sheridan’s muted protests, and slid a hand over his chest. After a few moments of waiting for something, he nodded to Sheridan. Standing up he walked over to a corner of the cell, head hanging down.

Sheridan didn’t say a word. There was a statement to be said that not everyone could be saved or even cared about, but it was held. There was already a thin veneer of animosity between them, and he didn’t want to add to that.

The two simply sat there in the quiet for what seemed like hours. No words or glances between the two of them. The warmth of the sun slowly fell beneath the horizon, being replaced by the cold stare of dusk and the twin moons. The silence was finally broken by shuffling and shouting from outside the cell block. The door swung open and two guards were aggressively escorting an olive skinned man, with thick stringy hair tied into a bun. His clothes looked to be once the best finery, but decayed from time and the environment.

The two guards shouted towards Abel and Sheridan to stay back while they unlocked the door. Sheridan stayed back, as did Abel. When the guards opened the door, they violently shoved the man into the cell, landing on the floor with a thud. Abel began stepping forward in a possible half-baked attempt to start a fight and escape. One of the guards noticed this quickly, and drew a gun from a holster, pointing it directly at him. The ornate white wood stock jutted out, with the iron barrel bonded to it. Sheridan noted that the craftsmanship of the Empire’s guns and lances were excellent, compared to the one he lost trying to melt off a bounty hunter’s face.

Abel stared at the weapon for a moment, even contemplating trying to take it before looking at Sheridan. Despite some of the hurt that dwelled within him, and disappointment at his cynicism, he valued Sheridan as a leader and father-figure, stepping back so the guards could leave peacefully.

“Aren’t you going to take the dead man?” Abel shouted.

The guard chuckled. “Nah. Hope you enjoy the smell, heretic.”

Rage began to simmer within Abel once again, but it never came to a boil as the guards exited the cell, locking it once again. The two of them looked at the new man in the cell. He stood up and brushed himself off.

“So, what are the two of you in here for?” He asked bluntly, reaching out his hand.. “Name’s Lun.”

Sheridan just grunted but Abel went and gave him a firm handshake, nodding at him.

“Abel, and this is Sheridan. Also, we’re in here for murder. Though to be fair, he did try attacking us first, trying to collect a bounty.”

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

Sheridan looked over at the two. “Don’t tell him we have a bounty. What are you dumb?”

Lun fanned his hands out in a peaceful gesture and smirked. “Murder? Oh boy. Man you guys are really in for it huh? I’m just a storyteller. I’m not here to collect a bounty or anything. Just here to collect stories and follow my journey, wherever the winds take me.”

Sheridan spoke up with gravel in his voice. “A storyteller? This close to the Sccar and this far into the frontier? Highly doubt it. Why are you here anyway? You asked us. Time to answer in kind I’d say.”

The storyteller smiled. “Heresy. The church doesn’t like you asking around about anything other than the Saints. I make a few quick questions about the First Word, and it’s just sealed up as heresy. I didn’t think there was any Church presence out this way yet. I thought they were still cleaning up the revolution back in the Inlands, cracking down on anything they considered immoral, executing heretics and traitors, that kind of thing. I walked into a bar here, which was oddly quiet, I think they had arrested everyone including the prostitutes. I sat down, asked the bartender some questions and here I am.”

Abel’s eyes narrowed when he mentioned the First Word. Responding immediately after Lun finished his words. “What’s the First Word..? Never heard of it. I thought I considered myself pretty well red.”

Sheridan coughed that could have been easily mistaken for a chuckle. “A fairy tale. Not real. Just like the Church of Ducavi. The Saints are just stand ins for people who need to believe that they get their morality from some sort of divine bullshit.”

“Well, don’t we have the cynic? Okay Mr. Grumpy. Well, I’ll explain it to your friend here. You can listen in, since I know there’s a part of your cynicism that wants to hear it I’m sure.” Lun said, adjusting himself in the seat before continuing on. “Ancient folklore, from before the Empire, before the royal bloodline, all of that. There were gods that roamed freely throughout the world, having a direct impact on humanity. There are a few strings that continue off of this, variations of the story you know.”

He looked around for a moment, as if to listen to anyone around, then continued his story. “Some say that they were cruel, they tortured humanity, pitted them against each other in tribes and kingdoms. They used them for their own gain. The races of the world were constantly at each other’s throats. There was no good. A human gained the ability to learn the gods language, the First Language, and with it the First Word. This gave them the ability to use the language as a mystical language to fight back. They beat the gods back, and the humans who learned the First Language became gods themselves. The Church wants you to believe that none of this happened, and that magic is for heretics. Sure they use those crystals for technology, but I suppose the technicality is that it’s not magic, but it’s a power source. The Church’s version is that the Saints slew the Tyrants in combat, giving the people of the world freedom and morals.”

Abel scoffed. “Little confusing. So does this language make you a god, or does it make you fight gods? Going from tending potatoes to fighting gods is a little stretch of power.”

Lun narrowed his eyes, giving Abel a nasty look. “Look, I’m still trying to figure everything out. There are tales I’ve learned and written down in my..” He gestures around to something that is clearly not there. “Book.”

“Fair. What if none of them are right? I guess it won’t matter because the three of us are going to get burnt regardless. We’ll find out the truth soon enough I guess.” Abel retorted.

Lun shrugged. “Guess so. I think a major takeaway that I have is the Church brands any magic that’s not state sanctioned such as the crystals, or Martyrs being given permission to drink from the Wellsprings to gain power for church service is evil. I would disagree. Magic isn’t evil, power is evil. Using magic to wield power over people is what evil is.”

“You’re boring. People aren’t evil. There is no good or evil. There just is. The world is grey.” Sheridan said plainly.

“Who pissed in your whiskey?” Lun responded. “I think idealism isn’t a bad thing. There’s such a thing as hope in the world.”

Sheridan began to respond again but the same footsteps from before clunked against the concrete floor before a gaggle of guards stood in front of the cell.

“Alright. Stand up ya pieces of shit. Time to be burnt. Hope you made your peace. There is a Pontifex here if you’d like to confess your sins to the Saints. I’m sure The Beggar would love to hear why you don’t deserve the stake.”

There was a resounding silence from the three as the man behind the guards, clad in pallid robes, large pointed hat and all, marked with twelve stars.

“Guess that’s my answer. Time to go.” The head guard said, as they dragged them out of the cell one by one, still ignoring the dead man’s decaying, crystallized body on the floor.