Darkness threatened to engulf Ezril as his fears welled up from within him. He knew it very well. It was a companion he took solace in, and a companion he had grown to fear. Soon the eyes watched, and the hilts beckoned, and he dreamed in the day. However, his watchers made no entrance, only the blades. Taunting. Teasing. Beckoning. He knew where he was. Out with Father Kazaril, he told himself, capturing a Tainted.

This dream was different from the ones he knew. Not only did his watchers prove absent, the hilts were slightly drawn from the darkness, and beyond them was further darkness.

Nothing good will come from drawing you! he screamed at it. Nothing! And yet his hand reached for it.

It brought a promise of power. He could feel it clawing for his hand, reaching, demanding more than it ever had. What was worse, it didn’t seem to do it for the same reason he’d always felt before. It would still consume him, regardless, a part of him knew it. And all of him feared it. He grabbed the hilts, submitting himself to what would become of him. He was already at the mercy of whatever enemy had left him in this darkness, whatever enemy Father Kazaril had brought him. Immediately he felt the rush of power, like the raging of a thousand Titans in a stampede against the fate of death. But it did not flow into him. Rather, it flowed out of him. The pain made him scream out. And it seemed to originate from the scar, tearing at his skin like ten thousand men with countless claws seeking reprieve from the imprisonment of his flesh as he held on.

The darkness around him bled, pooling to the floor, as if washed down by cleansing water. He knew blood all too well. He had seen a lot of it. And he knew it very well. The darkness flowed all around him, like blood from a slit throat. And in time, even the hilts spilled with it. Strength returned to Ezril’s legs and when he rose the darkness was gone.

Now he stood in a house, an old, rickety house made of wood and stone, shaky and slightly broken. It was a wonder how it remained standing. The inside wasn’t bright, but it wasn’t dark either. If anything, it was gloomy in nature: dirty and gloomy.

A woman stood at the room’s center, an ominous grin on her lips, and everyone on their knees. A few of the soldiers lay passed out at her feet, but Kazaril stood now on shaky legs. His Sunders in hand: two broad swords, black as night, and smooth as silk. Their patterns were thin hairline fractures, unlike Ezril’s raving cracks. Ezril found he missed his very much. The seminary had required they leave them behind when they left for their spiritual work. And now he faced an enemy without them. His hand twitched, not even my bow.

The woman turned to them sharply. At their sight, he watched a realization dawn on her. Her eyes grew wide in terror, her skin paled as the blood drained from her face. It had taken a while but it had eventually dawned on her. And Ezril knew it for what it was.

Fear.

Whoever the woman was she was done fighting. He understood now that she did not know much about priests, or had simply thought herself above them. The error of her ways came with a fear that would be her doom.

“W… what are you?” her voice trembled and she fell to her knees.

Her question surprised him. She was looking at them, her lips twisted in fear, her hands trembling as the commander came around and bound them himself. Ezril wondered when the man had risen.

When Olann stood straight, he addressed her. “Jazabil Vorin, you are under arrest by command of King Crivers for the crime of conspiring against the crown and the crime of communing with the dead for the unholy malice of the lost. A sin against the Credo and a sin against Truth. You will be taken to the palace where you will face judgement and, if found guilty, burn.”

Ezril caught Father Kazaril’s frown from beside him. They had caught the Tainted, and yet the priest did not seem pleased. He wondered why. It was a question he knew would plague his mind for a long time without an answer.

Olann turned to them. “We will take her to the pal—”

“No,” Kazaril interrupted him. “We will take her to the church, where she will be burned for her crimes.”

“Only the king has the power to pass judgement, priest!” Olann growled.

Father Kazaril was not listening to him. He walked out of the house, leaving Olann fuming silently behind him, and Ezril followed.

They rode for an hour at a steady gallop, reaching the center of the city at dusk. The sunset was blocked by the tall buildings, and as they rode into the presence of people going about their daily lives they slowed to a canter and then a trot. Eventually, Father Kazaril spoke.

“The Tainted are not human that they should be treated as such,” he said. “They are an abomination that should be burned from the surface of Vayla and the eyes of Truth.”

“And what if the king decides against it, Father?” Ezril asked, his horse trotting at a slow pace. They were close to the church now, and the people flocked around them on their daily business.

“The king is a merciful man,” Kazaril answered. “But he is also a wise man. He will find her guilty, and she will burn. He will see the wisdom in it; Truth guide him.”

“And if she is not to burn, Father?”

Kazaril’s grip tightened on his reins, his knuckles turning white. “She will. Her heathen gods cannot save her from this.”

When they arrived at the church Father Kazaril returned to the parish house without another word, while Ezril returned to his room where he found Shade asleep.

Later in the night the soldiers brought Jazabil to the church. Ezril did not leave his room to see it, but he heard the commotion it caused. He did not have to see with his eyes to know that the onlookers bore the woman malice and cast rotten fruits and vegetables and stones strong enough to draw blood at her. They would harm her as much as would placate the monsters in them, but she was the prisoner of the king and the Credo, they would not kill her.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

They dared not.

By the next night it was announced that King Criver had judged her and found her guilty of the crime of conspiring against the crown, and the church found her guilty of crimes against the Credo. And, just as Father Kazaril had said, she was to burn. At the public square, for all to see.

For some reason Ezril locked himself away from the rest of the parish, leaving his room only for the daily mass required of him. He opened the door for Ulni when she delivered his meals but never for Sister Alanna. Save the two, he had no visitors. Oddly, Nervia never engaged him after the mass, and she did not push him with any lecture concerning his state of grace. She left him to himself the moment they were done with the little time they spent together in the sanctuary, at the altar.

At first Alanna proved adamant, often banging against his door and keeping him from peace but, eventually, she always left. Often she would whisper at his window before she left.

“What you went through must have been difficult,” she would say in a solemn voice. “But you have to talk. You have to share it with somebody.”

He never did. Not in the three days after his return.

Two nights before he was to depart for the seminary, he laid awake in his bed. Sleep eluded him, and even his thoughts thought him bad company.

Eventually, he rose from his bed. Leaving his room, he walked the parish grounds. He missed the seminary nights. Its air was purer and its silence more serene. The boy he was before the seminary was gone. Not dead. No. Ezril could still hear him judging him from a distance in his mind. The boy would not die.

Ezril had long since found he hated the city. It was louder; more alive with the pointless life of nothing worthy of notice. Yet they forced themselves to be noticed, like buzzing bees far from their hive.

After their spiritual work, him and his brothers would return to the seminary and choose their class of priesthood against their ordination, should they pass their final tests. It was something all the brothers were looking forward to. Even him. It was the one consolation he took tonight.

He walked the compound twice before his legs led him to a new destination. He had not walked this area before. He had stayed away from it purposefully. But he knew exactly what it held. He had not seen, but he didn’t need to see to know.

Jazabil sat on the dirt, hungry and pale. Her skin was stained brown in grime, and red from places were blood had been drawn. Her clothes were of sack, grey and dirty, nothing like what she had worn at her house. Someone had worn this on her, and Ezril found himself wondering if it was the king’s blade that had done it.

It was a dress the church wore those to be burned. A mourning garment, he thought. For they must mourn themselves. A metal collar clamped around her neck, no doubt leaving bruises, was fastened to the wall of the building by a chain, and a pail of water was placed a few paces from her.

Ezril frowned. They would torture her before they burn her. There was an anger towards whoever had done it but he knew he shared in the blame. He had been there to bring her to this horror.

In the end he sat before her, offering her a drink from the very same pail.

“Water?” he asked.

She looked at him skeptically. When she did not answer he took a sip from the cup, a mild one. It was horrible as far as water went, but it was undeniably water, and it was drinkable. It was also, he realized, a stupid action. Whoever put it there could’ve been hoping she would get to it, drink it, and die.

Poisoning a Tainted was not new in the realm. Had he truly trusted the inhabitants of the church not to take such drastic measures? Did he hold trust in the respect for the decrees of the king? It didn’t take him a moment to come to a conclusion. What he had trusted in was their cruelty. They would rather watch her burn than see her go without audience.

This time, when he offered it again, she rushed it, taking it from his grip with hurried hands, as if it would disappear if she delayed any longer. When she was done, she dropped the cup with a care, and turned her stare on him.

Her skin was dry, her lips chapped, like she had gone through a desert without food or water. Where she had looked like a woman within her thirtieth year at her house, now she looked like she had aged twice over during the week.

He felt he should say something. Words of encouragement. Something to make her feel better, if only temporary. But nothing came to mind.

“Sorry,” he found himself saying.

“For what?” she asked. Her voice was as hoarse as her lips were chapped, coming out like the sound of two stones grating against each other. “You have done nothing.”

“Why did you conspire against the king?”

She studied him a moment. “I did not.”

“If you did not, then why don’t you defend yourself? Why don’t you speak the truth?”

“Because I am not intended to live,” she answered. “If not this, he will kill me for something else.”

“Who?” he asked. “The king?”

She gave him no answer, simply looking at the cup. He drew another cup of water for her. He held it to her lips as she drank this time.

“You are Tainted,” he said.

“No,” she disagreed. “I am chosen.”

Chosen? The insanity was clear in her belief. Even though he’d been chosen for the priesthood Ezril had never thought of himself with that exact word. It was ludicrous. She was ludicrous.

“This is madness.” He was frustrated. “End this farce. Accept Truth and you can escape the fire,” he begged. “I will vouch for you. I will take the responsibility.”

There was an unknown desperation in his voice. There was nothing he could do. Take responsibility? he asked himself, incredulous. You are but a simple brother, you have no power whatsoever.

“Your god is a lie,” the woman spat. “Tomorrow I will burn. And I will do it with a smile on my face, knowing that one day the uncrowned king of prophecy will return. And when he comes, he will bring an end to the wickedness that riddles the land and free us from our bondage. He will bring darkness upon us and the witnesses shall rejoice to see his glory. And you will know that he is the Immortal.”

Ezril caught sight of a whisper of smoke spill from the iron where it scraped against her neck. It was faint and thin. He blinked once, and it was gone, like a child’s imagination. But what did he know? He was only a child trying to convince an adult.

He sighed. “Do you have anything you would like anyone to know?” he asked. “A loved one, maybe. Family. Friends… Anyone… not Tainted.” He knew he shouldn’t have added the last part.

But her expression softened. “You will take it to them?”

“Yes.”

“But you are a priest of Truth. Are you capable of such?”

Ezril shrugged. “I’m just a brother. For now, I am capable of much.”

She observed him a while, skeptical, weighing his words and searching for lies.

“My brother,” she finally said. “Ajal. He lives towards the west gate. I do not know his home, but he is rather known. The Nairen. It is a bar. Ask of him there. They will know.” Ezril nodded as she spoke. “Tell him to forgive my selfishness. And I will be waiting for him beyond the thresh. But he should not come too soon, I will wait as long as he needs.”

Ezril frowned.

“He worships your false god,” she added upon seeing his expression. “So please do this for me. And if not for me, then for him.”

Ezril found it puzzling. “Do you not hate us?”

“I do,” she answered almost immediately. “But he is still my brother. And I do love him so.”

He’s lucky… Ezril left the thought unsaid. “Then I will.”

As he rose to leave, she asked, “What are you?”

And Ezril heard wonder touch her voice.

It was the same question she had asked in her house, but tonight there was no fear in her voice, only curiosity. He wondered if it had been meant for him even then. When he looked at her, she had turned her attention to the ground, her mouth moving in the formation of words he could not hear and, he suspected, he would not understand.

Words for her god, he thought. He took the cup and returned it to its pail. Talking to her had left him with a touch of sadness.

He did not like it. But he did not reject it.