When Y’Kraun returned to being his guide and closest servant, he had changed. He had become so different from the person that he was; at least his outlook was different; he wasn’t so chatty anymore. He seemed more nervous than before, and whenever they passed a certain room, he went to the other side of the corridor and kept his eyes on the ground, his other hand finding its way on top of his head, to feel the memory of that red rain upon his bald head.

Each time they passed that room, they had to stop for a moment as Y’Kraun gathered himself, his eyes empty, waiting for a new light to come from within and make them bright and less despaired. For a serf, like him, was there hope? Could he rise above the people, who advertently and inadvertently caused him harm, made him afraid and abused him, and made him lose the last resemblance of hope that he might have once had?

Kanrel knew that Y’Kraun had become cynical a long time ago; he had submitted himself to these people; he no longer had a fire to kindle his heart, to make it burn brightly and without fear, to push past this tyranny. He had no concept of something better, for he had never experienced something that was better; he wouldn’t know what to dream of; he wouldn’t know of things that were better. He only truly ever saw the tyrants, be they of noble descent, landowners, and such, who made him work the land for them, who placed them into mines and forced him to work long hours, just to extract stone that brought those that owned him only more wealth and riches, thus, more power.

At this moment, Y'Kraun was so much like what Kanrel had become. He recognized those eyes that had seen death for the first time. That demeanor of a man who wondered if they could ever feel clean again? If they could ever wash away the blood that had soiled their eyes...

And even when Kanrel could relate to the Atheian, or he felt like he could, he found no words to offer; there was no way for him to console him. Not without lying, not without having that smile on his face as he lied again. He didn’t believe that things could truly get better, but he was doubtful that things could get worse. At least there was that, a false sense of hope as one has reached the bottom of despair. Now, one could only begin to ascend this mountain of life; for what use was there to lie naked in its deepest crevasse, crying for a god or a helpful hand to reach toward you and pull you to your feet? Perhaps he could offer that hand, but he dared not. For what right did he have to help another when he couldn’t help himself? When he had been, even if inadvertently, the reason as to why Y’Kraun’s eyes were now so soiled.

Days, then soon weeks, went by as silence ruled between them. Both still went through with their own jobs; Y’Kraun was the servant he was supposed to be, and Kanrel remained a storyteller to amuse the horde of Atheians, who each day came to him, to hear what he might know of things that were above.

And after each day, Kanrel would enter his little room, sit on his little chair, open up his little notebook, and write all that had happened on that specific day and more onto that paper, with the strange ink that he had been provided. What was it made out of? He had no clue, but it was another curious thing to wonder about as he soon found himself lying on the bed, looking at the ceiling, and remembering the rain.

Hopeless and restless; so bored with this situation. Traumatized and afraid; useless he was, so useless and hopeless he was. Such thoughts collected themselves as he lay there, and in his dreams, they became the rain that fell on him, that bombarded him after a long day, as he would hopelessly try to run away from it; the blood that came pouring down; the fear that attached itself into him as he was unable to reach whichever destination he had; so far away there was a door, one that was different from all the doors that through which he had entered; and in that door there lay a picture; a vision of something better that there might be; yet another memory held so close to him, so dear that it could never be forgotten; so dear that it pains you as you remember it, and as he kept running toward that memory in that dream... The vision of a small hut, made from clay and hay; behind that little hut, a garden in which there grew flowers that populated the earth beneath his feet; and a tree... A singular apple tree... He ran, and he ran, and he reached toward that door to enter another vision, another dream—not one made out of nightmares, but one so gentle and innocent that you would believe it to be false, or someone else's.

Then the rain would catch him, and the world would shatter beneath his feet as he fell; he fell and fell as the door stood still, the vision in it still pure. As he fell, that door disappeared, and as he hit the darkness below, his own bed, his eyes would burst open. For a moment, he would remember this dream; he would remember the door and the vision it held. A vision that wasn’t his, but someone else's...

To another morning he had awoken, he got up from his bed and stared for a while out of the window. He observed the quiet city below, and the lights that soon all lit, as the mechanism above them all allowed that light to reach each corner of the city. He began another as such, still feeling what he had felt before he had fallen asleep, still feeling the same feelings that followed him in the dream. He did what he had to; he dressed and prepared for another day and stepped outside of his little room, as that was all that was allowed.

For some reason, Y'Kraun hadn't visited him today. Perhaps it was too early for him; perhaps they had given him another mission for today. Kanrel had no clue. He didn’t even know if there would be anyone who sought his audience. Even then, he still went down floor after floor today, letting his hand rest on the wall, feeling the history that was engraved on them, so smooth and irregular, a somewhat annoying feeling that made him want to scratch the tips of his fingers. He closed his eyes for a moment and observed this sensation, this feeling that overwhelmed him, and for a moment, he wasn't trapped in this life, not in this tower they called the Spire, not below the ground in the lands of the Atheians. Just for this one moment, he observed this sensation, this feeling that overwhelmed him, and for a moment, he was free from this prison, but all too aware that he was chained in another. Just for this one moment, there was just this unbearable sensation of wanting to scratch and remove the tips of his fingers until there was no sensation at all.

Then the wall suddenly stopped where it shouldn’t have. The unbearable sensation remained for a moment longer. He opened his eyes and wondered. Had he taken the wrong turn while voluntarily blinded by his own thoughts? He looked to the side and saw up close something unfamiliar that he had seen before from afar. He entered through the hole in the wall, from where, one day not too long ago, A'Daur'Kra had stepped out, and closed behind him, making the wall whole again, connecting the engravings that garnished them.

The chamber, of which he had barely seen glimpses, was filled with religious artifacts, statues, and engravings that garnished the walls; it was like a small chapel dedicated to a beloved deity. But the artifacts—the statues, the engravings—were defaced, sullied, and broken. There was a statue of an angel; Kanrel could imagine what it might’ve looked like—something similar to those that he had seen before, but larger and standing right before him, at his own eye level, perhaps once magnificent, grotesque in their own beauty. But now, its head was cut off, and its head lay placed on its feet, the face of which was scarred, its marble eyes removed, its nose broken, and its mouth torn apart; its body once covered with scales, now one with marks of abuse; perhaps a chisel had been used to cut off a hand, to tear apart the chest, to leave a hole where a man might keep his heart... And when Kanrel went around it and saw what once were its wings, just stumps left, one of the wings was shattered on the ground, stone feathers broken in half; the other wing was nowhere to be seen; instead, in one of the corners there lay a pile of fine dust.

The engravings were no better; what was perhaps once garnished with images of the Angels arriving at the lands of Atheians only gave a view of the grand cities that the Atheians had built but had now lost long ago. Parts of the engravings had been simply scraped away as if to hide a great disgrace.

And at the end of the room, there was an altar, and behind the altar, there was a wall, and on that wall, there was an engraving of a creature; that creature had its hands spread as if awaiting a hug from an old friend, but they had no resemblance of a face—that too defaced, that too sullied.

On that altar, there lay a stone tablet, one filled with inscriptions in a language Kanrel had seen glimpses of, one he couldn’t understand at all. He walked toward...

Steps from behind came to a sudden halt, the sound of the wall closing and becoming whole again. A scoff that seemed amused, Kanrel turned around and saw the man he had wanted to speak the most to since arriving in this city but had learned to fear more than anyone in his life.

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“You dare enter my sanctuary? A private room, which only I am allowed to enter? You grow audacious by the day!” A’Daur’Kra snorted and took a few steps forward; his eyes wandered around the room. “You know, I heard about your little incident with my sister—quite brave of you to agitate her so... directly.”

He came to a halt, not too far away from Kanrel, and smiled, “It seems that I like you far more than I at first had anticipated; you have guts, perhaps too much even, and I do wonder... What gave you the courage to seek my audience in a place not meant for you?”

A’Daur’Kra chuckled. “Nevertheless… It seems that I simply must hear you out, and depending on what you tell me—what reason you might have to find yourself before me on your feet and not on your knees—I will either look past your transgression, or I will punish you.”

He snapped his fingers. “Simply with a snap of my fingers...” His smile froze, and his expression became one without emotions as he waited for what Kanrel might say to save himself.

Kanrel couldn’t help but swallow; he had known this very possibility that might happen, that he might find his life at risk, and in the hands—rather fingers—of a fickle and ruthless creature.

“You once asked me if I at night hear their voices.” Kanrel began, his expression slightly altering from one that portrayed fear to one that was unsettled by what it had seen and heard: “I had a dream, not too long ago, one that I can barely remember, but one that began to unravel itself to me the moment I came in contact with..." He stopped and locked his gaze with A’Daur’Kra. “It wavers, it quivers, and it smolders... It calls you, and when you reach toward it, and when you go too close, it touches you."

He shivered. “It is so cold and dark, and you can hear them... Their voices were loud and quiet: ‘We died for nothing.’ ‘They surrendered; we all should’ve done so, not just those who perished.’ ‘Our deaths were there only to feed him, only to make his will eternal.’” He quoted.

“It forces you to your knees; it forces you into the darkness; the voices greet you and you begin to suffocate; you can’t breathe; they force your eyes open and a new kind of light enters, through all the pain that strikes through you.”

“Then you can see—you can truly see—the darkness; you can see that which they want you to see.”

“Who was the madman who claimed that they could kill a god?”

“That, as their final whisper... the vision they tried to give me, that I cannot remember; I only remember the wall where I was stuck and pierced, between them and something, perhaps a city.”

“I am sure they showed something else, something far more important, something that would make it all make sense... But I only know one thing: They did not wish to be forgotten, yet they had been.” Kanrel finished, his eyes widened, and his fear and that unsettling feeling were gone as well. Now there remained only sadness, one that he had never felt before, one that was because of something he barely understood.

All the while, A’Daur’Kra remained silent and listened, his expression unchanging, even at the sight of the ray of emotions that the human showcased before him. They stared at each other a moment longer, but Kanrel couldn’t keep his gaze; he couldn’t face the Atheian in such a way when he still saw what he had done to Lou’Deu’n. The rain had been red and warm.

Kanrel averted his gaze and placed it onto the statues—the defaced angel that bravely stood there, between them. Oh, how he wished it weren’t so brutalized.

He knew of some of their crimes—they had been shown to him... Glimpses of what the great Sharan had done, but not always in great detail. He was yet to see how the Nine Magi fought against Kalma; he was yet to witness that war in which, perhaps, the greatest crimes of the Sharan had occurred, during which Kalma slaughtered millions just because he could, just because they dared to go against him.

He had not seen the true fall of N’Sharan. He had only seen the crimes of Ignar Orcun, how he had slain his father; how in the process of their self-righteous spur of killings, he had framed the poor Hartar Agna, and then went ahead and killed many others, many criminals and crooks that perhaps might’ve deserved that which was to come for them; but then, he had also terrorized the people at Cafe N’Sharan; he had burned them all; perhaps hundreds burned alive, perished by the flames. Purge; let fire purge them all; let fire set them free; let the truth set them free... Let the truth be the fire that sets them free.

A’Daur’Kra observed Kanrel, who was still captivated by the angel that had lost its face, whose wings were torn apart with only stumps left as a reminder of its winged glory. An almost knowing smile crept on his face as he then spoke: “Let me tell you how they see the judgment we received. Let me share with you, dear Darshi, the crime they so justify and which they believe to be a form of redemption for our people.” He walked to the other side of the room, where on the altar lay a stone tablet.

So, he began to read:

“When the Lord came down from the heavens, with him came the end. There was none to face his might. All that was wicked fell that day, and all that was good persevered.”

“When the Lord came down from the heavens, the men saw that he had wings of gold and a crown of fire. His body was plated with silver armor. His sword was pure with the light of justice. When he struck, a thousand enemies fell before him. When he struck, a thousand fell again.”

“His enemies, those who lacked grace, those that only knew of the ways of magic but not of the ways of the Lord. We could not face his holy might. Our unjust rule had come to an end. So when we fought, we were pushed back and slaughtered; his strength was too great for us to comprehend. We were pushed further and further away from the lands of the angels.”

“The world had not seen such fury since the dawn of times.”

“In the end, we surrendered. Placing ourselves under the judgment of the Heavenly. But our sins were too many. Our empire that was to last an eternity disgraced and burned to ashes; we who dared to look at the heavens and ponder what lies past the clouds and even stars; what there might be in that darkness that so beckons us all. Even our ways, our culture, and our magics were seen as wrong by them. Our sin of slavery; our sin of dominating those less fortunate with our magics, they too were viewed as taboo.”

“So their judgment had come. And the Lord, with his glory and wisdom, gave words of condemnation. And we were locked deep beneath the earth, far below. Forbidden ever to live our lives under the light. All we had now was the dark.”

He turned around, his face a mask of fury, his gaze crazed and bitter, but not as bitter as the words that then came: “Kanrel, do you see how unjust their judgment was? The ill logic they had used, not to give us true guidance but to condemn those who were victims of the crimes that they claimed we had committed."

“They spared none; they killed us; they removed us all from above, even those for whom they claim to fight... And now these fools of the Herd spout their nonsense about divine retribution and judgment...”

There was a moment of silence which soon filled with a snort and the words that followed: “There is no such thing as divine judgment... and there is no justice at all, both are just concepts people want to believe in—they need to believe them—otherwise the world seems just far too dark and hopeless, so cold for those who have no power...”

“Can’t you see, Kanrel? This is all because of them. For I have seen what you have seen as well... I have seen the same dreams and nightmares as you have; I’ve heard the same whispers, loud and quiet; I’ve witnessed their despair, their torment."

“The angels… They are the victims of the angels. That is all I know; for how else would’ve been placed here? I believe they must’ve done the same to some other race of beings, one that lived here long before us. That race had gone against them and their so-called better judgment, and they too had paid the prize." In A’Daur’Kra’s eyes, one could see that fire again, one that was a form of righteous anger. Then he took a deep breath, the fires that were there a mere moment ago extinguished, their eyes now sad and empty as he shared his fears. “It will be our future. They condemned us here to receive the same punishment as did those before us. We too will become shadows, and from our torment, this sense of unjust treatment will arise, a spirit that longs for vengeance against the heavens and all that is above.”

“Vengeance is what they want, not just that their memory is kept alive... Vengeance against the once divine creatures, who now rule in our stead the lands above.” His eyes quivered, as had done the shadows that they both had seen and touched... At that moment, he seemed so... vulnerable.

Almost, Kanrel felt bad for him; he almost went ahead and placed his hand on his shoulder to give console, and as he was about to do just that, those eyes of his, the eyes of A'Daur'Kra, found their rightful glare; they focused and sharpened, and as they met Kanrel’s eyes once more, he smiled.

“We must depart sooner than I had anticipated... That is the reason why I was looking for you myself... We have been summoned to the capital... The Council of Many Faces wishes to see the ever-amusing Darshi grovel at their feet.”

“Go pack now, and do not dread; I and your other dear friends will accompany you on this pilgrimage... There you shall see what I have seen." A’Daur’Kra commanded, but they grimaced for some reason, “You, too, shall feel their disgust.”