He was again descending in the elevator. One could hear its sounds; one could feel it in their whole body. There was only one button on the elevator wall that was lit, "-5,” the lowest level, one that he had no idea of.

Even still, even in this new predicament he found himself in, he could not help but feel touched by the Angel and their words. How gently they had called for their friends, spoken to them, then solemnly gazed at the District of Copper as it was submerged with waves, the great deafening sound of it, the waves gorging in... the walls, broken. That which once was part of the sea was reclaimed. Whole.

But how many had died? How many thousands and thousands of people? And why? For what? And by whom?

Was this another act committed by Ignar Orcun? Perhaps a retaliation from the Angels—judgment for those who dared to go against their wishes?

Surely it had to be one or the other. Surely it would all make sense, or should it not?

“Bling!” The elevator announced the end of their descent; the door opened, and on the other side, there was a great window, the size of the whole wall, with constant and quick snowfall, as if behind the window there was a blizzard. In front of the great window, there was a couch, positioned so that one could look at the window and the blizzard outside. There was nothing else of note in the room, at least, which he could tell at first glance.

So he took a step forward, willingly, knowing that almost certainly the doors would close behind him or even disappear altogether. Without looking back, he walked to the couch, eyeing it keenly, seeing if there was anything else to this room than this couch and the window.

There was nothing else. The floor and the walls were wood; the room tried to be cozy, but it was far from it. To accompany him in this room were only the couch, the window, and a sound. A constant crackle. And the sound came somewhere outside the window, perhaps the sound of the blizzard.

The door was gone. And in the rather large, rectangle-shaped room, there was nothing else. So he approached the couch even further, examining it—it was rather plain, just a normal couch; he even checked beneath, but there was nothing there—not even dust, just the wood floor.

So he was left with one thing to do. To take a seat and watch the snowstorm. But, should he really? It was what the room wanted him to do—perhaps even what the vision wanted him to do. What the Voice wanted him to do... None of them were things, people, or even creatures that he would ever place his trust in.

So he took a seat; at least it was soft, and at least it was warm.

“You see, lad, when you kill a man, you have to make sure they die." Words were suddenly spoken, and the crackling sound faded, but not fully. The blizzard was gone, and before him was a dark alleyway, two people standing next to each other; one was perhaps in their forties and the other in their teens.

“So you stab them twice." They leaned forward as they whispered and stabbed the lad in the chest, not once, not twice, but three times.

The lad made a terrible sound; they were gasping for air, and tears went down their face. As the stabber pulled their knife out, they collapsed against the wall.

It was dark, and the only sounds one could hear were the sounds of a dying man and the steps of the murderer walking away. They were holding something against their sides, so tightly they held their own side. And through the window, Kanrel could see it all—how soon the other man collapsed as well, still holding their side, now coughing out blood, their face paler than at the beginning of the scene, and then…

Cut…

The window was fully dark, and no other picture came to replace the previous ones.

Kanrel got up from the couch and went closer to the window. He touched the surface of it just to make sure that it wasn’t another portal to another part of the dream. But to his surprise, the surface that he touched was just glass and nothing else.

He ran his hand across it, all glass. What a curious thing—a piece of magic or machinery capable of showing things that have happened in the city.

Suddenly, the darkness faded, turning into another picture, another place, and another time. Quickly, Kanrel returned to the couch and took a seat. Patiently, he waited to see what would happen.

This time there was text accompanied by what was shown: 15th of the 2nd, 1005 CT. Crime and Punishment: Yrne Wern.

A large Sharan stood across from a person who was tied to a chair. The person had a bag over their head and seemed to be unconscious. Yrne spat on the floor; the room where they were was filled with bodies of animals, and as the Sharan breathed, mist came out. They sniffled and muttered to themselves, “Why can’t these fuckers pay what they owe in time?”

From the floor, they took a bucket of ice-cold water. They walked to the tied person and slowly poured the contents of the bucket on them. The other person woke up with a scream and panic.

Their voice was muffled as they screamed, “I can pay! I can pay! Just give me some time!”

Yrne just scoffed as they walked to the door and walked out. Kanrel could hear as the door was locked, and soon after, the lights went out. But still, the tied person kept screaming, their voice muffled and shaking.

The picture faded into darkness.

How long would it take for the victim to die? The room was clearly very cold. For how long could anyone survive even if they weren’t drenched in cold water? It was not shown if the person died or not, or how they died; would Yrne return to execute their captive, or would the person break out of their bonds and then leave? After all, every Sharan has magic.

Soon after, the darkness transformed again, showing the same room again. A person was standing opposite a figure who was, again, hooded and tied to the chair on which they were sitting.

The other person held a bucket filled with cold water. They approached slowly, and with one hand, they unveiled Yrne, who was knocked out. Deep was their sleep. The other observed the one who sat before them; they carefully lifted the bucket with both of their hands and poured it all over Yrne, who woke up shocked.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

They had already begun to shake, and they looked around, finally landing their gaze on the person who stood before them, who looked at them, their gaze down at them.

The window refused to show an angle where the person's face could be seen; only ever were parts of their body shown—their back, their hands, even their neck.

“What in the name of the Magi do you think you’re doing?” Yrme asked, and their voice shook and their words were difficult to understand.

The other one just observed, watched, and waited.

“You mongrel! You moron, let me out of these binds at once!” Yrne screamed as they got no answer to their question. They began to form a code, a shaky smile found its way on their lips, and they suddenly jerked toward the person, but to Yrne’s surprise, they could not move.

A bewildered expression found its way to Yrne’s face as they tried again and again, each time failing to launch at their attacker and, each time, unable to release themselves from their binds.

“What have you done?!” They screamed and began pulling their body in different directions as they tried to release themselves.

The other one only observed.

Soon, on Yrne’s face, the effects of the cold air could be seen; their cheeks were red, and so was their nose; other parts were much paler than before. Their lips kept uncontrollably shaking, and so did their whole body; they had stopped fighting. Parts of their clothes had begun to freeze, as had their hair, their brows, and even their eyelashes.

“Please… I’ll do… anything… please…” They pleaded, their voice almost a whisper, a whimper.

And the other spoke at last, “I have defused all of your magics; I have brought you here; I have bound you to your chair; and I have drenched you in cold water. I have watched as you’ve slowly begun to freeze to death before my very eyes... So tell me, why would I assist you in any way?” Their voice was smooth, and there wasn’t even a hint of enjoyment or amusement because of the situation or the deeds that they had committed.

“I can… pay you…” Yrne replied, their eyes were dull and they were visibly tired, almost ready to pass out.

The other one leaned closer, perhaps to look straight into the eyes of Yrne and to ask, “Like Sam promised?” The other scoffed, “I have no need for your payments, I have no need for your words, I have only need for your death; a life for a life, this, is only fair and more fair than you can get.

For a moment more, there was lucidity in Yrne’s eyes, but soon they closed them; at last, they had entered a sleep from which they would not wake up. They were left on the chair as the other one was left behind.

They observed, and they waited. A few minutes went by, and even the slightest movement that Yrne might make was gone. They would no longer breathe the air in this world.

The other made a sudden movement with their hand toward the window, toward the place where Kanrel sat and watched. The picture suddenly disappeared, and darkness returned again.

He then heard a whisper that came from the window, “See them all,” and in that moment, perhaps a thousand similar pictures opened on the window, on all of the little squares that were part of it. He could now see it all: each and every single murder, every single corrupt deed, and every single punishment for every single crime that had been committed by the many names that were on the files.

He could see all the acts of terror occur before his eyes, not only in his eyes but in his mind as well. Everything that Ingar Orcun had been a part of... It violated his mind with visions and things he did not want to see—things that no one wants to see or witness.

All brutal, all disgusting. Comparing one to another is not something one ought to do. Such acts are incomparable yet equally disgusting. Only the numbers were different. It would always end up in numbers, one way in which we decide how great a tragedy was. As if there needs to be a comparison between two tragedies, at least in the sense of size or brutality. Numbers—oh, how we love numbers.

In N’Sharan, there once was a journalist who said or wrote, “The death of one Sharan is a tragedy, but the death of many is a mere statistic.”

Those that Ignar Orcun had killed were plenty. Those who were their victims had only individually killed a few, but in numbers there is strength, and those who had died at the hands of Ignar Orcun’s victims were plenty as well—almost equal.

Now that he saw it all—all of those horrible crimes—not just as numbers printed on paper but as visions of something that had happened, that must have been real, for imagination will never truly overshadow that which is real.

One can imagine a thing happening, but when one sees it and lives through it, it becomes part of your life, of your thinking, of your dreams and nightmares; it becomes a part of your imagination. That which was real becomes so unbearable. Something you don’t want to see or experience, yet it keeps returning, and refuses to ever leave you.

This Kanrel knew better than perhaps most did. His time spent at the Hospital, on that bed, partaking in endless simulations with pain more than real. He shuddered as he thought about it. Never will there be a night when some demon of old or some memory won’t come to haunt him in his dreams or his anxious thoughts before falling asleep.

It was his turn to tremble; it was his turn to be touched by those deaths; it was his turn to wonder: What was the point of showing him all of this? To justify things that had been committed? Or to show how many terrible people were in this city; and how many victims were of those who ran it. Or how evil was the person who carried the name Ignar Orcun?

Who were they? Were they the voice? Were they the Angel of Lies and Truths? Were they someone else altogether?

Kanrel stared into nothingness and into his own mind as he tried to piece everything together. But what and who is he supposed to trust?

Through the window, one could see the blizzard again. The crackling sound had returned, and that was all that was to accompany him here. At least, the couch was soft.

He looked back to see if the doors had returned, but they had not. He cursed to himself as he asked out loud, “Are you Ignar Orcun?” He spoke loudly as if there was a need for it. It was quite obvious that the Voice could hear him always and could see him always. All of this, this vision, was most likely their creation.

“Would you believe me if I said ‘no’?“

“How could I?”

“Indeed. You don’t know a thing about me, yet I seem to know everything about this city as well as about you. It seems hardly fair.”

“My point exactly; so how am I supposed to trust you?”

“That’s the thing; you aren’t supposed to. All I can do is show things that I know have happened. Some things, of course, aren’t things that I have seen but are things that can’t be explained in any other way. They can only be experienced.”

“Why can’t you just try explaining them?”

“To do so directly, I am not allowed; it is taboo."

“Taboo? You and your fucking taboos... Even if it is taboo, there is practically nothing to stop you from saying things as you wish. All you’re giving me is an excuse.”

The voice suddenly chuckled and soon said, “An excuse or not, still, I cannot say the words I want to say out loud."

“Kanrel… Even if it seems like I am fully in control of things in here, I am not.”

“I am only a warden; I only oversee the imprisoned. Everything else is beyond my capabilities. Otherwise, I might have left long ago.”

Kanrel let out a long sigh of defeat; there was no point in arguing with this omnipresent authority figure. “Can you at least let me reach the next part?”

“Would you accept if I said ‘no’?”

Kanrel began cursing profusely, calling the Voice different names.

“I didn’t think so... Luckily, the question was asked in jest. Just wait; you’ll soon see what you’re meant to see.” The presence of the voice suddenly disappeared; they were still there but not willing to converse anymore.

So Kanrel waited, and to kill time, he returned to his own mind and began investigating the new set of memories that had been given to him. He tried to find the face of the person known as Ignar Orcun.