The second year at the village had begun, and one could quickly take notice that all things have a schedule of sorts, one which everyone has to abide by. Be it the simple schedule we call the seasons of the year, in a village, that schedule is the most important, for it decides when the fields can be worked and when they would have to be huddled up inside all day to be out of the way of snow and cold.

As the snow melted, Kanrel again found himself in the nearby woods. This time, traveling further and deeper into them while trying to find things out of the ordinary. But the forest seemed endless, as he found himself there almost every other day. It didn’t seem to matter, for the woods would continue all the way to the mountains. And if there was something, he could easily miss it. He could easily not notice things that should be noticed.

It might be that he would not find anything there; it might be that there was nothing in this village that was related to “true magic" or “true god” other than a mention of the land being sacred. His quest might be a failure; his mission was to find any substantial information about these things, but did it really matter? He was contributing to the village; he helped the people here who were in need. And that should be enough; that is the true mission of any priest.

So he found for himself other ventures, not just traversing the woods while finding nothing.

Education was something dearly needed in this village; most people were unable to read or write. Mathematics was more common, but not to a level where everyone could benefit from it in their everyday lives.

Things like history and religion might not matter as much, but if one learns about these things, it might inspire them; perhaps one day the next Herald could be chosen from this village. Perhaps the next great historian would emerge from here—the next great writer, musician, and scientist. There was so much potential, even in this small population of people.

All that was really needed was some education so that those people might find this passion and, in the future, change the world.

So Kanrel took it as something he could provide. After all, he was the most educated person in this village; he could teach the basics of these things, and everything after would be up to them. So, each household was notified that at the temple they might partake in various lessons. From writing and reading to mathematics and history.

Many would attend, many more than Kanrel had anticipated; especially children who were sent to him. Again, he would see the girl that he had spoken with over a year ago; she and her little gang had yet to ask him for that favor Kanrel had promised them.

And Kanrel did hope that they might forget about it all together.

Deciding what to teach wasn’t that difficult; all he had to do was look back in time at the things he learned as a child. He was mainly privately tutored by his mother and other tutors who were sent his way.

In his mind, the most important thing that he could teach anyone was reading and writing. This would allow anyone to express their thoughts on any surface and to much more easily share those thoughts and other information with anyone who might be able to read.

One could also learn by themselves by visiting the temple at any time to borrow one of the books that were there. Kanrel provided many of the books that he had written during his time at the academy, and he even wrote new ones holding further information, mainly about things that he remembered about history and medicine.

Things were going smoothly, and it felt like there was always something to do—something that Kanrel could contribute to. He decided to finally send out the letters that he had written at the end of autumn, but before doing so, he revised some of them, adding new things that came to his mind.

He also made sure that the letter that went to his mother would contain some basic information about the village and the troubles that people there have had to deal with. This way, he would not break his agreement with Ulken Reven, the “mayor” of the village.

It was late spring when Kanrel finally found a clue. Though he himself did not find it. It was rather provided by Isbit, who had begun transforming his childhood home into a living space for the people who would work the lands around it.

He came to the temple holding a mask, one that was far too familiar to Kanrel: A grotesque thing, its dark gray material unknown.

Isbit placed it on the kitchen table. He seemed to be troubled as if he knew what this mask meant or what it was. He observed Kanrel, who stood still and stared at the mask.

His mind was filled with things that happened that night. The ambush, Yirn’s betrayal, and his transformation into a creature that could not be named: “Where did you find this?”

Isbit cleared his throat. “Under the bed, there was a trapdoor; it led into a secret cellar with this mask and some other things. I think you should explore it for yourself."

“Do you perhaps recognize this mask?” Kanrel asked, but he didn’t look at the man; in his mind, he could see how he was stabbed again and again by those men with masks.

“I don’t, but I remember something my father once said: ‘Beware of the men who wear masks; never go too far into the woods.'"

Silence was between them for a while, then at last Kanrel looked at Isbit and asked, “And why have you not shared this information with me before?”

Isbit stared back for a while before daring to reply, “He said to never speak of it to anyone.”

Kanrel gritted his teeth and took the mask. “Show me this cellar." And he walked out swiftly; he wanted to know; he needed to understand; to figure out this whole damn thing.

The hidden cellar was tiny; it only had a few things inside: a stone formation that looked like an altar and a rope that formed a knot and hung from atop it. On the altar, there was an old book.

In the cellar, there was also a shelf that had many books on it, as well as stacks of paper and notes. It was clear that some of the writings were much newer than the rest; this was made apparent by the things that these notes talked about, for example, Kanrel’s arrival.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Isbit was with Kanrel in the cellar, and he held a lantern as the only source of light in the small interior.

“Could your father read and write?” Kanrel asked him while reading through some of the notes that it was basically a diary; most of the things written were of the mundane kind, about the longing the old man had for his wife.

“Yes, he was the one who taught me to read and write.”

“Funny; he told me that he could not do either."

“My father always liked to pretend to be much dumber than he actually was.”

“Sure, but it does not explain the mask or the other things that are here; have you perhaps read through any of the things that are here?”

"No, I have not.”

“It is better that you don’t.”

Some of the older notes carefully explained rituals and how to sacrifice to the “God Who Hung,” who was the god of the Athaian: decapitation, removal of eyes, the tongue, ears, the heart, etc. Kanrel had seen or at least heard of all this but one.

One note was written with clear regret: how a man denounces “the Believers” for the death of his own wife. How before he had tried to leave the believers and their faith, how this was the payback for his own actions.

“I will be taking everything that is inside—all of it. No one else can touch them or read them.”

Isbit was silent but soon agreed; he must have had his own worries about the things he saw here, things he might have heard about, and things he might not want to further learn about.

Kanrel was provided with a wooden wheelbarrow; he carefully took everything out of the cellar and placed them into it: the books, the notes, even the knot. He used a few codes to make sure that the things inside of it would not move and then began transporting them back to the temple.

His mind was racing as he was walking back. The old man was a liar; his words were deceitful, and his actions were questionable. Thus, he had to read through all of it; he had to learn and understand the reasons behind those lies.

The book that had been on top of the altar was of a religious kind; it told the story of the God Who Hung:

In the lands of the far west lie the kingdoms of great knowledge; though their people are uncivilized and poor, just slaves to their masters. There and for them, a rule of war is always present, and fear is their truth.

In the lands of the far west, they pray to the Hanged God.

A man who hung for his crimes—those crimes were that he spoke the words of peace and goodness; he spoke of freedom for the enslaved and of wealth for those who were poor.

Thus he was hanged, for such words are not allowed. Yet in the lands of the far west, they pray to such a god. Even though war is all they know...

Even the Athaians know that only peace can save them from war.

But all these tales are lies; the God Who Hung was not so merciful; his crimes were far greater, and so was his wisdom: freedom is only for those who are ready to fight for it and ready to die for it.

The true crime of the God Who Hung is the revolution that he began, trying to bring an end to slavery and topple the tyranny of the council. For his crimes, he was hanged, and his body was laid to rest after a week of hanging. It was placed in a crypt in the Holy City of Terea, and in that crypt, the true god still resides. His body still intact, yet to rot; waiting for the day of reckoning...

There were many more details within; it went into the great deeds of this God, the revolution that he had begun: for how long it lasted, how many died, the many martyrs of that war, and the end to that war—the execution of thousands of revolutionaries. Their bodies were left hanging from the walls of Terea, and the aftermath of such a war was more tyranny.

It was clear that the Athaians, whoever these people may have been, had an intricate caste system where the lowest and most populous of the peoples there were made out of slaves.

It was the case with all human societies; this complicated history with slavery was present, and it was always horrible, no matter how it was formed or the people who had to suffer through it. Thankfully, in the Kingdom, they had managed to get rid of such a way of doing things, but if you go back a few hundred years, you would find that the last people who fell victim to slavery were the Nameless.

The “diary” of Rant and older texts, which were written long before him, went more in-depth with what was inside the hidden cellar: it was practically a hideout for a follower of the God Who Hung, a place of worship built to hide a secret of the Jenkse family and their deep connections to this cult.

Some of the older texts elaborated on the rituals, including how they would find people who traveled too deep into the forest; they would hunt them and perform their sacrifice near a holy place, a temple left in ruins near the mountains, deep in the forests.

The head would be cut off and placed near or within the residence of the person who had been killed for their god. They believed that this would appease the voice of God, who spoke to them near the ruins.

How it wished for someone to “enter” and “set it free"...

There were mentions of old artifacts found near the ruins and how they would give access to powers that not even the priests could use. But to use one, one would have to sacrifice blood to use them and access them, and often, using such powers might lead to loss of control or even death.

But those who died were “unworthy”.

The last note, which Kanrel presumed to be the newest one, read as follows:

My son, the regret that I have for the death of your mother cannot be explained with words. I am the reason for all of this; all this could have been avoided if I had just told everything to her, to you, and to the people who live here.

I should have told them to never enter the woods; I should have told them of the men who wear masks, of the man that was my father and his father, and so forth. This disgusting cult that we have harbored, which he has allowed to exist so close to a place where people live who have no wish to harm anyone.

I was naive to think that they would just forget about us—about the ruins. I should have known that they would return here, that they would begin the hunts once more, and that they would try to release him.

My son… If you ever find these words, if you ever read what I have written—the things I have done, what my father and his father have done—you would never be able to forgive me; you would denounce my name, the name that you carry. And in my heart, I wish that you would do so.

But I am afraid that these words would inspire you to become something so evil. If they would make you want to forgive me, when forgiveness is better not to be given, I wish that you never find this letter nor any of the things that are hidden; I wish they stay in the shadows.

I wish, from the bottom of my heart, that you are allowed to live a life where your father isn’t the one to blame for the death of your mother. Where your family isn’t the reason for the deaths of perhaps hundreds...

I wish that the words of a coward would never see the light of day, and if you ever find what is here, burn it. Burn it all; do not read further. Let the truth remain hidden. Let there be no more words of the True God or of True Magic.

A coward indeed. A family of them and only one of them had the decency of regret, of realizing the wrongs of the things that were committed. Only one had the decency to now allow his son to become a part of it.

Kanrel wished that he could burn all these writings, but he could not. He would send a message to his mother, who would send someone to pick all of this up, but before, he would have read through it all many times. To the point where he could recite it almost from memory.

After a year of staying in this village, he finally had some answers. It was just that the answers weren’t to his liking; nothing of it was. It was all horrible; it was all so disgusting to read about.

Just how far would a man go for power?