“You led our group to the Great Hall. You know your way around the Castle, I take it?” I said these words, and the sorcerer quietly uttered a gasp of surprise that sounded similar to a mouse’s squeak. Adorable.
“How could you tell?”
“You have very distinct footsteps.”
“I always knew the Dark Apostles would be amazing, but seeing your power in person is…” she thought about her next word carefully, “sublime.”
“Hmm,” I frowned. “So… your people have some kind of holy scripture that foretells the appearance of GM and the Dark Apostles. Could you tell me a bit about it?”
“Of course,” the sorcerer beamed from behind her mask. I wished I could have seen her expression as she spoke. “For the past one hundred years, the Cognoscenti of Merkopia have prepared for the return of the God of Machines. Three previous times, we endured the hundred-year period between incarnations of our god. This wait was different, however, as the God of Machines left us with a collection of holy blueprints for us to create new weapons, vehicles, and methods of communication. Cannons to break their walls, bombs to level their cities, and guns to kill their soldiers. Though the Edict of Iron prevented us from using these glorious inventions, we knew that the Deluvians and the Dark Apostles would be able to utilize these weapons to their fullest potential once they were resurrected.”
I stopped walking and turned to the sorcerer. “Good start. I have some questions, but, before that, I want you to take that mask off.” I pointed to the iron mask that concealed her face. “I don’t like talking to people when I can’t see their faces.”
“Are you sure?” The sorcerer seemed confused by my request. “The followers of the Machine Cult recognize that the human form is merely a distraction that interferes with the holy sacraments of repair, maintenance, and invention. Any high-ranking official of the Machine Cult such as I would never deign to show her face in public.”
“Wait,” I said as I pinched my chin between two fingers. “I am a Dark Apostle, correct? Like the apostles of Jesus?”
“I don’t know who that is, but yes.”
“So, from the perspective of the Machine Cult, I am one of the highest functionaries in the religion, correct?”
“Yes?” The sorcerer’s confusion turned her answer into a question.
“Then why is it acceptable that I go around without my face covered?” I asked. “I don’t mean this as a ‘gotcha,’ I legitimately want to understand.”
“You are very magnanimous, sir,” she said. “That one with as much power and knowledge as you would still desire to gain knowledge is inspiring.”
I thought about the group chat conversation I had just witnessed, and it made me want to laugh. She treated the Dark Apostles like they were gods. If she knew the truth of the thirteen individuals who stood at the top of her religion’s hierarchy, she would probably have a mental breakdown.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Stop that. Also, answer my question.”
“Stop what?”
“I’m not really a fan of ‘zealous supplication.’ Please keep any fervent praise to a minimum.”
“As you command, sir. Regarding your question, the Dark Apostles are imbued with a small portion of GM’s power. It would be most accurate to say you are Messianic much like the alleged son of the God of Civilization, Nur. You and the other twelve Dark Apostles effortlessly occupy a place of divinity and overwhelming power. You do not gain your power through vigorous study and regimented training, unlike us sorcerers. Laxity cannot possibly harm you, so it would make no sense to apply that same regimentation to you.”
“Fine,” I said, annoyance apparent in my voice. “You can keep the mask on if it’s important to you.”
The sorcerer regarded me for a long moment. We made eye contact, and, only due to my supernatural vision, I could see that she had green eyes. Even with my enhanced vision, however, I could not perceive her expression. I wanted to see her face for several reasons, but I would feel bad if I pushed the issue any further.
“I don’t mean to say that I am unwilling to remove the mask,” she said. “I have lived with the sacrament of diligence long enough that the removal of the most shallow aspect of the sacrament will not harm my faith. Would you like me to remove my mask?”
Despite myself, a smile formed on my face. “Yes, I would like that.”
She removed the smiling metal mask from her face and carefully pulled her hood back. Beneath the mask was the face of a woman in her mid-twenties. The sorcerer had wavy red hair tied back in a bun, piercing green eyes, and a constellation of freckles. Prolonged use of the mask had created temporary lines on her face, and a thin sheen of moisture clung to her face where the mask had adhered a few seconds before. She was perfect. Red heads with green eyes and freckles had been my type ever since high school. My friends used to say that I was “just attracted to Irish people.” I didn’t even know that I had a thing for wavy hair until I saw it on the sorcerer.
Her cheeks colored slightly as she saw the intensity of my gaze. I heard the beat of her heart quicken, and, even without enhanced hearing, I knew that my own heart did the same. It was as if she had been created specifically to be the most attractive woman possible from my perspective. Then, I realized something. She was.
GM knew my mind inside and out. I was an engram, a part of GM, and so was she. Everything happening at that moment was just a simulation designed to increase my loyalty to GM. He wanted me to like her. If I did, I would have a reason to fight against the Revenants. Despite this, despite my mind’s awareness that this was all a ploy, I could not control the way I felt. I could not help but view the sorcerer in a more positive light. I was a rational being, but my emotions still existed.
I blinked and clenched my fist in order to get my reaction under control. “G-good,” I said before clearing my throat. “I was just thinking that I do not know what to call you. What’s your name? You said you ‘cast it off,’ but surely it can be reclaimed.”
“Not exactly.” A grimace which mixed anxiety and annoyance in equal parts crossed over her face. Wearing the mask for a long time must have caused her poker face to degrade. She was absolutely terrible at keeping her true emotions from appearing on her face. “You see, my memories from childhood were magically removed when I became a sorcerer of the Machine Cult. I don’t know my true name. Ever since I became a monk of Castle Bosporus, I’ve been called Sixty-One.”
“Not much of a name…” I muttered.
“Yes, I am aware. It is expected, sir, that the sorcerer be given a name by the Dark Apostle she is assigned to in recognition of great deeds. I hope to one day perform an act worthy of such a gift.”
“Okay, if you insist,” I said, starting to think. Unbidden, a name popped in my head: Galatea. I seriously considered speaking that name into existence, but I decided not to. It would be far too cruel. I decided instead on another name. “Amber, I think I’ll call you that.”