In his chambers, Hilock sat with his thoughts. The old adage of leaving them wanting more was a powerful one. He hoped he had garnered some intrigue at his last showing. Once the wheel was in motion, it couldn’t be stopped, he thought.

He stared at his plans, going over every detail. The guards were already checking the sewers and houses. When they came through his area, he had just cast an illusion of a room filled with shit. They dispersed and never returned since then. His thoughts roamed from his past to present. Would Marcus be proud of what he has done?

He carefully walked through the bowels of the city. He took long routes in case some unseen force was following him. It also gave him a chance to collect his thoughts.

He walked for hours through the sewers. Finally, he approached a ladder that led to the market’s outskirts, and left his robe and mask behind. Underneath them was a poor set of clothes. He’d have to cast a face on since he’d be too recognizable if he walked around. He rubbed his fingers on his bumpy and ridged flesh, and it echoed pain even after all these years.

He cast another image above him so nobody would see him entering from below. Yet no one was around to see him enter. He found it odd he couldn’t hear or see anyone. Children ran towards the…Oh no. Following them, he approached the ritual grounds, where they carried out the ritual of judgement. A sand filled arena, surrounded by stone fences and seating for all to spectate upon.

He followed them, walking as fast as he could. A crowd gathered in the distance. At the ritual grounds. Both cheering and booing echoed down the street. He joined them, listening in on their conversations.

“Another one for the gods to sort!” one woman said.

“This is an abomination!” a man said.

“I pray they get all the bastards!”

“Why don’t the people trial him, eh?”

“This is a disgrace to divinity!”

“Praise the listeners! Praise the speaker!”

“Now they speak…”

They were divided. He had to make them see. To know that this was wrong. But what could he do? He wasn’t blessed with strength or fighting ability like the others. He had to think quickly as the guards walked the accused man to the slab. They approached from the road that led directly to the dungeon.

The guards walked the man out onto the ritual grounds, his face cast defeat. He was washed up, but one could see how emancipated his body was. They had to drag him the final few yards to the slab. They tied him to it with chains and shackles, tightening and securing them from behind.

Horns echoed through the grounds as the king approached. He wore ceremonial white armor with a purple cloak. White armor was rare; there were only two sets of it in the whole world. Nobody knew where the other one resided, lost in some battle in some distant time. The king stood on a platform high above the crowd with a wave and a smile. The horns blared a final note.

“Greetings!” the king said. “Hope you're all enjoying that bread we gave out!”

“What bread?” a man shouted.

“Oh, right…This bread!”

He threw his arms up in a Y shape and wagons of bread were pulled into the arena. Guards tossed armfuls of bread to the crowds.

“Savor it, my friends!

Many attendees found themselves with a loaf in each hand.

“Now let us begin, shall we?” He motioned for the ritual priests, called the Razas, to come out and take their positions.

While softly chanting, the priests—wearing orange and yellow hooded robes—moved forward, standing across from the slab. Their eyes were not visible.

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“We once again humble ourselves in the embrace of a sliver of divinity. Boratir stands accused of treason, of planning to commit violence against the city. We have heard both sides of the story and deemed it so that this ritual take place. The gods are just and true, and their judgment is the only one we need seek. If he is innocent, he shall walk away from here a free man. Save innocence, his soul will be given to the gods, and his body will perish. Now, they speak!”

More of the crowd cheered than booed.

The Razas chants grew louder, inhuman in tone. A small ball of orange and red light appeared between them and grew bigger with each passing second. The larger it grew, the louder the voices became. Those in the front row covered their ears.

When the orb had grown to the size of a large boulder, the Razas moved themselves behind it and seized their chanting. It crept toward the slab and flashed a bright light onto the onlookers. When they regained their vision, they saw the king himself was strapped to the slab.

“Stop this!” he screamed. “Stop this now!”

The guards scrambled to get into the arena to free their king. All while the light crawled forward, pulsing. The king continued his screams as they loosened the chains.

“My king!” one of the decorated guards cried as he charged the orb. He threw his shield up to halt it.

The orb pressed him back, and his feet drug through the sand. His shield melted, and his armor heated.

He took a step back, threw what was left of his shield down, released several straps of armor, and tossed his sword aside. He charged the orb with hands outstretched. “Judge me!” He dug his arms into it and screamed as the orb accepted him, consuming his body. The Raza’s continued their chants.

It pulsed. Slowly—and then with speed—-a throbbing boom increased until it was a single note. The light burst once more.

Hilock used the distraction of the illusion to free the man on trial. He had his hand over the mouth of the man that was set to be a part of the ritual. “It’s simple to fool the devoted, one need only give them motive.” He took his hand off his mouth and pointed for him to run.

The man did not speak. He simply got up and stared at him. He then ran towards the arena.

“What are you doing, dumb fuck?” Hilock screamed. He tried to run the man down, but he somehow found an ungodly strength in him to move his scrawny body. “Shit, shit, shit.”

When the dust in the arena cleared, the soldier who sacrificed himself was still kneeling in the middle of it. Smoke rose from his hands, and his wounds were healed. No sign of burning on his skin. The king was no longer strapped to the slab. Instead, only empty chains remained. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause.

The king who was up on his platform, jumped down gracefully to the arena. He walked toward the soldier who sacrificed himself and held out his hand. The soldier took his hand and raised to his feet. The king smiled at him and bowed his head before kneeling. The attendees followed suit, each kneeling before the survivor.

The king rose once more, grabbing the soldier’s hand and raising it high in the air. “Survivor!” he shouted.

More applause followed.

Hilock lost track of the man he was chasing. Yet when he turned around a corner he saw the man talking to guards and pointing in his direction. He gasped and turned heel. After obscuring his body to be invisible to prying eyes, he ran on harder dirt so as to not leave footprints. He kept running till he was out of breath. When he saw an entrance to the sewers he took a breather against a nearby home. Catching his breath and calming himself. As he made the final steps toward home, a loud bang echoed.

His leg felt hot and collapsed. He looked around to see his attacker but instead he found a metal barrel pressed against his head.

“Cute show back there. Try anything, and I’ll plug you again,” a red-faced man said.

Hilock thought as hard as he could and cast an angry mob coming toward them. Yet another bullet entered his left shoulder.

“I wasn’t bluffing. If you wanna keep trying, I’m more than happy to keep this up.”

“Seems I’ve been bested by a red-faced warrior,” Hilock said. “Tell me, how did you manage to reveal my invisible aura?”

“Well, to tell it plain, Hunter told me you cast visual and auditory illusions, but they aren’t perfect.” The red-faced man began tying his body with ropes, starting with his hands and feet. He held a purple vial to his mouth and plugged his nose, forcing him to drink the liquid.

A moment later, his face illusion disappeared revealing his grotesque features.

“Ugh. Remind me not to do that again. You’re one ugly son of a bitch.”

“My illusions are an art mastered in secret lairs. Tell me, how did you see past your human stares?”

“You live in a sewer…I can smell the stink five hundred yards away.”

Hilock froze and then let his head fall to the ground. How could he be so careless?

“So where do we go now? Let me be privy to how…To the king’s blade or a hangman’s rope, tell me how they execute a dope.”

“Oh no. This here is what we call a special circumstance. You’ll go to the big boss.”

He smiled at that. Perhaps there was a chance to continue his work after all. Yet fear soon overtook him when he realized that meant the Inquisitor. His days were numbered, and they would be filled with agonizing pain once more.

“Tell me your name, my brilliant foe. Who you are? I’d like to know.”

“Chase.” The red-faced man slapped his face, picked him up like a duffel bag, and walked toward the outskirts of the castle. He hummed as he walked. “S’pose I should thank ya for making Hunter look bad. That man is on the death spiral.” He laughed to himself. “I’m sure you’ll have fun with her though. Wouldn’t try those illusions anymore. She’s well…She’s unstable.”

“So, I’ll remain in a prisoner’s den. I think it’d be nice, to see her again.”