Extreme sensitive content warning

This chapter contains explicit depictions of ritualistic torture, abuse of power by religious authorities, and prolonged suffering. Themes of trauma, graphic violence, and psychological coercion are presented in a highly intense manner. Recommended for mature audiences only.

I wake before dawn, my heart already racing. The sound of metal scraping against metal had kept us awake most of the night as the clerics made their final preparations in the square. Maya sleeps fitfully beside me, having crept into my bed sometime during the darkness.

Through our window, I can hear the heavy footsteps of the Witnesses positioned outside every house in the village. A black-robed figure stands beneath our own window, head tilted up, watching our every movement through the glass. I gasp and stumble back when our eyes meet - those hollow black pits where warmth should be. I know there are others at each window - silent guardians ensuring no one tries to escape what's coming.

"Maya," I whisper, steadying my voice before gently shaking her shoulder. "Don't be afraid of the Witness outside. Just don't look at him. We need to get ready."

She blinks awake, her face pale with fear. The dress Mom laid out for her last night - dark blue, freshly pressed - waits on her chair.

"Julie?" Her voice trembles. "Will they really hurt Mrs. Weber? And old Henrik?"

I kneel beside her bed, taking her small hands in mine. "Yes," I whisper, my voice breaking. "They're going to hurt them badly. The Judge will carve marks into their skin until they scream. And we'll have to watch - all of us - to learn what happens to people who break their laws."

Before Maya can respond, Mom appears in our doorway. Her hands tremble as she helps Maya with the buttons of her dress, then begins brushing my hair.

"Remember," she whispers, gripping my shoulders hard. "Keep your eyes down. Don't make a sound. With Judge Malakai here, one wrong word, one sign of defiance could mean the difference between life and death. He'd mark the whole village if he could."

The kitchen feels too quiet as we eat. Dad's already gone - called to his guard post before dawn. His chair sits empty, a plate of untouched bread going stale. Mom jumps at every heavy footstep that passes our door, each crunch of boots on gravel a reminder of the Witnesses patrolling outside.

The first toll of the Temple bell settles over us like a shroud. Mom watches the sun climb higher through our window. "We leave at the second bell," she says, her voice tight. "The ceremony won't wait for anyone."

The sun has fully risen when the second bell rings, its deep tone echoing through the village.

"Time to go," Mom says, gripping both our hands. "We can't be late."

The street fills with families walking toward the square, all in their best clothes, faces tight with dread. Children cling to their parents' hands. Even the smallest ones understand what's about to happen - they've seen the marks on others before.

That's when I see them - Claire and Finn near the baker's shop. Claire has transformed completely, her black robes hanging with unnatural perfection, not a single fold out of place. Her face carries that same hollow serenity I've seen in older Witnesses, all trace of warmth carefully erased. When our eyes meet briefly, I try desperately to catch some glimpse of my old friend, but she looks through me as if I'm already marked for punishment. The pain of seeing her like this, so changed, makes my chest tighten.

The morning’s ceremonies await their victims. Old Henrik kneels at his post in peaceful devotion, lips moving in constant prayer. He had requested this marking himself, eager to prove his faith by having the Donor’s Prayer carved letter by letter across his back. Beside him, bound to the first post, Mrs. Weber strains against her ropes, defiance burning in her eyes even as tears stream down her face. Her children, Hans and Greta, huddle together in the crowd, faces wet with tears they dare not wipe away.

The crowd has barely settled into uneasy silence when Judge Malakai steps forward, scanning the faces gathered before him with a cruel, satisfied smile. He raises a hand, commanding attention, and a hush falls over the square.

“How fascinating,” his voice rings out, carrying to every corner. “Our faithful Witnesses report sensing forbidden magic just this morning – not in some hidden corner, but right within a family’s home. A mother and son, their very breakfast tainted by heretical discussion.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, confusion and fear mingling in the air. Mrs. Weber and Old Henrik are momentarily forgotten as everyone’s attention shifts to the Judge.

Malakai’s scarred face twists with pleasure as he lets the tension build. “Bring forth the mother of young Finn,”.

Two Executors disappear into the crowd. When they return with Finn's mother, her face shows not just fear, but bitter realization. The supposedly safe walls of her own home had betrayed them. Even her whispered words over morning bread had been heard by the Witnesses' supernatural senses.

"My Judge," she starts, voice thick with dawning horror, "in our own home-"

He silences her with a gesture. "Did you think your walls could hide sin from divine sight? That your maternal weakness would go unnoticed by those blessed with sacred sensitivity?" They drag her toward a third post - one that shouldn't have been needed today.

They bind her quickly, the white penitent's robe hastily thrown over her daily clothes turning nearly transparent in the morning light. Even as tears streak her face, her back remains straight while Judge Malakai circles her, speaking words too quiet for us to hear.

"No!" Finn's voice shatters the morning silence. He breaks away from Claire, pushing through the crowd. "Please, stop! It was my fault!"

The square goes deathly quiet. Judge Malakai turns, his scarred face twisting into something that might be a smile. "Speak, child."

"The magic... It was me. Not her." Finn's voice shakes but carries clearly. "She only said it was her to protect me. Please, take me instead!"

"Finn, no!" His mother strains against the ropes. "He's lying! I confess, it was me! Please, don't listen to him!"

Judge Malakai's laugh erupts into the silence, a sound like shattering glass that makes everyone flinch. "How perfect. How divine." He selects a particularly wicked blade from the array before him, its silver surface catching the morning light. With deliberate slowness, he draws his finger along its edge, testing its sharpness, never breaking eye contact with Finn.

"Watch carefully, child," he says as a thin line of blood appears where silver meets flesh. "Let this be your first lesson in the price of heretical sins." A single crimson drop rolls down his finger, leaving a delicate red trail in its wake. The Judge examines the shallow cut with satisfaction, watching as another drop traces its way along his wrist, staining the pristine white of his sleeve with a single red line.

"You see? This is exactly why she must be marked so deeply. Not for the magic itself - that's a minor sin. A simple branding would have sufficed." His eyes sweep the crowd as he inspects the blade's edge, now proven sharp enough to carve the deepest lessons. "No, her true corruption runs much deeper. She placed maternal love above divine law. She taught her son that earthly bonds matter more than heavenly ones."

The blade catches the morning light as he raises it. "This requires special attention."

Maya presses against me, trembling. Mom tries to turn us away, but her hands shake too badly to manage it. Through the gaps between her fingers, I watch as Judge Malakai approaches Finn's mother with terrible purpose.

"Bring the sacred salt," he commands. "And the cloth. She'll need something to bite down on."

An Executor approaches with a white cloth, but Finn's mother keeps her head high. "I accept my punishment," she says clearly. "But know this - I would do it again. A mother's duty is to protect her child. If that's heresy, then mark me a heretic."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The crowd gasps. Even the Witnesses shift uncomfortably. To declare oneself a heretic, to reject the fundamental law of divine punishment...

Judge Malakai's smile grows wider. "Oh yes," he whispers, though somehow his voice carries to every corner of the square. "This will be a lesson none of you will ever forget."

Claire stands with the other Witnesses, her face a perfect mask of devotion. But I see her hands, clenched so tight her nails draw blood from her palms. For just a moment, her mask slips - a flicker of the friend I once knew showing through that hollow shell, and I know she's screaming inside just as loudly as any of us. Finn has collapsed to his knees, held back by two guards, his voice breaking as he begs over and over, "I'll never do magic again! I swear by the Donor's pain, I'll be faithful, I'll be pure - please, just stop!"

Judge Malakai's lips curl into something almost gentle. "Oh, I believe you, child. Anyone would make such promises in your position." He tests the blade's edge one final time. "That's precisely why the lesson must be so... memorable."

Sven steps forward then, just as the Judge raises his blade. "This goes beyond correction. Beyond teaching. This is-"

"Questions divine judgment? This is justice" Judge Malakai's scarred face twists into something terrible as he turns to face our Elder. "Perhaps you'd like to demonstrate proper acceptance yourself? I have enough blades for all who need teaching today."

Sven falls back, face ashen. Something in my chest breaks at seeing our village leader so powerless. Even Gondo, massive and strong, can only watch with helpless rage as the first cut descends.

The first cut silences the entire square. Even the morning birds stop singing as silver parts flesh...

The sacred blade moves with surgical precision, but there's nothing holy in how it splits skin from muscle, muscle from bone. Judge Malakai works with an artist's care, each stroke deliberate as he peels back layers of flesh. The silver edge catches morning light, transforming it into something sickly and wrong before it disappears into red depths.

The cloth between her teeth turns dark as she bites down, but the screams find other ways out. They leak from her nose, her eyes, every pore of her being. These aren't the sharp cries of sudden pain, but the deep, primal sounds of someone being unmade. The kind of screams that make mothers cover their children's ears, that will echo in old soldiers' nightmares for years to come.

Then comes a sound I never imagined possible - the scrape of sacred silver against living bone. The noise cuts through flesh and soul alike, a terrible grinding that makes even the most hardened Witnesses flinch. It's the sound of divine law being carved directly into a mother's skeleton, a sound that will haunt our village's dreams forever.

Maya burrows against me, sobbing. I try to shield her eyes, to protect her from what's happening, but her small body shakes with each new cut. Mom's hands hover before my face, trembling so badly they can't maintain their cover. Through the gaps between her paralyzed fingers, I see everything. The way Judge Malakai's blade lifts skin in careful strips, how the Executors pull the edges apart with hooks to expose fresh canvas for his work.

"The lesson must reach the bone," Judge Malakai explains, his voice carrying the same tone Mom uses when teaching me to bake bread. "So deep that even if the flesh heals, the skeleton will remember." The silver blade scrapes against exposed bone again, and that impossible sound echoes through the square like breaking glass.

Healing magic flares between each cut, not to ease pain but to prevent the mercy of unconsciousness. Blue light seals vessels just enough to prevent death, forces nerves to stay alive and screaming. Some in the crowd vomit. Others weep openly. A child begins to wail but is quickly silenced by terrified parents.

The salt comes next. Not the kind we use for cooking, but sacred crystals blessed in tears and pain. Judge Malakai packs it into the deepest cuts with ritualistic care. When it meets raw flesh and exposed bone, Finn's mother's back arches so violently the ropes creak. The sound she makes isn't human anymore - it's the voice of pure agony given form, of love being punished with such exquisite cruelty that even the stones seem to weep.

Blood drips steadily now, a mother's love running red between the cobblestones. Judge Malakai works tirelessly, transforming skin and muscle and bone into his divine message. By the time he steps back to admire his work, the sun has climbed high enough to illuminate his masterpiece in terrible detail.

What was once a mother's back is now a tapestry of sacred suffering. Muscle gleams wetly between precisely flayed skin, and beneath that, bone shows through - no longer ivory but red and raw, carved with words that will never heal quite right. The healing magic seals just enough to ensure survival, leaving every cut, every salted wound, every bone-deep letter perfect in its clarity.

Finn's mother hangs limp in her bonds now, death hovering just beyond reach. I can see it in her eyes - the desperate wish to let go, to slip away into final darkness. But the healing magic pulses relentlessly through her ravaged flesh, forcing her heart to beat, her lungs to draw breath, her nerves to keep feeling. The Donor's law demands not just suffering, but survival to remember it.

Judge Malakai steps back from his work, studying the marks with grim satisfaction. "Let this serve as an example," he announces, his voice carrying to every corner of the square. "This is the price of defiance – not only for practicing Flow magic without Church supervision, but for daring to manipulate the sacred resonance itself."

High Executor Thane steps forward, his face a mask of righteous fury. "The boy sought to alter the very nature of the Flows," he declares. "To twist their purpose for personal gain. And his mother..." His lip curls in disgust. "She not only knew, but actively helped conceal this heresy. She claimed the corrupted resonance as her own to protect him."

The crowd barely breathes. We all know that the Flows are powerful, dangerous – that only registered adventurers trained for years by the Guilds are permitted to wield them. For ordinary people, even attempting to manipulate the Flows is a grave offense. But seeing Finn’s mother, broken and marked, none of us can believe this punishment is truly just.

"This changes matters," Malakai announces to the crowd, his voice taking on that terrible gentleness again. "We came here to perform simple markings today. But it seems the corruption in Aldenvik runs deeper than we suspected." His eyes settle on Mrs. Weber and Henrik, still bound at their posts. "These planned ceremonies will wait. First, we must investigate how far this taint has spread."

The Executors move to release Mrs. Weber and Henrik. Relief flickers across their faces before they remember to hide it. But we all understand – this isn't mercy. It's a promise of worse to come.

"Return to your homes," Malakai commands. "Consider what you've witnessed. Let this mother's marks remind you – no corruption escapes divine sight. No heresy goes unpunished."

No one speaks as we disperse. No one dares. The Witnesses drift among us, searching for any sign of sympathy, any whispered word of comfort or defiance. Even in our own homes now, we know they listen. They sense. They wait.

I return home with my family, each step heavier than the last, the weight of what I’ve witnessed pressing on me like an unseen hand. The door closes behind us with a soft thud, as if the house is swallowing us whole, sealing us off from everything outside. Inside, there’s a stillness that feels like it’s always been here, suffocating every corner of the space. The kitchen, once filled with the sounds of my mother humming, of my father’s jokes, now seems to echo with a quiet dread. We move in slow, measured motions, like animals afraid to disturb the silence. I help my mother set the table, my hands trembling slightly, but I don’t dare to say anything. No one speaks, the air thick with things we can’t voice.

Maya sits at the table, her small hands gripping the edge, eyes wide, searching my face. I know she’s shaken—she didn’t see what I saw, but I could feel her fear, her confusion. Earlier, when Finn’s mother was hanging there, I put my hand over her eyes, shielding her from the worst of it. She never asked why. Maybe she already knew. Even with my hand covering her vision, she trembled beneath my touch. There’s a part of her that’s been lost today, a part I can’t protect her from. She’s different now, in a way I can’t explain. I don’t know how to fix it.

My father hasn’t said a word since we came back. He’s sitting at the table, eyes down, his hands clasped together, his face pale and still. My mother, usually full of quiet energy, is now tense, her movements slow and deliberate, as if everything she does could be watched. I feel their silence pressing on me too, their inability to comfort us, to protect us from what’s happened. They’re afraid, just like we are, but they hide it behind their own quiet, each of us trapped in our own thoughts.

We sit down to eat in silence, the food untouched. Maya shifts in her seat, restless, her eyes flicking nervously around the room. I keep thinking about Finn’s mother, about how broken she looked, how they had marked her so thoroughly that I can’t imagine anything but that image. It feels like my chest is being crushed. But I don’t speak, don’t let any of it show. Maya doesn’t ask questions. She knows better.

Later, as the night falls, I look one last time toward Finn’s mother. The image of her, hanging there, so utterly defeated, cuts through me like a knife. It’s not just the horror of what they did to her—it’s the hopelessness that comes with it, the knowledge that we live in a place where this is not only allowed, but justified. I didn’t want to feel sorry for her, but I can’t help it. I want to scream, but the fear of being overheard keeps me silent. The thought of what’s to come next is almost worse than what we’ve already seen.

I lie awake that night, the darkness closing in on me. I can still see Finn’s mother’s broken body in my mind, feel the suffocating weight of it. The silence around me is thick now, waiting, like the world itself is holding its breath, watching us, waiting for us to slip up. Maya is curled up beside me, her little body stiff, her breath shallow. She’s trying to sleep, but I can feel her fear, the same fear that’s wrapped around me like a second skin. I know we’re both awake, though neither of us says a word. My parents sleep in the other room, but I know they are awake too, each of us lying still in the dark, pretending to be asleep, pretending it’s normal.

Her small hand is still holding mine, her grip tight, refusing to let go. She’s afraid. She’s terrified, and so am I. We both are. I think about the bruises on my cheek—small, but they hurt. And then, in that moment, I remember something my mother said when she slapped me. I was confused, hurt, angry. But now I understand. "I thought my bruise hurt," I think to myself, "but how naive I was. How stupid. This world isn’t about small cuts. This is what we have to fear. This is the real pain. This is why my mother hit me."

I lie there, my heart heavy with the weight of it all. Maya’s hand never leaves mine, not even as sleep begins to take her. She’s holding onto me, holding onto what little normality we have left, and I can’t help but feel how fragile it all is now.

The investigations begin. Tomorrow we’ll learn what price we’ll all pay for living in a world where even a mother’s attempt to protect her child is seen as heresy worthy of divine punishment.

Tomorrow, everything could change. Tomorrow, we could be next.