The Light that Blinds

[Tobias Stalt]

Rated Aure.

Her screams of lust echo through the halls and into my head.

I thought that seeking the embrace of the Church was a monotonous venture. As I sit here in this austere white chamber, locked away with my alleged "sins," I've been urged to seek understanding and penance for them from gods who left long ago. "Prayer is the bridge between the faithful and peace," they told me. I remember every word of their dogmatic drivel, and I despise all of it.

That's what fuels my tenacity. I hate them. I hate them all. Every second I spend behind this locked door is another dagger in someone's back. It's only a matter of time.

When we first volunteered as Acolytes, they told us we would face trials that pitted us against ourselves. That was a cute way of putting it. I watched them cast the woman in chains ahead of me and drag her screaming toward the inner sanctum of Denebriel. If I hadn't heard it all, I'd have never believed in the sheer amount of corruption that goes on beneath the surface of a religious body.

They called for virgins. I remember distinctly what they said, "the vessel to house Denebriel could be born any time; she may already be among us. Bring out your pure, chaste daughters that we might seek our beloved within their hearts." Fuck.

My knees hit the floor and I sag forward as vomit spills unbidden from my lips. I can feel my ribs almost ripping through my flesh, and my tongue is dry like the desert. The sound sustains me, but in a way so profoundly disturbing, it sickens me.

Erica had been a virgin; I was certain of it when she first looked at me. She wore the blush of a school girl and a skittish smile flicked away from me every time I matched her gaze. Gods, I'd have fucked her senseless. Blonde tresses marred by brown in uneven proportion framed her petite face. Full lips and eyes blue as the sky were her best features by far. Her teats weren't as big as I'd like, but she had all the arse in the world to make up for it. They proved it, though. Spread her wide right there for all to see, much to her great disdain, and inspected her purity.

It was gone, now.

How many times have they fucked her? How many of them? I think I'm less jealous than enraged. They sold her father lies about his faith and soured his child for any man. Oblivion take all of them. I'll send them myself. As I find my feet shakily and grasp the bed frame, I take in the sounds of her twisted pleasure. Certainly, she hates it. I take solace in that fact. Nothing she learned and nothing they told her could make her enjoy this fate.

Perhaps when I find her, she'll still be sane. I can hope. I will hope for that. For now, they've taken my weapons and left me with trousers and a simple shirt. I've gotten used to the chills, and the shivers are much rarer. Salvar hates all of us, but I'll make her my bitch. I'll make the whole fuckin' world my bitch. Just watch me.

"Stalt!" There he is again. The cleric Jessar, a man of many words, but little kindness. He's quick to take tithes, but slow to give out blessings. "Tobias, what did you learn last night?" Here we go again. I know what he wants from me. I know exactly what he needs. And just like his gods damned faith does, I'll dose him with placating words.

"I have learned," I rasp, "the measure of my sins."

"And they are vast," Jessar agrees. He always agrees. "Have you sins to confess?"

"I've manipulated myself thrice in the past bell," I tell him, "to the sounds of sister Erica." It's not entirely untrue, I suppose. Surely not three times. She sounds much less fascinating than a whore.

"Understandable," the cleric assures me. He's so readily forgiving when it comes to my humanity. What a wonderful blighter. "The flesh calls strongly to us. At times, stronger than reason. You must remain vigilant in your prayers and seek the direction of the Sway."

"Yes, Brother Jessar." I've decided. I'll kill that old fucker first. His holier than thou attitude and and wrinkly, grandfather face have always rubbed me the wrong way. "Thank you." Let me at just one of my daggers, you old bastard. I'll cut your tongue out and ram it up yer arse. Just like all your friends have done to Erica.

"Rest well, Stalt," he tells me, "perhaps tomorrow, you will be cleansed." Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Madison better pay me good for this shit.

[Tobias Stalt]

I don't remember falling asleep. The rest was fitful and less than soothing, and I was abruptly awoken by the sound of chains. Shackles bound my arms and legs together as I dragged along dirty stone floors and ornate carpets. One compounded the other as rug burn irritated my flesh and the cold stung me deep. Pain doesn't even matter anymore. It's something I've come to anticipate, on nights without food when my stomach roars at me in rage. To suffer is life; that's what the church wants me to learn, isn't it? Religion is such a cynical thing. I don't think it suits me at all.

Still, the blood that weeps from my legs reminds me of one fact that the Sway can't rob me of: I'm still alive. In the face of all their brutality and barbaric traditions, some paltry outsider is weathering their emotional shitstorm. I can see the guarded look in their eyes when they glance my way. They expect me to fail. It's upsetting them that I haven't broken. Maybe I'm winning this war after all.

"Tobias Ebericht Stalt," fuck, I shouldn't have given them my full name. It sounds so pompous when an Archon of the Ethereal Sway preaches it above the convocation in the grand hall of St. Denebriel's Cathedral. I can feel all of those eyes raping me with their doubts, hate, and ill will. I'm the first outsider to ever be allowed into the initial conditioning to become a member of the upper echelon of the Church's hierarchy. They feel compelled to attempt conversion because it validates them. The show they're giving the people is one meant solely to garner their acceptance of me. "You stand in the light of all the spirits of the Ethereal Sway, and in the eyes of this congregation."

"Aye," no denying that part. What else do you have for me?

"Do you accept that you are a lost soul, and in need of redemption?" Aren't we all? I'm staring at him blankly right now, but mostly because it makes sense for me to do. I look like a man perplexed by the question, but more, by the answer to it. If I spoke too quickly, there would be doubt in their minds. If I waited too long, they'd call it hesitation. There's a perfect art to selling a lie, especially to people who do it for a living.

You've got to make it feel genuine. "I do," the sigh that erupted from my lips feigned defeat. With eyes downcast, their ever present, judgmental gaze swept over me and I felt a shiver crawl along my spine. This feels sick. I'm a marionette, dancing for a crowd who laughs and jeers at every fumbling move I make. It's a fitting sensation, though. I'm a method actor, and these wayward watchers are my spellbound audience.

Who's dancing now, fuckers?

"Ack!" I wasn't expecting that. The sharp pain lanced through my back as a loud 'crack!' broke out. The flesh of my lower back tore open when the leather struck me. It stings, but I won't reach back to see if it's bleeding. 'Crack!'

"Scourging is a great privilege few receive," he tells me. I watch him pull back with the whip and his unfeeling eyes held me in regard. "For an outsider to receive any rites is a great honor. You have done a great thing, Tobias."

Which part of any of this was great? "Gah!" My screams worsen as he strikes an area previously nicked. He seems deaf to my pain. Hell, by now, I think I'm deaf to my pain. I can feel the lazy trickle of fluid down my sides; he's torn the small of my back to shreds, and the air feels like hellfire against the open wounds.

"The body is weak," the Archon explains, "and exposes the sins with some coaxing. The desires of the flesh are strong, and their lure great." When the whip cracked again, I winced. They seem so preoccupied with this dogma that you'd think they honestly believed it. I've seen the truth of that, though. "By the whip, your very soul will confess."

I won't speak, I won't beg. The fire in my veins is as nothing. The shackles feel weightless. There is nothing these heathens can do to me that I haven't experienced in the past week. It strikes again, but this time, all I can do is smile.

[Tobias Stalt]

It's not bright, but not dark either. That's how I'd describe this room. I'm not sure how it's lit, or how I got here. My mind went black somewhere between the lashings and sacred oils. Pain so exquisite that only religion could ever achieve it; the irony of an innately benevolent organization that glorifies suffering bothers me far more than the dull ache beneath my skin. This sort of evil is not only allowed to exist in the world, but it has the largest following out of any cult in existence.

I can see myself. Back, front, sides, I am exposed in totality. I've been stripped down and placed in a room with only walls and no apparent doors. What terrifies me is my reflection. There is nothing else. Wounds on my back still burn red hot, deep welts and lacerations that spew lifeblood to the floor. "See yourself," he whispered to me, "and know the freedom that comes from conquering pain. Only those who walk the narrow path can face the evils in this world. You must know their suffering to save them from it."

Such a beautiful, terrible sentiment. I could almost agree with it. My father always told me to walk a mile in a man's shoes before judging him. I suppose it was the same thing. An impossible but beautiful thought. What I see looks nothing like me. Stubble and messy hair from a lack of routine hygiene. I can smell the rotten blood that's dried on the floor beneath me. Whatever mystic power preserves my wounds from infection is more a curse than blessing. Each time I hope they close, they sear with pain no different from the first lash. It's dull now, in retrospect. I barely notice.

"What do you see in the depths?" Ah, there you are. The voice echoes around me, it's origin untraceable. But he's there, somewhere, just beyond my reach. "Do you understand your own nature?"

Such a loaded question. I've asked so many times, I doubt mirrors and smoke could give me an answer. I see weariness in my strained eyes. Dark bags line their lids. "I understand." My genuflection has lost the caustic bite that defines it. Maybe they've stolen some of my desire to fight back. I have to admit, they're quite persuasive. That makes this so much more satisfying. "Teach me, Archon."

"I am," came the soft response. "And you learn so well, Tobias Stalt." He spoke as though he knew something I did not; perhaps he did at that, because he looked upon my pain and felt nothing. Rather, if he did feel, he showed nothing. "You will serve our cause perfectly."

I dislike the way he says that. The frown that steals across my lips is telling. "My life is yours," I lie. His chuckle would have unnerved me, but he did that job well enough long before this moment. There is little left that can surprise me.

"Truer words, as they say," he agreed. I can hear the smile in his voice. He thinks he's won. "Who are you?"

"Tobias," I tell him. At this point, I'm not even sure what he wants.

A sigh. He's clearly displeased with me. "Who are you, child?" he asks again. He's searching for something deeper. Perhaps a realization I haven't come to yet. He expects a conclusion I've yet to draw. Is there something missing? Beyond suffering, what is man?

...gods, it's warped. "Nothing," I say, finally understanding. That's what he wanted. It has to be. "I'm nothing." It sounded like enlightenment, but in my stomach, the words twisted like bile. Nothing would please me more than burning down this whole damn cathedral.

I watch myself fidget in discomfort. It's a strange thing, seeing yourself exposed. I can see the bones in my torso as my chest rises and falls. Nothing, am I? Flesh and bone, mind and spirit, and I'm nothing? "Yes," the reply came so suddenly that I jumped. For a lapsing second, I thought he had read my mind. "You are nothing," he tells me, "as we all are."

The walls moan around me and creak. A latch lifts, and the mirror in front of me slowly swings aside. The Archon stands before me, a wide grin on his face. "I will wash your wounds and clothe you in the vestments of Our faith." The way he says "Our" smacks of acceptance. A smile creeps along my lips.

Success.

[Tobias Stalt]

Of course I'm not keen on the idea of an old man running his fetid talons over my naked body. I think he knows that; it's customary for him to make the offer, I suppose. His eyes don't seem to move over my body with any untoward thought, so I can safely assume he's not interested in feeling me up. Thank the Sway for that, I guess. Still, he's motioning to someone outside that I can't see, since the world beyond this one appears black.

...and now, I wish they'd stayed just beyond the threshold. Two of the most gorgeous girls I've seen in Salvar, totally naked. Their nipples are firm from waiting out in the hall so long. They're carrying pails of water and soap, and I can already feel the sting of my wounds in the forefront of my mind. I look toward the Archon, who offers his kindest, wrinkled smile. I respond in kind, but I really want to tell the man where he can shove it.

That would be less than productive, though, wouldn't it? I've gotten this far. Now, I need to do what it takes to prove my tenacity. The first vestiges of clean water touch my scarred skin, and I slowly shut my eyes. A gasp of agony parts my lips, but I silence it. The pain is nothing. I have to remember that. They keep attempting to remind me of it, but I've already conquered the sensation. It's just a reflex.

"Open your eyes, brother Stalt," he chides me softly. I let out a ragged breath and do as I'm bidden. The subtle notes of suffering line my face. Both women seemed intent on cleansing the wounds and nothing else. I envy them in that dedication. That's what the Church has been pressing me toward this whole time. Their bodies are devoid of scarring, though- magic, perhaps? Or were they more receptive of the teachings than I was- am?

Bloody water spills from my wounds to the floor. I remember the sensation of cleanliness, but it has never felt this fiery. "Pain and purity are pillars of the faithful," he reminds me. "We stand upon these things in understanding, and they elevate us above the frailties of pagans, witches, and barbarians." Their beliefs tell them that they're better than anyone else in the world, so long as they dedicate themselves to the teachings. Ah, myopia. It must be so nice.

Under any other circumstances, these women in a room naked with me would have gone much differently. I can't enjoy any of it. I'm not so much as slightly aroused. Their soft smiles and childish giggles do nothing for me. Green eyes, brown eyes, and all of the beautiful brunette hair haven't the slightest effect. I think the Archon notices that as I glance down at them. There's no lust in my gaze. Frankly, it surprises even me.

"Sister Erica," he calls, and I am stunned. Erica, by all the gods, no. He wouldn't dare.

But he has. The dirty blonde beauty traipses into the room with visible weariness, her tiny tits jiggling a bit as she stops several feet from me. "Brother," she greets him, then turns her gaze to me. I see the beginnings of recollection in her gaze, though it exists in a fog. What they've done to her is beyond the physical. There's something in her that has retreated for safety. "What would you have me do?"

Oh, how I once wanted to hear her say that. She's saying it to the Archon, though, while she looks at me. A twisted dream come true. "Brother Stalt wishes to be enlightened," he tells her. I wonder at what he means by enlightenment. "Tempt his flesh so that I may test his mind."

This son of a bitch. I bite my tongue until the familiar taste of metal poisons my mouth. You can't win that fight, I remind myself. Not here, with all these eyes looking on. Not when I don't know what the man is capable of. Instead, I turn my gaze toward the vision of loveliness that is Erica come into womanhood. Her eyes are vacant, but no less beautiful. I suppose I've never much cared before about the depth of a girl before I had her. It's a sobering revelation. Immodest movements toward me rouse something in the pit of my stomach, but I find it easy to rebuff her advances in my mind. I don't want her. Not the way she is now.

Erica hangs on me suddenly, and with a great need. Her eyes search my face, but I deny her my gaze. Instead, I'm looking at his Highest of Holies. The satisfaction on his face is anything but smug, though I can't help but make the connection. This is evil, and despite his best intentions, I'm still in hell.

Her nipples caress my skin and I feel the warmth between her legs so close to my manhood, I take a breath to reject my own desire for her. My face twitches with visible contempt, the very first time I've even let on that I hate this place. I despise these people. The Archon's smile grows.

Gods below. Both my eyes widen as Erica steals a kiss from my lips and her hand engulfs me gently. I pull away from her with repulsion and grasp her wrist. The other two women look on in awe at what they believe is the ferocity of my devotion. "Sister," I chide her gently, "these things are not for us to do."

She looks at me almost deflated, as if she had wanted this and I had denied her. In my heart it's like a deathblow, knowing I wanted to give her the same. On all sides of us, though, there is admiration. "You may go, Sister Erica," she's bidden. Her eyes, haunted, never leave mine. They scream in silence, "save me."

She leaves the room slowly, and I watch her. It's not the way I once would have; I pity Erica, and hate what's been done to her. I want to give her the freedom she's desperate for. I want to destroy all of this. As both of the other girls dry me and dress my wounds, the Archon reveals a set of new, black robes. "These are yours, Brother Tobias. You have earned them."

I accept the clothes with both arms. "Vlince," he tells me, "a fabric slow to tear that will protect you from most blades. It is a perfect armor for our Witch Hunters. Your body can move with all the speed and grace it needs, while it retains the protection you will absolutely require."

Finally. The first gift they've given me that hasn't scarred my body. "Thank you, brother," I tell him, and for once, it's honest. "I will wear it proudly."

"Not too proudly, I hope."

Gods no. Never that.

[Tobias Stalt]

Salvar screams at us. Her winter wind assails our faces and frozen tears settle white on our clothes. The land knows what we intend, and it weeps for her children; for them, over the fate that we intend. For us, she weeps a much greater loss. I flick a mass of snow from my shoulder and peer over at the two younger men, Anton and Viggo. They can't be much older than eighteen, twenty years at the most. Viggo hasn't even grown a true beard yet. His deep blue eyes are a sea of wonder, ever taking in the world around him. If the Sway hadn't taken him young, he might have been a scholar.

"The encampment is less than a day's march," Anton whispered harshly. I can't believe the excitement I hear in his voice. It's as though he isn't concerned that our goal is the murder of hundreds of women and children. These camps of witches, generally low born common folk who've been forced to settle en masse outside cities because of higher living costs, decry the tithes and rites of the Church that bleed their purses. Far be it for society to simply accept those who refuse to believe in their gods, I suppose.

The wagon that creaks along beside me is an unassuming vessel for the weapon housed at its heart; beneath the bales of hay and provisions that the church has openly extended to the refugees as a message of kindness.... ah, gods, I'll see it when it happens. I don't even want to think about it.

I've met those within the ranks of the faithful who truly do wish for a greater good. I should remind myself of that. Sister Katherine and Brother Bartholomew, and the choir children who simply played on the altar while service was not in session. Even Anton and Viggo, in spite of their insipid acceptance of wholesale slaughter, mean the best for the people of Salvar. I doubt they truly realize what they're doing, if I'm honest.

I doubt most of them know. No one else would bother to listen to the whispers and learn the secrets. Perhaps that reflects ill on me, but I'll own it. I've never trusted them, and I have been right not to. Of course, they don't know that. They'll keep their puppet alive, so long as he dances exquisitely to their tune. I'll dance right where I want to be.

"We get to do the will of the Sway, Ant," Viggo sounds elated. It's as if he were born for this; it makes me realize, their culture is seeped with these ancient beliefs. It's a rich and dark history, and that's forgivable. I can't look at that harshly. Even though I want to. I truly want to hate both of these boys. "Death to the heretics."

It's like a stupid little clubhouse chant. 'Death to the heretics,' like all the daemons in the world have gathered in a small camp in the Salvic wastes and we're about to slay them where they stand. "Quiet, both of you," I hiss, "if the elders were to hear you spewing such zealotry, you'd likely be scourged."

They shut right up; I think the fear of reprimand works well with the young. When pain becomes your routine, it's much less daunting. "Brother Stalt," Anton whines at me, "you won't go telling on us, will you?"

"Quiet," I repeat the sentiment for them. I like to be alone with my thoughts, especially when I have to mentally prepare myself to be part of something I'm not fond of. "I won't say anything. You have my word."

They know, at least, that my word is good. I hear the relief as they sigh and both of them march rigidly. A Sway Caravan is nothing to scoff at. Twenty strong the Witch Hunters march, five at the head, five at the rear, and five to either side of the wagon. At the helm of the wagon is a Cleric- it's not Jessar, markedly. I don't think I know this one. Someone named Harrow.

The horse is a large Clydesdale, ideal for carrying a heavy load. They're being especially careful with the precious cargo, it would seem. Drawing my robes tighter out of habit rather than necessity, I dislike the lack of familiar weapons. For now, I've been outfitted with steep forged in Knifes Edge and been told my weapons must be sanctified before I can use them. Some precaution against unsanctioned evocations.

I'll get them back once I've proven I'm a good boy.

[Tobias Stalt]

"Urp!" The sound of my stomach retching over the snow and spilling a vivid array of hot color is less than appealing. I see several faces scrunch and back away repulsed, but really, who likes to be near sickness? Mine is born of two evils; stress, knowing what is about to happen, and listening to Harrow pontificate. There's few things in the world I hate more than a man obsessed with hearing himself speak. The fumes of my regurgitation spur me to repeat the act, so I step away.

Viggo and Anton are standing not so far from the wagon, smarmy looks painted on their youthful faces. They clearly don't understand finesse at all. "You two," I hiss as I wipe spittle from my lips, "come away from there. That food's for the refugees." They know that, but the act helps us to maintain an air of security. The few eyes that rattle between the Witch Hunters and the Cleric tell a tale of distrust, and all of us can see it.

This will be a hard one to sell. "The Church understands your plight, brothers and sisters," I turn my gaze toward Harrow as he speaks; he is not so old as the Archon, but his graying hair and aged features bespeak a carefully guarded wisdom. Truthfully, I'm uncertain of this one. He feels dangerous. "And we embrace even those who have not yet found the light of the Ethereal Sway." Gods, what a lie. I think they know better by now. But you know they want to hear it, and you've brought them a reason to hope. That's all the bait you ever need.

"Children, come, take what you need," he tells them, and I almost want to scream out. Don't do it. Run. Run as far as you can from this place, and leave this horrible fate to us. They won't ever hear me, though. These people are about to die, and I'm responsible. I could save them all for the small cost of my own life. But that's never been my decision to make. Not once the coin was in hand and I accepted the mission. Freebird has ransomed the Crimson Hand's fortunes to me for the smallest chance at... something.

When this is said and done, I'll have to ask her. Was it worth it?

They line up like perfect little lambs. Arms out and with smiles on their faces, the first group accept portions of food and drink. Greedily, the young men and women rip into their gift of sustenance, and I look away. I should watch this. By every right, it's my responsibility.

"Grgh!" A man makes makes a garbled sound and I turn my gaze warily back. He's doubled over and writhing in agony, and the food is spewing back out from his lips accompanied by a viscous black fluid that splatters all over the snow. It's not just him; the women are doing it too. Soon, a heap of bodies and black fluid stains the Salvic countryside.

And this? This is only just the beginning. "Witness," Harrow calls out as the wind howls above and the ground glows with putrid green light, "the fate of those who reject the True Faith." His eyes are sunken in his face, and as he murmurs a guttural and eerie incantation, I notice that his skin crawls and shifts, and age seems to inflict itself on him.

"Demonology?" I grit my teeth; the Sway had taught me only hatred for practices such as this. For one of their clergymen to harbor such a power, let alone infect their lands with it...

"The command of the darkness," Anton corrects me with a gleeful smile. This boy is watching a religious leader affect a demonic summoning with innocent lives, and he's doing it with a smile. What the fuck. "It's one of our greatest rites," he tells me proudly, as though privy to some secret he was sharing with a commoner. "It displays the strength of our faith to topple even the darkest-"

"Save it," I tell him with a grunt. There's no reason for him to elaborate. I get the gist. Black arms rise from the pool of bodies and talons tore the corpses asunder. I've never seen anything like this, and I hope I never will again. The beast from below rose out, it's height an easy rival to the Cathedral of Saint Denebriel itself. Luckily, Knifes Edge was far out of sight, and there would be no witnesses to what came next.

I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

His face is like shadowy darkness. In an abyss beneath a black hood, there are no eyes, but his body is muscular and the color of midnight. Though I can't see it, I can feel his gaze as he looks through my soul, and I let out an involuntary breath. When his gaze swept away from me, all felt right with the world.

Terror gripped everything; the mountain itself, the snow, and the heart of every living being not robed in black. Frozen in place, the refugees looked on with mouths agape. In a voice that shook the earth, the foul creature speaks, but they are words beyond my understanding. The Cleric smiles and points out across the fields around them. "They are all yours, Zazrath."

Zazrath. I hope to all the gods there are that I never hear that name again. I never want to see it written, or even think of the image that is this demon. It is all the proof I need that I despise magic. This thing should not exist. Not in this world. Not in my world.

A scream rips across reality as Zazrath lifts a man from the earth. So easily the creature lifted him, almost delicately, between two claws. The blood poured from his pitiful body before he ever disappeared into the murky darkness of the demon's hood. But the scream seemed to echo through eternity.

"Bear witness to this, brothers," Harrow calls out to us, "and let it temper your faith. Understand that our powers are great, but that they inflict upon us responsibility in equal measure."

"Amen," we all echo, and I do the same.

"Amen." I can't tear my eyes from Zazrath now. He has no interest in me, but I have a morbid fascination with the brutal efficiency of his killings. Each death is another scar on my soul. Every life that ends here is a weight I take to my grave. I wonder if the others even care.

[Tobias Stalt]

"What the fuck was that?"

It's a flat but fair question, and it's all for Brother Harrow. His smile is unsettling so soon after a giant demon has come and gone, and not a single bone is left where hundreds once lived. "I thought we stood against evil and corruption," I tell him with as little accusation in my voice as I can manage. Obviously, my malcontent is thinly veiled. "Demons hardly send a positive message."

"Ah, Brother Stalt," he addresses me wearily, but not unkindly. "It has ever been the notion of the Church that we show you," his words are slow, thoughtful. It's clear he's careful about what he says. "We know who you are. We know who you were. That is why we had to have you."

"Well," I look in his face, and dislike what I see there. He's reading me with greedy, hungry eyes. That power he let slip, it owns him; more than he knows, Zazrath has become one with him. I see something of the abyss left over in his gaze. "That's a comforting thought."

We walk quietly behind he caravan, and if I were on slip him the blade, I doubt anyone would notice. He motions for them to carry on ahead without us, so the conversation is a private one. For that, I am thankful. "Alerar has been an ally of Salvar for some time," he reminded me, "and your beginnings in Salvar were less than favorable with the Church. Necromancy? Oh, not without good reason, Mister Stalt." He chides me with jests; clearly, he sees himself that far above me.

A punch will crack a skull regardless of your social status, brother. "You see, Tobias, in you there is something far more precious than faith." Hah! More precious than faith? The words these priestly types vomit astound me. "We knew from the start that simply breaking you would be a fruitless venture."

"Why even try, then?" I had to ask; the thought of wasting so much time for nothing makes no sense. And I have a habit of asking the right questions- so I've been told.

"The Church accepts any and all faith that is offered freely," he states, and the obvious message gives way to the deeper, more interesting truth. "But as you have just witnessed, some powers that we enlist are... less than willing."

Zazrath seemed content enough devouring all those people. But the point is well made- the creature was a demon, and it was summoned against its own will. To bind a creature like that and bring it forth requires immense power. Rather, I've heard it takes power of grandiose proportions. I'm not a mage. "You have a great deal of potential." Finally, he's getting to the point. "There is so much hatred in you, Tobias Stalt. I can taste it when you speak, I can feel it in your glare."

He's not wrong. If they saw this from the beginning, I wonder why they never spoke on it. "When you walked freely into our cathedral, we knew simply making you a Witch Hunter would not do." I turn my gaze on him now and my lips tighten. For once, he knows something I do not. Knowledge is power. Do I act without it, or do I wait to steal what he has?

I nod slowly. Fuck it. I'll take your bait this time, priest. "A true hunter is feral," he says, "and in the days long before the Church, the people of Salvar struggled to survive. They toiled and fought against both beast and nature for the basic right to live. Humanity has evolved so far beyond that basest of instincts, and yet, it forgets the true beauty in its origins."

The path spirals in front of us as torches are lit to ward off the night. Our march will see the gates before dawn, but I'm still obsessed with what Brother Harrow has to say. "We know you share our hatred for magic," he says suddenly. I can't help but smirk. "It's what drew you to us to begin with, no?"

"You're sounding much more interesting," I admit.

"All we wish to do is foster that hatred," he tells me, "and create a perfect killer."

"For what?" I have to ask that. Every question up to this point has left me frustrated; the man speaks in perfect riddles, offering just enough to have me wanting more. I hate it. Every one of these clergymen plays a game, dangling food above my head like a dog. And every single time, I snap at it voraciously.

"Why," he says with a smile, "to destroy our common enemy."

[Tobias Stalt]

Sometimes, it's better not to ask.

Around me, spirals of pyroclasm dance to a spastic, unheard tune. I watch the white shrouded heads of Sway Clerics as they bend and contort their magic to their will. The heat in this cloister is staggering in contrast to the world beyond its walls. My naked torso leaks from every pore as they scald me with closeness that triggers my need to flinch. Every time I move even a fraction, I'm punished with a new burn.

They cleanse the wounds away with harsh radiance that undoes everything but my pain. It is unsurprising that they'd leave me reminders of my failures. Armed with a resolve not to flinch, I steel myself to see the test through again. "Our best mages," Harrow calls out over the crackle of immense flames, "can easily replicate the simplicity of a hedge witch's fire, and recreate the punishment that you will face."

I fail to see how Salvar's rogue magic users are my common enemy with the Church; still, the ability to face these trials is not granted to every man who walks through those doors. I should drink deep from this chalice of chance and benefit from it. "I understand, Brother Harrow."

They expect- demand compliance of me. It's a small price to tap into their vast wealth of secrets. In silence, I nod and bid the mystics continue. Their contrived heat engulfs me, circles me, and robs me of an escape. These men seek to fill me with dread and weaken my resolve. With this level of magic so close to my flesh, it ought to be a simple task.

With each failure, I understand more. The body is a shell for the mind. It is the mind from which all beings, magical or otherwise, draw their power. Fear is the penultimate weapon of any creature. He who commands the response of another lords over them. The strong eat the weak. Every burn that echoes in my mind stifles the need to feel that fear.

In a way, the Sway have robbed me of an instinct. In another way entirely, they have gifted me another. "Your mind is a weapon," Harrow tells me, "and your body is its fortress."

The flames converge on me all at once. With closed eyes, I tilt back my head and accept the fate. I embrace all of the horrific pain, and even though my body screams, I do not. The flames sear my flesh from sinew. Bone blackens and muscles tear beneath unbearable heat. My hair dries and I feel my heart race as it tries to make sense of the horrific end I'm tasting.

They intend to destroy me, but I am beyond fear. I take a hot breath and my tongue dries out. It is then that the magic bends again, and they quickly shower me with the healing litany. Flesh crawls back together and moisture returns to my skin. I feel a cool breeze wash over me and abolish the heat that lingers in my body's memories, but the fire rages in my soul.

"You did not flee," Harrow observes with a look of quiet on his face. "Baptism in flame is among the greatest rites that a man can receive," his words shake and his body follows their example. "Few survive it."

I'm staring at my palms now, beyond the place where his words can reach me. This exercise is beyond the flesh, and the pain they have taught me long before the fire made it seem like nothing. The terror that stirs in my stomach is forever silenced, the discarded memory of a useless response. It is replaced with something primal. I am something more fierce than a man now.

"A Witch Hunter of the Ethereal Sway," Harrow recites, "upholds certain duties. Whether trained in the infernal arts or tracking them, they ultimately put down our enemies." I can sense a hint of admiration in his voice, as though Brother Harrow has always desired this power for himself. Fear, likely, has robbed him at every opportunity. "You are our greatest triumph, Tobias."

I stare up at him now. He speaks of me as a prize, and I am fascinated. "What is it you sought from me?"

"From you?" he asks, his voice pained, "why, nothing, my brother. I sought to bring you to the apex of your potential."

"And what potential is that?" I must now. He has withheld this from me for far too long. "Have I not earned your indulgence, Brother Harrow?" I am trying to keep the impatience from my voice, but failing miserably.

"Tobias," he says with a broad smile. "There are some answers you must find for yourself." Another dead end. The sigh from my lips echoes my disappointment. "Fret not," he tells me, "you will understand soon enough."

[Tobias Stalt]

Meditation has never been my favorite pastime. In the dark, candlelit chamber that serves as my lodgings, I find little else to indulge myself. The scriptures of the faith are no comfort to me, and the wailing wind just beyond the walls serves only to remind me that there is a world outside. It is a world that I miss.

The sensation of my flesh burning away lingers white hot in my mind, an ever present whisper that I have survived the impossible. Somewhere beyond reason, where all magic ends and begins, I superseded all expectation placed on me. I stood alone in trial by open flame and my body appears unburnt.

My soul, however, is seared. Something of my humanity was wiped away in the purifying rite, something I suspect the Church anticipated all along. It leaves me barren, yet unbroken. Perhaps this is the existential state of nothingness that they so desperately preach. I have to wonder how many others have attained this pinnacle of understanding.

Few, I suspect, whose bodies remain intact. He told me that few survived, and questioned how my tenacity had no wavered. He spoke of me fleeing, and was reduced to bumbling awe when I stood fast in the heart of the mystic furnace. I have slowly begun to understand what he meant by triumph. He knows about my past. The Church anticipated my ability to persevere through adversity and gambled on it with their insane teachings.

Through flames they dragged a battered soul, and now I sit here in blurred darkness with the scent of lilac wafting around me. Lilac is such a droll scent. I suppose that they have a fondness for unassuming things, though. They are a a cult that teaches conformity and xenophobia.

Pain is nothing to me but a memory. The memory sunken in my flesh permeates my mind and fills me, but it escapes only as a soft sigh. My reality is empty without that suffering. It gives way to another harsh revelation. I reach out to touch the flickering candle's flame and hold mere inches above it for a moment longer than any man should.

The fire rips at flesh, a sensation urges me to renege my hand, but it's a dull ache. When I pull my palm away, there is distinct discoloration, but no proper burn. They've deadened my body to things that should realistically cause trauma. It should bother me more than this. It bothers me that it doesn't bother me.

Or does it?

I hold the unburned palm to my cheek, and the heat feels unfamiliar. The warmth is almost hostile, as though my body had taken on aspects of Salvar itself. The Sway have often preached a oneness with their homeland, and I wonder which pieces of one that the other had adapted. I wonder it in both ways, because the Sway has changed so much about Salvar, I'm hard pressed to call them it's children.

Salvar is more of a slave, in reality, than a parent to these people. They simply believe their cause righteous. I have seen the horrors of their religion, and felt the pangs of their understanding. The Church is a body made up of many paradoxes, and now, I have become one of them. In spite of all my hatred, I have embraced their highest form of enlightenment.

When I gaze into the mirror across my room, I see hate, but more, I see all that the Sway is. All that these people have ever been is a cold, long enduring hatred of the past. I am the perfect avatar for their message to the world. And the perfect message to the Church itself.

Hatred can only ever end one way. It is a flame that grows so hot, inevitably it sears all who get too close. They've created a tool that could be their own downfall.

For the first time since I first entered the Cathedral, I find myself resting peacefully.

[Tobias Stalt]

"Denebriel, grant us the strength to endure in these dark times," the prayer starts like any other, but the circumstance feels anything but. She's seated there for the council to see, stripped bare of her clothes as she had been last I'd seen her. Erica looks haunted, though. "Your daughter Erica has transgressed."

It's a small wonder they say that; all the things they've done to her and what she's seen are at war with everything she's ever been taught. Remain pure until marriage, the tenets say, but you took that from her. She does the duty you've tasked her with unquestioningly. Still, when her spirit speaks to her about the darkness in her way, I can't blame her for what she's done. "Forgiveness, O bless'd, is within her reach- as you taught us it should always be. Anoint us with the grace to embrace her with it, and counsel her with the wisdom to seek it."

They pray over this girl and it shames her. The terror in her eyes and the tears that stain her cheeks call to me, and as the others rise with a solemn "amen," I walk against the flow and kneel before her.

"Erica," I call to her in a soft voice. She seems aware, but beyond reach. It hurts that she won't look at me. "Sister Erica," I solicit her again, this time with the customary honorific. Perhaps that will stroke her interest.

"Don't call me sister," she whispered weakly. It twists something in my heart to hear her say it. "Is this my reward?" she asks me, "to be used and cast aside? Do all of you expect me to be naught but your toy, a whore to be fucked and forgotten?" For the first time, I do feel the need to touch her. My fingers stroke her hair and her cheek, but she reels back at the affectionate touch. "Do not touch me," she snaps, but her heart is not in the words. Resistance has fled from her nature.

Still, I comply with her wishes. That sparks something in her, and she looks up at me. Recognition flares up in her eyes, and she breaks. The tears flow anew, and she buries her face in both hands. "Oh, Tobias," she sobs, "I'm so sorry."

"You've nothin' to apologize for, lass," I speak, this time without affecting the common accent of the Church. "Gods be good, you don't."

The room is empty beyond us. Cleric and Archon alike have filed out and dust blows out beneath shut doors. We are alone in the sight of Denebriel, if the bitch hasn't gone blind. I'm still on the fence about that. "I never wanted any of this," she tells me in desperation, "but now, I'm trapped. There's no freedom from this. Not for me."

I suspect that in her mind more than her body, that fact is true. Alchemists and mages have rendered Erica's young womb a dusty, barren waste. They ensured she would never bear fruit for any man. I heard them speak of it in the mess several days ago. I doubt that the girl knows it, but her mind has already decided she's unworthy to wed. I hear her apology and know it's meant for me, not the Witch Hunter everyone believes I am. "You'll be free, lass," I promise this to her, and her reddened eyes sweep up to hold mine in deep regard. "I swear to you, I won't let your life end like this."

"Stalt," she rasps with a sob, "don't you make me promises that you can't keep. I won't let you tear yourself apart over me."

Gods, she has no idea. I've been ripped apart so many times, it doesn't hurt anymore. Figuratively and literally. "You'll see freedom before the end," I tell her with a smile. "You can take me at my word."

"Call me Erica," she tells me with a soft smile, but her effort to sound strong tears into me again. "Please," she says in a whisper, "just Erica."

"Erica," I say with a nod, and she rewards me with a gorgeous smile. In another life, I might have married this girl. Part of me is stricken dumb by the utter beauty of her, despite all the things I know and have seen. I cradle her head over my shoulder and embrace her tightly. "Erica," I say again, but now I feel her body shake with sadness. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she shakes her head and I think for the first time, her tears come from joy. At least, I hope they do. "I feel so awful," her fingers dance through my messy hair and she breathes in the musky scent I've developed from living in this place. Gods, I hate that it's how she'll remember me. "All of these men have known me, and not one of them was you."

There was once a man named Tobias Stalt, who, if a woman had said such things to him, would have fucked her right on that altar.

Instead, I raise my lips to her forehead and plant a deep kiss there. As I pull back, she watches me in awe. "No," I tell her, "I would never have taken you that way."

I can feel the conflict in her gaze as she sits back against the altar and watches me. Her body is wracked with pain and I see the tuft of golden brown between her legs is slick, but I think her body has grown accustomed to sex. She wants it without even really wanting it, now.

I'm going to kill all of them.