Chapter Twenty-Eight: Interlude: The Inquisitor (2 out of 2)

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Interlude: The Inquisitor (2 out of 2)

The sickness in his stomach wouldnt leave him.

It only worsened when they returned to Port Nguruh, where a crowd of Iremian colonists welcomed them with cheers and acclaim. Cortaner caught flower necklaces with his bloodstained hands, the Fiddler laughed as women threw themselves at him, and Captain Kheti saluted the civilians like a conquering hero returning from a victorious campaign. Only the Silence reacted with utter indifference.

The Kheti Brigade selected a gambling den called the Abyss as its home base; the owner gave them rooms for free as defenders of the nation, though they would still have to pay for drinks and whores. Cortaner would have usually spent his hard-won coins on the former and ended the evening under a table.

Not this time.

Cortaner sat alone in a noisy pandemonium of vice and revelry. Flickering red lanterns hanging from the wooden ceiling and windows lined with crimson curtains gave the Abyss gambling hall a sense of sultry intimacy, though the colors only reminded Cortaner of the blood he had shed. The heady smell of rum and a haze of opium smoke gave him a headache. His fellow soldiers huddled around gambling tables side-by-side with sailors and cutthroats, spending their silver as swiftly as they collected it. Ever-shifting piles of coins and cards rose and fell to the turn of fast-paced games. The Fiddler danced on a table with his instrument, and he played passably well for once. Women of low virtue led fools to the rooms upstairs for a quick dalliance.

Cortaner usually enjoyed these places, yet he felt too sick for cards or whoring. A few others shared his sour mood too. Sergeant Seto and the Doc occupied a table not too far from his own, both of them with grim looks on their faces. They did order drinks unlike Cortaner, but hardly touched them. The massacre had shaken them more than they thought.

Weaklings, Cortaner told himself, though he felt like a hypocrite to think this. He was barely better than those two. Whats happening to me?

Another noticed his unusual behavior.

What is it, Cortaner? Captain Kheti asked as he sat at Cortaners table, a glass of wine in hand. You dont look so good.

Whereas Sergeant Seto turned out to be no older than twenty and utterly unremarkable without his mask on, Captain Kheti was an aging, wrinkled Iremian man with a salt and pepper beard. His broad, weathered face belonged to the veteran of many battles. He possessed a strange grandfatherly aura which his cold, calculating eyes always betrayed.

I dont know, Cortaner replied. Hed killed dozens across his years and participated in his fair share of slaughter. Death never stopped him from drinking or sleeping soundly. So why did this time feel different?

Cortaner thought about it a great many times. A single image always flared in the back of his mind: that of a mother patting her childrens heads right before the Silences knife struck her down. He couldnt explain why, but that scene bothered Cortaner more than all the deaths the Brigade had sowed.

The woman, Cortaner rasped. Its that womans fault.

Ah, yes. Captain Kheti sipped from his glass. A shame, that one.

A shame? Yes, Cortaner felt shamed by her death. He didnt understand why. He hadnt killed herthe Silence didand he even let her surviving kid go. All he did was watch her die.

It was the Silences fault. No one elses. Cortaner searched for the creep with his eyes, only to find him missing from the gambling hall.

Wheres the Silence? Cortaner wondered out loud.

Upstairs with a whore. Captain Kheti shrugged. I suppose even people like him feel the need to be loved.

Somehow Cortaner doubted the Silence was the kind of person to enjoy physical intimacy. Something about that mute creep rubbed him the wrong way. Hed seen freaks before, but that mans soulless gaze managed to unnerve Cortaner to his core.

Who is he? Cortaner asked his superior officer.

I dont know. Hes not a prisoner on probation, but a volunteer. I dont care where he comes from so long as he does the job. Captain Kheti turned to a waitress who passed near their table. Two plates of veal please.

I am not hungry, Cortaner complained.

You will be. Captain Kheti played with his glass as the waitress left to get their food. Ive been deployed since the great revolt of six-hundred sixty-seven, Cortaner.

Good for you, Cortaner replied with a grunt, uninterested.

Captain Kheti ignored the remark. I will share with you a revelation Ive had over my time here. He slouched in his chair like some grandfather about to tell his wayward grandson a war story. Iremian explorer ships discovered the Fire Islands over a century ago by following the journals left by Daniella the Wanderer. She had recorded this archipelago as the Goddess Crown Jewel or something like that.

So Ive heard. The story was well known.

This place lives up to its name, dont you think? Beautiful waters, shining beaches of sand, warmth, and sun all year long, so many sweet fruits and spices abundant resources. Including one of the largest runestone deposits in the world. Captain Kheti smiled. Not the West. The world. Its why my superiors are willing to spend fortunes of gold and manpower on this region.

Cortaner snorted. I thought it was to protect the locals from themselves.

We need to cover security costs somehow, Captain Kheti replied evasively. Anyway, the islanders won fates lottery when compared to Irem. Where our lands are covered in lifeless deserts with scarce water, their own is abundant with natural resources. Theyre so far away at sea that they never waged a modern war until the Shinkoku invaded them. Sure they share their homes with beastmen and behemoths, but most of them stick to the deep jungles. The natives had all the tools needed to build a peaceful and prosperous civilization.

The waitress finally arrived with slices of veal. Captain Kheti slipped her a coin, grabbed a fork, and moved on to eat with aristocratic grace.

And yet, Captain Kheit said in between bites, when our ancestors found them, the savages had yet to discover how to smelt iron. Iron. They were split into a hundred tribes who did little but raid each other, with no settlement worthy of being called a city. The first day the Kaliyara made contact with explorers, they tried to sell them captured slaves in exchange for shiny copper. Even after the Erebian League built schools for the natives and tried to integrate them into our modern civilization, most still struggle to do so.

Whats your point? Cortaner asked wearily.

Captain Kheti met his eyes. The brownies, he said with a cold, sincere voice, are not humans.

Cortaner held his superior officers gaze without a word.

They look humanoid the same way the beastmen do, enough that some perverts would breed with them, but they suffer from innate moral and intellectual deficiencies. They are like cattle who need a strong, steady hand to become productive members of society. Captain Kheti quickly finished his plate while Cortaner didnt touch his. That woman you feel sorry for, Cortaner? She was fucking a cow.

Cortaners fists clenched on their own, his blood boiling in his veins.

So when you doubt yourself next time, Cortaner, think of that veal slice in front of you. Captain Kheti set aside his empty plate. Killing these savages is no different than piling more meat on the plate.

The same urge that nearly caused Cortaner to kill the Fiddler returned. A surge of subdued anger awoke him from his gloomy mood, though he couldnt explain why he felt that way. Cortaner held back, however. He might get away with a bar brawl, but not raising his hand against an Iremian officer that held his leash.

And he sadly wasnt drunk enough not to care.

Captain Kheti eyed Cortaner without a word. Had he sensed his killing intent or distaste? Whatever the case, he turned away from Cortaner. Someone had slammed the tavern's door open with such strength that it nearly broke off its hinges.

An elderly priest walked into the gambling den. The very same one who confronted Captain Kheti the day the brigade landed in Nguruh.

You monsters, he said with more venom than any snake.

Father Nimlot. Captain Khetis courteous tone hardly hid the disgust underneath. He raised his glass of wine at the priest. Have you come to drink with us?

Father Nimlot spat into the captains glass.

The Fiddler stopped playing at the sight, while the rest of the brigade turned to observe the scene. Captain Kheti tensed up, his hand clenching his glass.

Those people were not Kaliyarans, the priest said, his eyes burning with anger.

They looked that way to us, Captain Kheti replied coldly. How would you even know? Unless youre friendly with the savages, of course

The priest didnt back down. How much did the runestone miners pay you for this atrocity, Kheti? Fifty silver? A hundred?

Why? The Fiddler asked, vaguely interested. You think they could pay us more?

Shut up, Captain Kheti said, though Cortaner couldnt tell whether his words were aimed at the Fiddler or the Priest.

Father Nimlot turned his attention to Sergeant Seto. What of you, Seto? Can you still sleep with a clear conscience?

The sergeant didnt have the balls to meet the priests gaze. Its not my place to question the capitals orders, Father.

So you are no more than a weapon to be wielded? A dog to be trained? When the sergeant would not answer, the priest turned to Cortaner. You Ive heard youre a witchcrafter.

So what? Cortaner snorted. Leave me out of this, old man.

Why dont you leave? A witchcrafter can find any kind of well-paying job. Why take the kind that involves killing children?

Why are you wasting your life away? Master So Xian had asked him a long time ago.

Cortaner would have punched the priest dead for this, but the sickness in his stomach returned stronger than ever, draining him of his resolve.

Im serving my sentence, he replied gruffly.

By committing more crimes? Father Nimlot glared at the gathered felons. If our people back home heard half of what their armed forces have done

Captain Kheti laughed in the priests face. You think they care what happens here, a thousand leagues away from the capital? They care about keeping runestone prices low. Thats all. His smile had all the sweetness of rotting flesh. Go home, Father, before I throw you out. You have no power here.

Father Nimlot shook his head in disgust. The Goddess will punish you all for this one day.

There is no sin to punish. Captain Kheti ordered another glass of wine to replace the old one. I shall sleep soundly tonight.

Father Nimlot glared at the captain, then found himself facing an assembly of uncaring felons. He turned his back on them all and stepped back through the door. The Fiddler returned to his song, and the Abyss dwellers returned to wallowing in their vices.

All except for one.

Cortaner rose from his seat, leaving his plate of veal and Captain Kheti behind. He stepped across the gambling hall towards the stairs leading to the upper floors, only for someone to call his name.

Hey, Cortaner?

Cortaner looked at one of the gambling tables. A group of three prisoners had gathered there, with one seat empty.

Wanna play cards? one of the men suggested.

Cortaners fist flew straight into his face.

He felt the bones bend under his might before he realized what he had done. The mans jaw dislocated on impact, teeth cracked, and blood stained Cortaners fingers. His victims face crashed on the table with enough strength to shatter wood. Cards and coins alike spilled onto the ground, while the mans fellow players stepped up in fear and surprise.

Everyone looked in his direction, a tense silence taking over the gambling den. Cortaner stared at the man he had knocked out cold for a few seconds, then at his bloodstained hand. He walked away without a word towards the stairs while the Doc rushed to examine the wounded.

No one stopped him.

I warned you, Cortaner heard the Fiddler mock the card players. I warned you, but no one listens to the singer.

The raucous clamor below returned by the time Cortaner moved on to the upper floor. He passed by the Silences room, noticing liquid spilling from below the closed door. A thick, crimson fluid with a sinister metallic smell.

Blood.

Cortaner stared at the puddle for a moment, his thought process coming to a screeching halt. His mind came up with a thousand grisly scenarios, with one possibility standing atop all the others.

I suppose even people like him feel the need to be loved, the Captain had said.

People might feel that way but not the Silence.

Cortaner stared at the door and strongly considered kicking it down. But what would it change? That girl was probably dead anyway, and Cortaner had already assaulted two other teammates. Captain Kheti would not forgive a third strike.

She deserved it, Cortaner told himself as he looked away from the door and the blood. Everyone could tell he was a creep. Its not my problem not my fight.

The words felt hollow even in his head.

Cortaner tried to clear his mind as he returned to his own room. It was far bigger than his cell, with a small bathroom and an ornate mirror near the window. Cortaner hated to look at his own reflection. Something in it always angered him. He sat on the mattress, trying and failing to clear his mind.

Why dont you leave?

It was the priests fault. His words wouldnt leave Cortaners head.

Why dont I leave?

To his surprise, Cortaner found himself short of an easy answer. It couldnt be money. He could earn a lot more by working as a witchcrafter polishing tools. It was what Master So Xian had hoped for him after he completed his training.

Was it the love of the fight? Cortaner enjoyed putting his skills to the test against worthy foes, but there was nothing glorious in killing women and children.

Was it fear of Irem? They did have a long reach, especially now that they collected his blood, but escape wasnt impossible either. If Cortaner boarded a ship to the Everbright Empire and returned to the continent, he doubted Kheti and the others would hunt him down.

So why didnt he leave? Why did he always get roped up in piracy and mercenary work?

Because its all Ive ever known, Cortaner thought. I cant see myself living any other way.

That was the answer hed come up with, and somehow it sounded wrong.

He should clear his mind. Cortaner grabbed his waterskin and anointed his hands with oil. When meditation and alcohol failed him, essence crafting often helped him focus. He rubbed his fingers and let the flames flicker. The fire in his palms illuminated the room.

It was different from other times, somehow. His skin began to prickle near the fingers. His sweat boiled. The heat rose too quickly, too intensely. The essence was all wrong. The flames burned with an unnatural, sick yellow glow.

Whats this? Cortaner wondered. When he looked into the flames, he sensed something staring back at him. Was it the Firewand itself visiting him for his Second Awakening? No, the fire it feels

Wrathful.

A lion-headed shadow stared back at him from inside his burning palms, angry and malicious.

Burn, soldier, it said with a thundering voice backed by a thousand war drums. War is a pyre, and all men are kindling.

A primal fear seized Cortaners heart. His body acted on its own, his feet carrying him to the bathroom where he doused the flames in a pool of water. A cloud of steam swallowed him whole, silencing the voice.

Cortaner shook his head. His mind was set. Im not running away this time.

Good, Captain Kheti replied, satisfied. Then get back to work

Cortaners open palm hit the captains throat faster than the wind.

His fingers aimed at the spot between the helmet and armor with deadly precision, crushing the windpipe in a single deadly blow. Cortaner felt bone crack under the pressure of his hand. Captain Kheti gargled and dropped to the ground in an instant. He was dead before he hit the ground; his body might still try gasping for air for a few more seconds, but it would perish all the same. No eloquent tirade would ever escape that crushed throat again.

The same technique had killed far better men.

For a few seconds, none of the brigades men dared to move. Their captain died so fast that their minds struggled to process what happened right before their eyes. None of them had expected Cortaner to go through with this; what sane man would have? Sergeant Seto himself stared at his officer falling to the ground with shock.

You are monsters who need to die for the good of everyone else. Cortaner gathered his breath and stepped forward. And so am I.

No more excuses.

Cortaner fearlessly jumped into the melee, no longer caring whether he lived or died. His fists hit a skull and pounded it into fine paste. The blood was warm on his fingers, and for once, it felt right.

The Kheti Brigade erupted like a boiling hornet hive answering a threat. Swords were drawn, crossbows raised and armed. The Doc, wiser than most, fled rather than fight. The rest stood their ground, either out of mistaken bravery or arrogance in their numbers.

Youre dead, Cortaner! the Fiddler warned as he and a few cutthroats moved to flank him. Alone against twenty!

Youre wrong, Cortaner thought as he dodged a sword swing aiming for his head. I was dead long before I joined your damned lot.

But today?

Today, he lived again.

Years of training kicked back into action. Skills Cortaner had honed in Seukaia awakened after a long slumber, focused by renewed purpose. He kicked a mans head off his shoulders, plunged his fist through a chest, and sent the Fiddler flying with a backhand. Cortaner felt sharp pain in his back as a sword left a gash through it, his blood stained the ashen ground, but he did not stop. He turned to face the attacker just long enough to kill him in one decisive blow.

When three crossbowmen pointed their weapons at him, Cortaner grabbed Captain Khetis corpse and raised it as a shield. Two bolts impacted the corpses chest and while another hit Cortaner in the thigh, the pain felt nothing compared to the one within his heart. He threw Captain Khetis remains at the men and kept charging without pause.

Sergeant Seto raised his weapon and unleashed a stream of fire at Cortaner, caring not that two other men were in range too. The flames consumed the soldiers and Cortaner alike. But he did not scream. His hands wove the essence around his hands as he charged closer to their source.

When Cortaner emerged from the flames unscathed, Sergeant Seto could only blink in shock. Cortaner grabbed the metal tip of the weapon and then forcefully pointed it at the soldiers face. Sergeant Seto let out a skyward scream as the flames he once unleashed upon so many innocents consumed him. His metal armor seared against his skin as his flesh went up in flames. He finished his course on the smoking ruins of an incinerated house, never to rise again.

The soldiers steel can stop spears, but Cortaner had trained to shatter stone in the mountains with his bare hands. The metal bent to his strength, as did the flesh underneath. Now that the advantage of their equipment no longer mattered, the difference in skill became clear and absolute. The Kheti Brigade fought with little discipline nor coordination. They were criminals used to fighting unarmed civilians and untrained militia, not a real warrior. When faced with overwhelming strength and resistance, they folded like paper.

By the time most of them lay dead at Cortaners feet, the rest tried to run away. Cortaner didnt let them. After grabbing a crossbow from a dead mans hands, he quickly unloaded the quarrels on the deserters. His aim was true and they fell like the rest.

Tossing the crossbow aside, Cortaner glanced over the area for survivors. He saw one on the ground trying to crawl away undetected.

The Fiddler paled like a ghost when he realized he had been caught. Cortaner noticed his instrument nearby, grabbed it, and took a step forward.

W-w-w-wait! the Fiddler pleaded on the ground, his arms raised in surrender. Wait, I I can pay you! I know where the money is st

Cortaner smashed the fiddle against its owners head, silencing him for good.

At long last, the village was dead silent. Cortaner was surrounded by the dead almost. One last challenger remained. A shadow emerging without a word nor reason.

The Silence stepped over the dead with a knife in each hand. The Doc lay on the mud behind him, his throat slit open.

How long had the Silence been there, watching? Had he been waiting for this slaughter all along? He did not look surprised. In fact, his fingers twitched with what could pass for excitement. Like hed been looking forward to this battle.

"Why?" Cortaner asked. "I want to know before I kill you. He waved a hand at the Doc. Why all this?

For the first time since theyd met, the Silences gaze showed a hint of emotion; a look of absolute confusion, as if Cortaner had asked him an unsolvable question. The Silence considered his answer for a few seconds.

Then he spoke up.

"I don't know," the Silence said with a small, coarse voice. "I've never asked."

He flung one of the knives at Cortaner faster than any arrow.

Cortaner lowered his back to dodge the projectile; yet the pain in his thigh sharply reminded him of the quarrel still stuck in it. The knife missed by an inch and the Silence closed the gap between them in an instant, his final weapon aiming for Cortaners throat. Cortaner raised his arms to protect himself, the blade slicing his skin and drawing blood, before retaliating with a punch. The Silence dodged the blow with a panthers grace, dancing around his prey with light steps.

Cortaner was stronger and more experienced, but he was wounded and the Silence walked into the battle fresh. The mute creep was fast too. He was in one place one second and hopping around the next. His knife left a flash of light with each swing, always aiming for the throat, the chest, and the vitals.

Cortaner did his best to dodge, but he felt the blades edge cut deeper with each swing. Deep wounds opened up on his chest, his thighs, and his shoulders, spilling blood onto the warm ground. Cortaners own fists hit only air or stone.

The rush of adrenaline faded and the pain of his wounds flared up all at once. He stumbled to his knees, his guard wide open. The Silence, sensing his chance, lunged for the kill.

His blade entered Cortaners chest, slipping between the armors chinks and kissing the flesh underneath. Crimson fluid spilled on the steel and painted it red.

The Silence only realized his mistake once Cortaners hand closed around his wrist. His eyes widened in a brief flash of fear, but it was already too late.

The Silences arm broke under the strength of Cortaners grip, forcing him to let go of his weapon. Cortaners other hand grabbed his foe by the throat and would not let it go. The pain in his chest was more terrible than anything he had ever experienced, but he still smiled ear to ear.

Lets see you hop around now, Cortaner rasped.

He slammed the Silences head against the ground with all his strength. The mans body went limp, his lack of armor costing him the fight. Cortaners hand removed the knife in his chest, blood flowing from the open wound, then raised it.

He plunged it right into the bastards twisted heart.

The Silence did not scream. Not even when Cortaner stabbed him through his chest and twisted the knife. He did not scream. He kept staring up at Cortaner with the same soulless gaze he always wore all the time right until the life went out of them.

When Cortaners weakening hand stripped the Silence of his mask, he half-expected to see a monster. A savage beastman, a horned horror straight out of the yellow flames the Kheti Brigade had sowed across the jungle.

The truth hidden under the mask was even more terrible.

A man.

A youth in his twenties, utterly unremarkable except for the color of his skin, so brown it verged on black.

An islander.

The Silence, who had killed more natives than anyone else in the Brigade, was an islander himself. Somehow it made him even more loathsome in Cortaners eyes.

No wonder the Silence hid his face from the others and felt so at home in the jungle. Did Captain Kheti suspect the truth? Did he even care?

Cortaner did not wonder for long. He collapsed on a bed of ash, blood pouring from the half dozen wounds he had sustained. Pain wracked his body worse than any hangover or post-battle fatigue, his life was slipping away, and yet yet his mind was finally cleared.

After so many years, Cortaner felt satisfied.

He looked up to the morning sky. A shadow born of smoke loomed over him to pass judgment on him.

It is now that you find in yourself a sliver of humanity? The Lord of Wrath shook his head in disdain. Convenient.

Cortaner snorted, a gargle of blood erupting between his teeth. Shut up and let me die.

The Lord of Wrath lowered his head, his eyes burning with seething hatred. You will never be forgiven.

The wind carried the ghost away. Cortaner enjoyed the sight of a clear blue sky, then closed his eyes and waited for death.

The Goddess did not grant his wish.

When Cortaner awoke on a bed of feathers with metal shackles holding his hands and feet, he knew someone had cursed him with life. Wet bandages weighed on his chest and cold white walls surrounded him from all sides.

Finally awake, are you?

Cortaner managed to look up. Father Nimlot sat at his side, alongside a woman changing his bandages. An Arcane Abbey nun from the look of it.

How? Cortaner rasped, his throat hurting. His tongue still tasted of ash. How am I still alive?

I dont know. You were already half-dead when local hunters brought you to me. Father Nimlot observed him sharply. You might be the most resilient man I have ever encountered. Anyone else would have perished twice over under our emergency care.

Saved by the very people he had been hired to kill. Cortaner would have found the irony laughable if it wasnt so saddening. They should have left me to die.

Some wanted to grant your wish, but I put a stop to it. Father Nimlot shrugged. You dont deserve to die.

Because I fought for the right cause for once? Cortaner rasped. Or because death would be too easy a punishment?

The priest did not say anything. He didnt need to. Cortaner already knew the answer. The truth weighed on his heart and soul.

There was a native among us, Cortaner thought it important to mention.

Father Nimlot nodded grimly. He was a Kaliyaran. A hunter exiled from his tribe for murdering a family member, or so I was told.

The only Kaliyaran the Kheti Brigade had encountered fought under their banner. Cortaner would have laughed at the irony if it wasnt so sickening.

I suppose he joined your warband to get revenge on his kin, Father Nimlot theorized. Or maybe he found himself right at home among fellow murderers. Monsters flock to each other.

Cortaner did not care for the Silences reasons. They would not excuse anything. What now, Father?

You are now a prisoner of the Arcane Abbey, Father Nimlot explained. You will testify for what you have done under Khetis orders to a court of law in Irem. All of it. The public must know.

Cortaner snorted. Will it change anything?

Father Nimlot glared at him. Hopefully.

Hopefully. The word made Cortaner want to laugh in scorn.

Then Ill die? Cortaner asked.

Father Nimlots eyebrow curved slightly. Do you want to die?

Cortaner looked up at the wooden ceiling. The blood Ive shed the things Ive done He shook his head, ignoring the pain in his neck. Theres no going back from that.

You will never be forgiven, the Lord of Wrath had said. And he was right.

Its neither for you nor I to decide. The Goddess will decide your fate, as she judges us all. Father Nimlot rose from his seat. Perhaps only torment awaits. Perhaps redemption is yet within your reach. But you wont know the answer until you work for it.

The priest walked out of the room, leaving Cortaner alone with the nurse.

Cortaner looked at the symbol of the Four Artifacts atop the doors threshold, then closed his eyes.

Present day, Archfrost

The spring sun rose on Archfrost, waking him up.

Cortaner hadnt truly slept since the witchcrafters merged the armor with his flesh, though he meditated to rest. He found it easy to focus after letting go of the hate and the drinks. Master So Xian would have been proud.

The pain was worse in the morning. Each dawn felt like being stabbed by the Silence all over again as his armors spikes rammed into his flesh and nerves. But the torment sharpened his focus, letting him clear his mind. Cortaner found his peace in his own suffering.

He had testified in the end. Been called a beast and stoned in public. Father Nimlot was right though, something did change. The outcry was so great that the Magocracy of Irem abolished penal legions and support for the independence movement picked up in the capital.

But Irem did not leave the Fire Islands.

The colonialist party was too well-entrenched and the Magocracys hunger for runestones remained strong. The natives had organized under warlords and pirate queens, fighting back against fire with fire.

The war continued with no end in sight, its flames fueling the Lord of Wraths kingdom of death.

Irem wanted Cortaner dead for deserting, but agreed to spare him once the Arcane Abbey suggested that he put on a Penitence Armor. The sorcerers probably thought the procedure would be a fate worse than death unaware that Cortaner had asked for this fate before the trial even began.

His pain didnt equate to one-tenth of what he had put countless innocents through, but it ensured he would never forget his crimes. He had dedicated his life to the Goddess since, finding the purpose he had sought all his life in the Abbeys teachings.

He had been flabbergasted when the mark of the Inquisitor chose him soon after that mess in the Riverlands. He had been hounding Chastel and the Knot of Wrath back then, and though he saw it as a divine sign it took a meeting with the Fatebinder for him to understand it all.

The Inquisitor is the class of judgment, Lady Alexios had told him. The hero who condemns and the one who absolves. What better judge is there, than the one who has sinned before and repented?

He knew why the mark had guided him to Archfrost.

Belgoroth was his responsibility. Cortaner had helped him return to power, after all. Him, Kheti, and all of Irem. They had worshiped him by waging wars and fed his Berserk Flame one arson at a time. Kheti, the Silence, and the rest of that band might not have owned cursed coins nor served the Knots, but they were demons nonetheless. Hed had countless opportunities to stop them, to take the high road, and failed to act upon them.

Cortaner would never forget the cost of letting their kind live.

Then, when the Goddess would finally recall his soul to her side perhaps she would look upon his work kindly.

That was all he could hope for.