"I must say, the very sight of you makes me feel disgusted," said the young nobleman, pinching his nose as if Kanrel's presence soiled the air. "The fact that we have to share with the likes of you... Here, in a place meant for the richest and most powerful. Makes me wonder if the world is fair at all."
Kanrel had heard worse. He had heard it often enough that it no longer surprised him. It only reaffirmed what he already knew: this academy was not meant for the likes of him, even if it allowed entrance.
Sure, he was 'gifted' enough; the many exams that he had excelled in were proof of that. And sure, he was privileged, too. Just not in the way most were. He wore the academy's robes, he ate the academy's food, and he studied beneath the same elaborate roofs as children with family names mentioned in the annals of history. Yet he lacked the one thing that mattered most in these halls, nay, in this kingdom.
A name.
He had a given name, yes. But no birth name. No father's name. No mother's name. Only the name a gentle soul had offered him, as though it could substitute lineage and blood: Kanrel.
Most people here did not use it. Most called him 'Nameless.'
As usual, Kanrel attempted to pass without reply. The nobleman stepped into his path.
Kanrel held onto a sigh that wanted to escape, and instead looked up—up at the taller boy draped in velvet and certainty—and waited.
"Pack your things and leave," the nobleman suggested, almost urged. He was loud enough that the growing circle of students could hear. "So, Nameless, what do you say?"
Their gazes locked, and Kanrel felt this urge to say something, but he chose to bite his tongue instead. 'Don't engage, and walk past. There is no point in lingering in a situation that will repeat itself another time.'
Kanrel tried to step past him again.
The nobleman grabbed him by the arm, "Where do you think you're going? Answer me!"
The sigh escaped him. "Absolutely, I will do whatever you want me to do, for as long as you're willing to explain to my mother why," Kanrel found himself saying and freed himself.
The nobleman blinked, then laughed, bright and disbelieving. "What does she have to do with this? It is not like she's even around."
Kanrel's mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile. He had never been good at smiling.
Dealing with ignorance was a waste of time. He had a lecture to attend.
He started walking.
"Hey, Nameless! Where are you going?" the nobleman shouted after him, but another voice, tight, urgent, cut through the crowd.
"Drop it."
Kanrel didn't look back. Someone, it seemed, had decided to rescue the nobleman from his own stupidity.
The Academy of the Heavenly taught everything: science, history, culture, and politics. It was a school for the gifted, yes, but its true reputation rested on one subject; one forbidden to most.
Magic.
The power of the Angels, bestowed upon mankind.
Only those entering the Priesthood were permitted to wield it. Most nobles did not choose that path. The Priesthood demanded study, discipline, and a life shaped by duty rather than comfort. A noble could govern a city, command an army, or inherit a province. A priest inherited something else.
Magic was powerful, but it did not come freely. To be given the gift of magic was to lose the gift of joy.
Six years of study before the ritual. Six years of learning the world so thoroughly that the mind could no longer hide from it. Six years of being taught the histories of the Angels and kings and the Heralds and the wars they had prevented... and the wars they had caused. Stories from ancient times of things that had once tried to erase humanity. Six years of learning what power did to human beings.
In the Book of the Heralds, there was a verse every priest-trainee ought to know by heart, for the verse explained the bargain.
"Forget joy; understand what power brings. Power brings misery, and to understand what misery is, one has to forget all joy. Understand this human, for those who are powerful should carry the pain of the living on their shoulders and the pain of the dead in their hearts, so those who have no power can live with joy."
The Book of the Heralds, officially, was simply a record: a collection of meetings between the Heralds and Angels. That was the textbook answer, and it was correct.
But the book was more than a record. It was wisdom, it was a touch of the divine; it held within it questions of good and evil, and tried to explain it so that the simple-minded humans could understand even a portion of the Angels' infinite foresight. No human could reach something like that on their own; thus, one can only commit themselves and their life to the Angels and to servitude to get even a glimpse of it.
Kanrel had never spoken to, nor seen, an Angel.
His mother had.
She was the Herald of the Gods, a priest whose voice carried weight even kings could not ignore. Her words—hers—existed inside the Book of the Heralds, written alongside the voices of the Angels. Her passages were much newer than most, and they frightened people more than the old ones.
They spoke of war. Of the return of the 'Otherkind,' as an Angel had warned her. A thing that would bring conflict back to the world.
Some whispered that it meant the end of everything: the end of kingdoms, the end of the Angels' protection. Others called such speculation heresy. How could anything divine be killed?
Kanrel did not say these thoughts aloud. He kept them where he kept most things. Behind his eyes, in the private chambers of his mind, where worry lived and had carved itself a permanent residence.
He worried about centuries he would never see. He worried about the far future as if it might be here tomorrow.
And beneath the worry, there was something else... thirst. A hunger for the answers the world refused to offer.
What was magic? Not the comforting word, not the explanation that it was 'a force,' but the mechanism itself. An invisible hand? The fabric of reality bent? A language spoken into existence?
Humans had used magic for millennia, and still, they could not describe what it truly was beyond its origin: the Angels gave it.
Kanrel could not accept that as an ending. If there was no answer, then the answer had to be discovered.
That was why he wanted to become a priest. Not for status, not for salvation. For knowledge.
And perhaps—though he rarely indulged the thought—for the impossible.
A Herald.
No man had ever become one. But what if, once, the Angels made an exception?
He had asked his mother once if she could ask them such a question, but she had answered without hesitation.
"I would never dare," she had said. "I am there to listen. Not to question."
All that potential knowledge; all that wisdom that was at her reach, but she dared not even try to access it…
Kanrel understood. And he understood something colder, too: even if she had dared, it would not have made her happier. It would not have softened her misery. It might only have deepened it.
Such was the life of a priest. Torment was not a risk that could be averted; it was something to be expected and embraced.
Some ordinary people escaped their suffering by killing themselves. Priests did not have that option. They had to endure until death chose them.
Kanrel believed it was worth it anyway.
He felt little joy even before the ritual. What was there to lose?
During lectures, he sat in the same seat he always chose, at the front of the classroom.
He would listen and take constant notes, regardless of the subject. All knowledge was equally important, though some of it was more interesting.
He never asked questions aloud. Others always did, and their questions often came from angles he would not have considered. Kanrel collected them like small treasures. Later, alone in his room, he would return to them. He'd look for his own answers, refine the questions themselves, and follow each answer to the next question it concealed.
Standing to speak in front of others did not appeal to him. Silence was easier. Silence was safer.
Some teachers treated him differently for lacking a family name. Most did not dare. They had been introduced to him by the Herald herself.
"He is to be treated fairly," she had told them, "not as better or lesser."
Kanrel thought that was fair.
Still, he often felt undeserving. He had known poverty once. Now he lived in luxury, and the contrast never sat comfortably in his body. It was unnerving, as if this something that he was grasping at might at any time become nothing, and he'd find himself in poverty once more.
Imagine having a mother who could make kings bow.
Imagine never feeling hunger.
Imagine that, in theory, the world could be opened for you like a book. Just utter a word, a name, and someone will know who you are, and no one will dare deny your desires.
And so, Kanrel's most persistent question was not about magic, although it was a curious thing. It was about her.
If the Herald lived only for the Angels, why had she adopted him at all?
No law forbade priests from marriage. Nothing prevented her from having her own children. And yet she had accepted a nameless boy from the streets of Lo'Gran, bathed him, fed him, loved him as if he were her own son, and brought him six years later to the Academy of the Heavenly as if he belonged.
Had an Angel commanded it?
The idea amused him in the way a dream could amuse: briefly, quietly, and without belief. He was not important.
If he mattered at all, it was because she had decided he did.
There was little decoration in Kanrel's room. Only the most practical things were present. A bed. A wardrobe. A table scattered with papers and pens. A bookshelf loaded with books of many different topics: Angels, Heralds, histories, cultures, maps, medicine, wars.
But the most important books were the blank ones. Journals and diaries.
A priest's duty was not only to learn, but to record; to observe, to remember, to preserve. Even the mundane belonged to duty.
It was the one thing his mother had taught him above all else; it was the thing she cared the most about: duty to knowledge.
And so, dutiful he ought to be, dutiful he shall be, and dutiful he was. For he dared not disappoint his mother.
He set aside his bag, leaving today's notes alone. He pulled the chair for himself and sat down. He chose a specific journal from others, one that he used as a diary, and opened a new page. He dipped his pen in ink and wrote what he thought to be important in the moment:
An observation of emotions the night before the ritual:
I feel as I've always felt. There is little fluctuation. The only difference is the slight excitement for the curiosity that will be satisfied tomorrow.
This is the last entry with an emotion that could be considered 'joyous.' Tomorrow, I will no longer be who I am now.
He placed the pen down and left the page open. The ink would dry by morning.
He undressed, lay in bed, and closed his eyes.
Sleep just never came.
Morning arrived with exhaustion and anticipation tangled together. The ritual and all the whispers he had heard about it... He wanted to know; he needed to know. He got up and dressed himself in the familiar gray robes that he always wore. He left his room and made his way to the cathedral, a place he had visited many times.
The interior of the cathedral was an inversion of the outside world. If the sky today was gray and distant, the sanctuary within loomed around him, more imposing than the mountains to the north or the tallest buildings in the city of Atarkan that surrounded the Academy from all sides. The walls were engraved with elaborate depictions of the Angels; there were once colorful frescoes, now fading, and candlelight did little to soften the edges of the marble columns. Each pillar carved to resemble an Angel, their faces grotesque, each held a weapon against their chests, and they looked down upon the students who had entered. They were terrifying in their stillness.
Above them was the great arched ceiling, which was adorned with elaborate paintings of the Angels, all of them more beautiful than the others, as the pupils walked further into the cathedral.
There were no benches. No carpets. Only cold stone.
At the far end stood the altar where sermons were given and ancient wisdoms spoken aloud. The acoustics of the cathedral would make any speaker's voice carry easily to the ears of the believers who would come to listen, to pray, and to learn.
But they made their way deeper into the cathedral, past the altar, into a chamber just behind the main hall. There the painting waited: the first Herald kneeling before an Angel, receiving the first words of the Book of the Heralds.
Her face was hidden.
The Angel's was not.
Scaled armor. Wings spread wide. Eyes that looked past the kneeling woman into the humans who entered, as if judging them for the crime of existing. In his eyes, they must've been nothing. To him, they were nothing, but even then, he had given them everything.
Merciful was the creature that looked down upon them. His eyes peered deep into Kanrel. He felt something rise in his chest—fervor, awe, a hunger so intense it almost resembled faith.
He fought against the urge of falling to his knees, like the Herald, and praying for wisdom and salvation from their god. Kanrel had to rip his gaze away from the painting so as to hold on to a sense of decorum.
He looked around and found that he hadn't been the only one with such thoughts within. There were a hundred or so of them, and a few had fallen to their knees, tears flowing down their cheeks as they sat there, aghast. This was true belief. Something so powerful that you could only feel it.
He let his gaze go from novice to the next. Some faces were more familiar than the others; of most, he was certain that he had exchanged at least a greeting or two. On their faces, he could observe a wide variety of emotions, ranging from the fervor seen before to fear, dread, and nervousness. For the first time, he felt that he belonged with his peers. In this moment, most wore their emotions on their sleeves. Not many could hide themselves as the eyes of god judged them.
The Grand Priest stood before the painting. The old man looked only at the novices and cleared his throat, gathering the attention of everyone. He eyed the attendants a moment longer before speaking, "You stand at the threshold of transfiguration."
"Beyond this place, you will no longer belong to yourselves. What you were ends here."
He did not raise his voice. He did not soften it.
"You have been instructed. You have been prepared. You have made the choice."
A long pause. There was no more walking out; no more changing one's mind. Even if the doors were wide open, none would leave; that much was clear.
"Joy will be taken from you."
Another pause.
"In its absence, you will carry what others cannot."
The students around Kanrel shifted, the movement barely perceptible. For many, this was the first time the cost had been spoken so plainly. Kanrel remembered some of the tales that went around campus. How, after the Ritual, the newly initiated priests were like walking corpses, without smiles or laughter.
He was not afraid. He only felt the slight tremor of anticipation that accompanied any significant test.
The Grand Priest turned around and touched the surface of the painting, and without any ceremony, the depiction of the Angel and the Herald began to disappear, the colors slowly fading away, only to leave behind a continuation of the cathedral. An awaiting darkness…
Now, there were steps before them. A stairway into the darkness that lies deep below. Without words, the Grand Priest gestured at the nearest novice, a girl, who then walked up to him. He whispered something into the girl's ear, who then, after a moment's hesitation, stepped onto the staircase. All could see with their own eyes how she disappeared. As if she had never been.
There were no gasps. Only the silence that suppressed them.
One after another, the Grand Priest urged them to come closer; each received a whisper, each stepped onto the staircase, each disappeared. Had any of them ever truly been?
Then, it was Kanrel's turn, and he had to force himself to reach the Grand Priest, who leaned closer and whispered: "Descend."
Shivers ran through his spine, and he swallowed this sense of terror that surged through him. He took his first step onto the staircase…
On the other side were just the stairs descending into darkness. Behind him, the cathedral had vanished. No painting, no Grand Priest, no other students. Around him, only the void pressed close. Before him, stairs and a single option.
Descend.
He braced himself and took a step. Nothing happened. Another step. Still nothing. So he continued.
Step after step. A hundred steps, perhaps more. The world remained unchanged; only stairs leading down, darkness behind, darkness ahead. No walls. No ceiling. Just the steps and the absence surrounding them.
Time lost meaning. Had hours passed? Minutes? A single breath stretched eternal? There was nothing to count but steps and his restless, beating heart.
He looked back. The darkness behind held nothing; not a single step he'd already climbed. As if they ceased to exist once he'd passed them. Only the void remained, patient and absolute.
Sweat had begun running down his spine long ago, cold against his skin. Yet his body burned from within, feverish and strange. His legs trembled. He must have taken thousands of steps by now. Or perhaps only dozens. There was no way to know.
He couldn't stop. Wouldn't. There had to be an end. Nothing lasted forever.
So he continued his descent into what seemed to have no ending. More time passed. Hours, moments, eternities compressed into seconds. The futility of it pressed against him. What if there was no way out? What if this was all there was, all there would ever be?
No. He had to keep going. Had to.
While taking another step, he glanced back once more.
Darkness.
His vision tilted. His legs gave way. And suddenly he was falling; tumbling down the stairs, his body striking stone again and again. Shoulder cracked against an edge. Head snapped back. Ribs, spine, each part of him finding the hard surface of the steps that had no end. He spun and tumbled.
Around and around. Down and down.
Until the stairs themselves fell away.
His eyes opened to a spinning world. Above him, the stairway he'd fallen from grew smaller, receding into a point, a dot of almost-light, then vanishing entirely. Just darkness now. Just the void.
The sound of falling, wind rushing past, the sensations of movement through air; things that should have roared in his ears. But there was nothing. No wind. No rush. Only his heartbeat remained, counting moments or eternities, he couldn't tell.
Steady. Restless. The last thing he knew to be real. Fear.
Yet still, he fell.
His body ached in ways he couldn't name. But worse than the physical pain was the humiliation; the certainty of his own worthlessness. What a fool he'd been. A useless thing that ought to die. A failure in the eyes of the woman he called mother.
He wasn't worthy to call her that. He'd never been. Too lowly, too nameless, too nothing. She should never have chosen him. She should have left him where she'd found him.
Nothing. He was nothing.
His heartbeat was the only sound that existed. A reminder of failure; of being alive, still falling, still unable to escape. Even in this void, the body seemed to exist, and it refused him the mercy of silence.
He closed his eyes and accepted it. This would last forever. The stairs, the fall, the void. There would be no end. Only this. Only nothing.
He fell with arms spread wide, cruciform in the darkness. At least now he had time to think. Time to understand what he'd done wrong.
He had wasted it. All of it. The little time he'd been given in the world above.
He'd devoted his life to duty, to knowledge, believing it was enough. He'd disregarded companionship, pushed away the possibility of friendship, told himself such things didn't matter. Now he understood what he'd sacrificed. Now regret filled him, and there was no room left for anything else.
How wasteful, a life with nothing to live for. How utterly useless.
And this was his end. If it would ever end.
Perhaps he'd fall forever, carrying only this regret; all the things left undone, all the experiences he'd refused to have. He felt thirsty now. Thirsty for life, for the living of it. A thirst nothing could quench.
There was no hope. He could never experience those things now. Couldn't even visit them in memory because he'd never given them a chance to exist.
His heartbeat was slowing. It had become more distant. As if a thing he could observe in someone else's body. There were... longer pauses between each pulse. The rhythm that had anchored him, at least somewhat, was unraveling, losing its urgency.
Soon, even that would leave him. He would fall in perfect silence, without at least something to mark the passage of time; be they moments or eternities. He would be left with only his thoughts…
Bitterness rose and then subsided, leaving only hollow acceptance. Hopelessness. Sadness without depth, like a dry, bottomless well.
For a final time, he could hear that distant echo of a heartbeat. Then... silence. Not the silence of a quiet room, where small sounds still persist. True silence. Absolute.
Just. Thoughts.
And so, understanding arrived.
This was suffering. Not the answer to his curiosity; suffering was the answer. The ritual wasn't a test to pass. It was pain to endure. Physical pain he could name. But this other thing, this fog rolling through his mind, smothering each thought as it formed; that was the cost they'd warned him about. The price of power.
"I guess this is what I wanted all this time," he said aloud. His own voice reached his ears flat and empty, without inflection. It just sounded bored. This was boring.
He exhaled. Perhaps he should open his eyes. Perhaps a different darkness might excite him. It wouldn't. But what else was there to do?
Sounds emerged. A gasp so sudden and overwhelming. The distant echo of the cathedral's vastness. Someone breathing nearby. His own breath was that of someone who had drowned and only now given the grace of air. But the loudest sound emerged from his chest, as if it had not been there before. It beat a steady, cold beat.
Wrong, it felt so wrong. An intrusive thing that still refused him silence.
He lay there, in a domain of cold stone and bleak lights. His gaze set on the ceiling and the stone arches painted with Angels whose faces had become grotesque—or had always been, and he'd simply lacked the eyes to see them truly. The expression of the Angels mocked him, as if asking if this was really what he had wanted?
He turned his head and looked around. Others lay near him, bodies still, eyes closed. Novices. Or corpses. Perhaps both.
The cathedral's columns rose around them, stone Angels carved into each, looking down with the same grotesque faces. Judging. Always judging.
Foolish. We are so foolish.
He exhaled again and sat up. At the far end of the cathedral, the Grand Priest stood where he had led the novices to their first step. He watched his pupils with an expression Kanrel now recognized. The same emptiness that must have now mirrored his own. They looked at each other across the space. No joy passed between them. No triumph. Kanrel had succeeded, he supposed. It felt like nothing.
He looked up at the painting above the altar. The Angel that had once seemed beautiful now revealed its true nature: wings spread not in grace but dominion, eyes that saw through flesh to the failures beneath. And he understood now why the first Herald's face had been left unpainted. She would have worn this same expression. This same absence.
No wonder. No joy. Nothing.
Only the suffering that was their inheritance, their duty, their eternal burden.
Kanrel stood. His legs held him, barely. The Grand Priest pointed toward the door behind him. Dismissal without words. So he left the cathedral, walked through halls that seemed less real than the void he'd fallen through, and returned to his room. He locked the door.
On the table, the journal lay open. Yesterday's words stared up at him, filled with a naivety that felt like looking at a stranger. He sat down, dipped his pen in ink, baptized it in that dark substance, and wrote:
Now there is nothing but thirst, which will never be quenched.