Cero hadn't left the clinic since the fire.
Not even to fetch water from the well.
The villagers' faces haunted him not in his dreams this time, but in the spaces between thoughts. The torchlight in their eyes, the clenched fists, the way even old neighbors had turned on him so quickly. They hadn't needed proof. Just fear.
He sat by the back window now, knees pulled up to his chest, staring out at the garden he used to tend. The herbs had grown wild. He hadn't touched them in two days.
The doctor came in quietly and placed a bowl of warm broth on the small table beside him.
"They're scared," the old man said softly. "That's all. Fear turns good people into something else."
Cero didn't answer.
The doctor sat across from him. "You've lived here your whole life, Cero. Most of them watched you grow up. This madness won't last."
"But it could've," Cero murmured. "If you hadn't come out when you did…"
The doctor didn't respond right away. He simply rested a hand on Cero's shoulder, firm and grounding.
"I've treated burns. I've seen what fire does. I wouldn't let that happen to you. And not just because you're my assistant."
Cero looked over, startled. The doctor's face was calm, but his eyes were steady, full of quiet resolve.
"You're my boy," he said. "I don't care what curse they think they see. I raised you. I'll protect you."
Cero lowered his eyes, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak. He just nodded.
---
That afternoon, the town changed.
A rider arrived, not on the usual merchant path, but by the east road, the one rarely used. His horse was dark and lean, robes trailing in the wind behind him like wings of ink. At his side hung a thin, silver-bladed sword and a medallion shaped like a sun encircled in thorns.
The villagers watched from windows. No one welcomed him. No one dared to.
He dismounted at the temple steps and entered without a word.
Inside the clinic, the doctor leaned at the doorway, arms crossed.
"Inquisitor," he said under his breath. "I was wondering how long it would take them."
Cero looked up from where he was seated, still pale. "Who is he?"
"Not a priest. Not exactly." The doctor's voice was quiet. "An arm of the Church. Sent when whispers grow too loud to ignore."
"What will he do?"
The doctor didn't answer right away.
"Depends what he finds."
They stood in silence for a moment. Then the doctor turned away.
"Let's not give him anything to find."
---
The next morning, the village square was unusually quiet.
Vendors kept their stalls half-closed. Children were called indoors. Even the old men who normally played dice near the well sat still, watching with narrowed eyes.
The Inquisitor stood in the shadow of the Temple of the One Light, his long black coat unmoving in the breeze. Sunlight struck the polished silver sunthorn medallion on his chest the mark of an Agent of Holy Inquiry, a symbol both sacred and feared.
His name, as the Luminary later whispered to the doctor, was Inquisitor Malrek.
He spoke little, but when he did, his voice was calm and precise. Not unkind, but carved of stone. He questioned the villagers one by one: the grain keepers, the women who'd seen the fire, the man with the pitchfork. Always the same pattern.
"Where were you when the fire began?"
"When did you first suspect the boy?"
"Has he ever harmed anyone directly?"
"Did you see him touch the building? Cast a symbol? Speak a word?"
The villagers stumbled through their answers. Some confident, some uncertain, a few already regretting their accusations. No one had evidence. Only fear. And fear, Malrek noted, was not proof.
When someone mentioned the doctor's protection, Malrek simply nodded.
"I will speak with him next."
---
There was a knock at the clinic door.
Three sharp raps. Not loud, but measured. Controlled.
Cero's pulse quickened.
He opened the door to find Inquisitor Malrek standing in the afternoon light, his white-trimmed robes dark against the sun. The thorned sun medallion on his chest gleamed like hot metal.
"You have been accused," Malrek said without preamble, "of witchcraft."
The words hung in the air like ash.
Cero's mouth went dry. "That's not true."
"We'll see," the Inquisitor replied, stepping past him into the clinic.
The room felt colder once the door shut.
Malrek stepped closer without a word.
From the folds of his robe, he drew a small iron medallion the sunthorn sigil of the Church of Light. Cero had seen it before, etched on walls and worn by priests.
But now, it felt different.
He placed it on the table between them, and then, with calm, ritual precision, raised one hand above it. His finger began to move through the air.
Lines. Curves. Symbols.
Drawn with no ink. No chalk. No blood.
Just the air itself... reacting.
A soft golden shimmer followed behind his fingertip, lingering for the briefest second, then fading as the next mark came.
Cero stared, breath caught in his chest.
What… what is he doing?
He'd read about spellwork in folklore. Superstition. Symbolic rituals. Nothing more than fables for simple minds. That was what he believed. What he'd always believed.
But this?
He's not touching anything. He's not using reagents. He's just… writing light into air.
His skin prickled.
His chest tightened.
His rational mind screamed to explain it—phosphorescence, optical trickery, a chemical vapor reaction, but none of those answers fit. Nothing he'd studied under the doctor, nothing in the thousand books he'd read, prepared him for what his eyes were now forced to accept:
Magic.
True, disciplined, sacred magic.
And it was happening right in front of him.
The final symbol a spiral enclosed in a sunburst sealed the air around the medallion like an invisible circle. The room darkened slightly, though no candle had gone out.
Then the Inquisitor spoke in a foreign language.
"Kar al'dorah entha suul."
The words hit Cero like a splash of cold water across the soul.
He gasped not from fear, but from recognition.
I understand that.
That's not possible.
It wasn't just hearing the words. It was like they unfolded inside his chest, pressing open doors he didn't know were there. His tongue moved not of his own will and he began to speak.
"I've had dreams. Of flames. Of dying. The village turning on me. I hear whispers when I sleep, and sometimes when I'm awake…"
He clamped his mouth shut.
Why am I talking? I didn't mean to say that!
Malrek's face didn't change. He simply traced another layer of signs in the air and spoke again.
"Deshaar linethra. Vel kaan."
Truth must surface. Lies will choke.
Cero tried to lie. Just to resist. "I've never dreamed of fire."
Pain struck his throat like molten metal.
He fell forward with a choking gasp, gripping the table. The world spun. His breath came ragged. For a moment, he coughed up a mouthful of blood.
The Inquisitor stood still as the boy doubled over, coughing violently. A trickle of blood spilled from the corner of his mouth and pattered softly onto the wooden floor.
Pain.
Sharp. Precise.
Good.
The binding was intact. The spell had taken hold.
And yet...
Malrek narrowed his eyes.
The boy had lied. Only one sentence, only once "I've never dreamed of fire" and the spell punished him exactly as it should.
But he shouldn't have been able to lie at all.
Not even to try.
That was the entire purpose of the Old Tongue's truth-binding a spell to prevent even the attempt of deception. A normal human, under the effect of the Words, would be physically incapable of speaking falsehood.
But this boy had tried.
And that, Malrek knew, meant only one thing.
He understands the Old Tongue.
"Incredible," Malrek muttered. Then aloud, "You understood those words."
Cero froze.
"I asked you a question," Malrek said. "How?"
No answer.
Malrek raised his hand once more and with two quick motions, redrew the binding spell a twist of air and light.
"Deshaar linethra. Vel kaan."
Cero tried to answer. He wanted to lie. Anything. To redirect. To invent.
But the moment he opened his mouth and forced out, "I… I don't kno…"
Pain exploded in his throat.
He gagged, choking.
His vision blurred.
Blood splattered the table.
He doubled over, coughing again, sharp and wet and metallic. His mouth filled with the taste of iron. His chest heaved, lungs burning as the magic twisted inside him, demanding truth he could not give.
I won't say it.
I won't put him in danger.
He shook his head violently.
Again, the pain struck.
He collapsed to the floor, unable to breathe, fingers clutching the leg of the table. His thoughts blurred. Sound dulled. The golden symbols on the medallion pulsed once in his fading vision.
Then everything went dark.
The hours passed in flickering candlelight.
Cero lay curled on the cold floor of the stone cell, his fingers trembling from thirst, fever, and something deeper, the lingering grip of the spell. His throat felt like it had been carved hollow.
He had tried to whisper once, just his name, a reflex.
The pain had dropped him flat to the stone again.
There would be no voice.
Not today.
Maybe never again.
The door creaked open.
Heavy footsteps. Measured. Familiar.
Malrek.
He entered slowly this time. No fire. No sigils drawn in the air. Just quiet, deliberate presenceblike that of a predator who already knew the prey was cornered.
Malrek closed the door gently behind him, then leaned back against it.
"We searched the clinic," he said flatly. "The doctor's shelves. His ledgers. Even beneath the floorboards."
Cero didn't move.
Malrek's voice lowered, calm and sharp. "No forbidden books. No fragments. No torn vellum. Nothing."
He crouched beside Cero again.
"You're clever," he said. "Or someone is."
Cero raised his head weakly, eyes unfocused.
"But cleverness runs dry eventually," Malrek continued. "You didn't teach yourself the language of the bindings. Not from dreams. Not from visions. You read it. Somewhere. Someone gave it to you."
He stood and began to pace.
"I've seen this before. Hidden texts. Quiet heretics. A healer who 'just wants to learn.' It always starts with curiosity." He turned his head slightly, watching Cero from the corner of his eye.
"Then comes arrogance."
He stopped walking.
"I don't know who's helping you. But someone is."
Silence.
Cero stared at the floor, his breathing shallow. His mind screamed the name of the doctor, but not in betrayal but in fear. He couldn't say it even if he wanted to. He didn't want to.
If they searched the clinic and found nothing…
He must have moved the books.
Long ago, maybe. Hidden deeper than Cero ever knew. Or burned them once he heard the Inquisitor was coming.
Either way, the man who raised him the only person who had ever seen value in him was still safe.
But for how long?
Malrek knelt once more.
"You're shielding someone," he said, voice quieter now. "I admire the strength. But it won't save them. Not forever."
He leaned in close, breath cool against Cero's ear.
"You can't speak. That's fine. There are other ways to break a silence."
He rose and walked away, footsteps echoing down the hall as the door closed behind him.
Click.
The cell was sealed again.
---
The doctor returned just before dusk, the worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder still dusted with powdered bark from the hill remedies.
He expected to find Cero tending to the shelves, maybe writing in the logbook. Instead, the clinic was empty. Unsettlingly quiet. A few dried herbs still hung from the window, untouched since morning.
Then came the whisper.
Two old men outside the clinic. Their voices low.
"…the Inquisitor dragged him out, limp as a rag…"
"…said he confessed to something --witchcraft, or worse…"
"…carried him straight to the Church's dungeon…"
The satchel hit the floor.
The doctor didn't stop to lock the door. His boots struck the dirt path in a fast, deliberate rhythm. By the time the white spires of the Church of Light came into view, his coat was flaring behind him like a wind-whipped shadow.
He stormed through the open gate, past two startled acolytes.
Inside, he found Luminary Tovran the very priest who had spoken softly to Cero only days ago preparing for evening rites.
The doctor's voice cut like a blade.
"Where is the boy?"
Tovran looked up, blinking behind the soft gold of his ceremonial hood. "Doctor…"
"Don't 'Doctor' me. You advised him to come here. To seek help. Now he's bleeding in a dungeon."
Tovran's brow furrowed. "I swear on the Light, I had no hand in this."
"You expect me to believe this just… happened?" the doctor snapped. "That a sickly orphan is now a Church threat? Or is this about me?"
Tovran's eyes narrowed. "You think this is about your history with the Duke?"
The doctor fell silent.
Tovran's voice dropped. "The Duke has no knowledge of this investigation. The Church acted independently."
He paused, looking the doctor over like he was trying to weigh caution against honesty.
"…We found out Cero understands the ancient tongue."
The air went still.
The doctor didn't blink.
Tovran stepped closer, voice quieter now but cutting through the incense-thick air.
"Let's not dance around it," he said. "We both know that boy didn't just stumble onto the Old Tongue. He read it. And there's only one kind of place someone like him could have seen a banned manuscript."
The doctor didn't react. Not outwardly.
No shift of the eye. No twitch of the mouth.
But inside, he sighed, long and bitter, as a quiet alarm bloomed beneath his calm facade.
He found it.
After all my caution… he still found it.
That manuscript had been locked beneath floorboards, pressed between forgotten surgical ledgers, wrapped in plain canvas. No markings. No title. A book even the doctor himself hadn't opened in a decade.
And yet, somehow, Cero had not only discovered it, but taught himself the language.
He was smarter than the doctor gave him credit for.
---
Beneath the Temple
The stone steps spiraled downward, each footfall echoing like a heartbeat in a tomb.
The doctor moved quietly, but not hesitantly. The torches along the wall sputtered in their sconces, casting long, warped shadows. The air was damp, touched with mildew and iron. It had been years since he last descended into the sanctified oubliette of the Church. And back then, he wasn't a visitor.
The acolyte who escorted him said nothing. Only nodded when they reached the iron-bound door.
"He's in there."
Then the boy left.
The doctor waited until the footsteps faded. Then he pushed the door open.
Cero was curled in the far corner of the cell, wrapped in silence and flickering torchlight. His clothes were stained with dried blood, and his breathing was shallow but steady.
His eyes opened when the door creaked.
Recognition. Relief.
And then shame.
The doctor stepped inside and knelt beside him, careful not to speak right away. He examined him as a physician first bruises along the ribs, tension in the jaw, cracked skin at the knuckles from repeated strain. But it was the throat that caught his attention.
He pressed lightly along the neck.
Cero winced, but didn't move away.
The doctor sighed.
"They silenced you," he said softly.
Cero gave the faintest nod.
The doctor sat back on his heels, rubbing his tired eyes. "You read the book."
No denial. No surprise.
Another small nod.
"I told you not to touch the back shelves."
Cero looked down.
The doctor shook his head not angry, just worn. "Do you know what you've done?"
Cero opened his mouth to try, but pain tightened his body. His breath hitched sharply. The doctor gently raised a hand.
"Don't speak," he said. "I'm not here for a confession."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small glass vial clear liquid, faintly golden. He held it up.
"Not a cure. But it'll numb the damage for a while."
Cero hesitated, then nodded again. The doctor helped him sit up, tilted the vial carefully to his lips. Just a few drops.
He watched the boy exhale, eyes heavy with exhaustion and confusion.
"I don't know how you found the book," the doctor murmured. "I hid it for a reason. That language... those texts... they aren't just forbidden because of fear. They do things. Change things. And now the Church thinks you're more than just unlucky."
Cero met his gaze, as if to ask: Am I?
The doctor looked away.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I know you're not a witch. And you're not cursed. You're just… caught in the current."