The quill cut through the parchment, hard and relentless like a knife. Every stroke seemed like a judgment, carried by an inner coldness.
The ink was still wet when he paused. Only for a moment. Then he continued, this time with a little more pressure.
"Today, on the Day of Rest in the year 1890, in the twelfth cycle of Kaelor, the Holy City of Velmora carries out the righteous execution: The Demon of the Sand is condemned."
A faint draft broke through the open window. From outside came no sound. Neither market cries nor bells nor calls from the harbor only the distant, steady roar of the surf. The city remained silent. As if it expected something.
He put down the quill.
"At last..." A faint smile slipped across his lips. "They will understand what he truly represented. The heretic was neither deranged nor an ordinary fraud. Also not a vagabond, like the ones we regularly seize. He was a student. A true follower... of the demon god Thal'ra."
The last name left his lips like poison – carried by disgust, yet strangely veined with reverence. His hand trembled slightly, though not from fear. It was excitement. Triumph.
"And I... I was the one who exposed him. I convicted him. I observed him, tested him, brought him down. With the help of my spies, the eyes in the alleys... and with the help of Brother Lobos. A Secundar , certainly. Yet one with a clear mind. The two of us – we removed an evil from the city."
He rose. His robe fell heavily over his shoulders. "A garment in white, held by a red sash. His face still young, almost flawless, yet the eyes – golden, relentless, with a sharpness that could cut apart any smile. He was without doubt handsome, but in a way that inspired respect, not closeness."
"I knew it from the very beginning," he continued, as if someone were present in the room. "Already at our first conversation. The boy was strangely fascinated by the stars... and when the questions about God came, everything became clear to me."
He stepped to the window. The wind tousled his hair, yet he appeared unmoved.
"I have judged many heretics. Liars who dressed themselves in fine words. Skilled liars, indeed. I remember each and every one... but this boy..."
He briefly closed his eyes.
"This one was different. He believed. He was convinced. And to finally unmask him... I actually had to break his trust..."
A long sigh left his lips – heavy, almost regretful. "May something of him live on."
A knock.
The door opened, without him turning around.
"Brother Ordenir, it is time," a deep, sharp voice sounded.
"The execution begins soon."
Ordenir turned slowly.
"Thank you, Brother Lobos. I am coming."
Brother Lobos stepped aside. A tall man, thin as a reed. His lids lay heavy over piercing dark eyes, his expression revealed hardly anything – and precisely that made him dangerous.
To outsiders he appeared neither like a scholar nor like someone who teaches or learns.
"And yet he is one of the best newcomers I have ever encountered," said Ordenir calmly, almost casually – as if he had overheard. "A valuable support. And without doubt someone who may soon be of use to me.
Ordenir nodded inwardly.
Perhaps I should keep him closer... on my way upward.
Together they left the writing chamber. The hall was empty. Like the temple. Like the streets.
Only the faint splashing of the water basins echoed from the walls.
At the exit of the temple the view fell down onto the city. A long path stretched along the slope, empty and quiet, for all life pressed down at the harbor. There the boats lay side by side, voices mixed with the cries of the gulls and the crashing of the waves against the stone.
Above all of it towered Tuarangi. The mountain enclosed the city like a wall of rock, its back rising so high into the sky that no one had ever seen the summit. Between sea and mountain the roofs, piers, and palms pressed against each other – a city that looked as if it had grown directly out of the ocean.
"An impressive discovery," said Lobos beside him.
"Not yet twenty, and already fame, influence, power... and still you stand at the beginning, Ordenir. Your name is already spoken with reverence imagine how much higher you might climb."
A fleeting light crossed his eyes, no more than a glimmer, ill-matched to his smile.
"Trust me, brother. That boy is the very embodiment of evil. And today... his end comes."
Ordenir inclined his head.
"So be it."
The walk to the harbor was brief, yet even in those few steps they passed many.
Hands reached for Ordenir's cloak, for his arms, for his gaze.
"Thank you!"
"You saved us!"
"What would we do without you?"
"He cursed my daughter... thank you for stopping him!"
Ordenir drank in every word. Every blessing, every tremor of admiration. His chest swelled just a little more.
At last they reached reached the pier.
A boat waited by the shore, with two more beside it. Ordenir stepped aboard. Lobos remained still, hands folded, gaze composed and as the vessel drifted from the dock, a faint smile lingered on his lips.
Slowly it moved out, into the wide harbor that curved like a half-moon along the coast.
Velmora—the city where mountain and sea embrace.
A monopoly of faith, of trade, of judgment.
And today... of blood.
Before them the entrance rose from the sea: two towering statues flanking the cliffs, carved from the living rock. Ancient heroes of Velmora—names long forgotten, though their stances spoke of courage and sacrifice.
And between them—
A throne of dark stone, bound in chains. Upon it sat a figure, shackled hand and foot, every limb drawn taut.
Hair spilled in long strands across brow and shoulders, heavy from days in darkness, yet touched by a serenity that seemed almost exalted. His skin gleamed dark as polished stone, his body marked by battle and still, power radiated from him, every muscle drawn as if forged from iron.
Days in chains would have broken any ordinary man. Yet even now, he carried the bearing of a warrior rather than a prisoner.
A boy hung there, bound at the center of the gate, exposed to the eyes of the crowd.
It was not his deeds that were condemned. It was what he was.
The air above the water shimmered. The wind had withdrawn, as if it too were listening. Between harbor, cliffs, and the stone platform, thousands of voices rose together: prayers, chants, proclamations. The coast trembled with devotion.
Among the jubilant faithful, priests moved through the masses. They carried speakers of gilded wood and repeated every word Ordenir had spoken, their voices firm, brows shining with heat, pride trembling in their tones.
They shouted, they sang, they proclaimed what had been drilled into them:
"Ordenir speaks. The boy was a plague upon our city."
"Ordenir speaks. No demon shall ever cross our walls."
"Ordenir speaks. His thoughts were poisoned."
"Ordenir speaks. His death is a sign of grace."
The boy heard each syllable as if carried through water, and though the wind swept them onward, their weight remained. They clung to him like a second skin, sticky with borrowed conviction.
They claimed Ordenir was speaking in that moment. They cried out that his voice guided the rite, led the faithful, judged the sinner.
The boy lowered his eyes, then lifted them again, as if for a heartbeat he wished to believe the words were meant for him, that they might hold some fragment of truth. As though a part of him tried to test them, dismantle them, even forgive them. Yet even that slipped away.
What echoed through the streets, what was forced into Ordenir's mouth, did not match what truly unfolded.
Ordenir already stood before him, calm and unmoving, his gaze steady yet revealing nothing. He said nothing, for there was nothing to be said.
Beneath his feet a path of silvery light stretched out. Each step formed a new slab, sharp-edged as if cast from shards of moonlight. Plate by plate it carried him forward, cold and gleaming above the water's surface, until at last he reached the platform.
The coast roared behind him.
"The faith has spoken!"
"Thal'ra loses his last son today!"
"Hail Ordenir!"
The cries carried on the wind to the horizon. Yet between the statues the silence felt heavier than ever.
Ordenir now stood upon the platform, only two steps away from the prisoner. He seemed like a high priest before an altar, his voice ready to open the rite.
"I have seen many heretics. Too many. They lie with words, with tears, with blood." He stepped closer, his gaze steady, almost measuring. "But you are different. I have never met anyone so utterly convinced. You believe what you say, and in some way, I respect that."
The boy gave no answer.
Ordenir's mouth curved in a thin smile. "You know, I almost admired you." He looked directly into his face. "Your knowledge could have changed the world. You are intelligent, but dangerous."
A moment of stillness stretched between them.
Then Ordenir spoke softly, almost with pity. "Why, I wonder. Why do you do this?"
The boy raised his eyes.
"Because it is true."
Ordenir remained silent. Then his voice dropped even lower.
"What I tell you now, no one else will hear." He leaned in, his breath brushing the boy's brow. A grin flickered across his face, as if even he could hardly believe the words leaving his mouth.
"I believe you. I believe in your so-called truth."
The boy blinked.
Ordenir closed his eyes, then opened them slowly.
"But that is not my role."
He stepped back.
"In this world, only those who rise matter." His gaze drifted toward the mountain beyond the city.
"To ascend is the only truth. Everything else is..."
Burden.
His last look was calm.
"You will die. And I will rise."
"Your truth disrupts the order. It burns into structures that must remain. That is why I erase you."
He turned away. Yet before he had taken a full step, a voice came from behind him.
"Then you are less than I thought."
Ordenir froze. The light beneath his feet flickered once.
"You understood my writing. What you carry out today, you do with clear knowledge, not from ignorance. That is what makes it so... pitiful."
The boy's voice was quiet, but every word struck with the weight of stone.
"I know what I believe. And you know it too. You believe me—you said so yourself. And still, you walk away, because you think rising matters more than truth."
Ordenir turned halfway back. His face held its rigid mask, but his fingers betrayed him, twitching once as if something had struck a hidden nerve.
"If you go through with this," the boy said softly, "you will have what you want. Your name will be sung. They will raise statues, compose hymns, carve your judgments into books." His voice stayed steady, almost gentle. "Glory. Power. Reverence. For decades, perhaps longer."
A shallow breath escaped him.
"But I know you, Ordenir. I know how you think."He lifted his eyes and looked directly at him.
"And every day you will see it. Not in mirrors, not in songs, but in the silence where no applause can reach. When everything falls quiet, when no title can save you and no praise can warm you." His smile seemed calm, almost honest. "It will follow you like a shadow no light can drive away. And you will carry it, because you know I was right."
Out of the silence the prisoner moved as far as the chains would allow, his smile spreading with a mocking calm.
"Tell me, Ordenir... what is a few decades of fame—"
He drew in a sharp breath, his chest tightening, his voice rising, firmer, trembling with force:
"—when I carry the knowledge within me, knowledge that touches the truth which has shaken the very foundations of this world for centuries?!"
The air quivered. The cliffs seemed to lean closer. The crowd did not fall silent, but their cries rang hollow.
Ordenir stepped forward half a pace. His gaze tightened, his lips pressed thin.
Then it broke from him.
"ENOUGH!"
The voice cut through everything—wind, water, doubt.
"You stand there, bound like a condemned man, and you speak as if heaven were in your pocket! You are finished. Erased. You—"
He stopped himself. His eyes narrowed again. Cold.
He stepped back. The path of light trembled beneath him.
Then he leaned in, speaking low.
"I will not leave your writings to the ashes. They will reach someone who understands what you discovered."
Any last words, demo—
"We will meet again, Ordenir."
The words came just as Ordenir turned to leave, an interruption so calm and casual it felt deliberate.
The boy's eyes remained soft. A grin touched his lips, not mocking but strangely serene, almost unnerving.
For a moment he seemed free. Not in body, but somewhere within. Entirely.
Ordenir sensed it instantly. His neck stiffened, his jaw locked too tight. Something was wrong. That smile should have pleaded, cursed, faltered—yet it stood.
The boy's eyes stayed soft, the grin steady, without fear or hesitation. In his position no man should have appeared so unshaken, unless he believed with every fiber in what he stood for. The certainty sickened Ordenir, even as it pricked at his own resolve.
What does he mean?
"We will meet again"...?
What does he know that I do not?
Ordenir stared at him. Deeper. Longer. Yet the boy's gaze did not shift—warm, calm, unguarded.
Something was off. The moment was too light.
He raised his hand. Four fingers. The sign.
At the edges of the platform the priests began to sing. Their voices were not loud but deep, summoning something that seemed to stir beneath the surface.
Between the stone colossi, a pale light flickered. It drew itself from the air, from the skin of those gathered, from cracks in the water.
The spears of the statues began to move. Slowly, precisely, guided by unseen rails, inch by inch toward the boy's chest.
A brother rushed forward, face pale.
"Brother... perhaps we should—"
Ordenir shook his head almost imperceptibly.
"Do not insult me," he said without looking up.
"I want to see it."
The boy stood motionless. Only his breath rose, slight and steady. Droplets gathered on his brow; one slid down his temple.
Then he whispered—barely audible.
"...now would be a good time."
A second drop followed.
"Hello?" His lips moved, though no sound came. "Do you hear me?"
The wind gave no answer.
The prisoner's mouth twitched. His lips curled faintly, half amusement, half warning.
"I am speaking to you."
The orb of light between the spears grew. Rays turned to embers, embers to a whirl. The water beneath them trembled. Sand lifted, dust spun.
The priests kept chanting. Their voices dropped lower, stranger, almost inhuman.
The prisoner's shoulders tightened for the span of a blink, barely visible.
He murmured softly,
"Tell your old fool up there to finally move..."
One last glance at the sky.
"I'm doing what I can down here."
Ordenir fixed his eyes on the boy's face. The lips moved. Silent, yet forming something. A breath? A prayer?
He leaned in slightly. A flicker crossed his features. Was that truly a sound?
Then—
The scream.
"AZAEL! NOW OR NEVER!"
As the final echo of the name faded, the light between the spears burst.
Behind the platform a blaze erupted. First a shimmer, then blinding, so bright the water hissed into steam. Mist rose in waves as the radiance surged closer.
Through the veil the prisoner's form emerged. His body seemed carved from shadow, his eyes burned brighter than before and on his face lingered a grin.
At the shore chaos erupted. Voices rose, furious, outraged. Yet none of Velmora's people escaped the shiver that spread through them, lodging deep and unshakable in their bones.
The city froze.
Then came the wave.
It rose from the impact as if born of the gods' own fury, whipping over masts, dragging the air with it in a raging storm of foam, wind, and light.
Ordenir lifted his hand—a gesture calm and precise.
A shimmering shield arched above him like an inverted sky. The three canoes remained untouched, floating within the chaos like islands of silence. The priests kept singing entranced, almost enraptured.
Then—
silence.
Only the crackle of the air remained.
And where the boy had stood, reddish dust drifted upward—glowing, almost alive. It unraveled like a final thought, too vast for the world to contain.
The crowd erupted, louder, wilder than ever before. Ordenir's name thundered through the bay, echoing against cliffs, against waves, against walls. Hymns began to take shape—still formless, yet filled with reverence.
And yet... Ordenir's face remained still.
He did not hear them. Not truly.
"...we will meet again, Ordenir."
The words lingered within him. Not as a threat. As a certainty.
What does he mean by it?
He stared into the dissolved emptiness and murmured—almost to himself:
"...Zaire."
Lobos still stood at the edge of the harbor.
Before him hung the mist, shot through with the blinding shards of broken energy. The shockwave had long since faded, yet the silence afterward pressed heavy. His chest worked faster than he wished, and on his face lay an expression he could not quite conceal.
He drew a long, steady breath; salt and fire rode the air, edged with the mineral bite of scorched flesh, bleached bone-white and stripped of pretense.
A faint tremor swept the crowd, but his eyes did not wander. They found.
And first they found her...
Lobos held the girl's gaze. Green eyes that did not simply meet his, but cut into him, cold and relentless. It was pure hatred—raw, unmasked, with a clarity that struck like a blade.
And while others drew their strength from the crowd's roaring applause, he felt himself fed by that stare. For a heartbeat it was as if the crowd around her ceased to exist and he alone was her target.
His eyes moved on and there was the boy. Slim, quiet, almost unremarkable among the shoulders of others. Blind, that much was clear. Yet though his eyes could not hold the light, his face turned directly toward Lobos.
He showed no hesitation, no searching in the void, but carried himself with an eerie certainty, as if he knew exactly who stood before him.
Beneath one of the hoods a faint red shimmer flickered weak, yet unmistakable. The wearer's eyes glowed softly, like embers slumbering beneath ash. Lobos' smile thinned, and without truly addressing anyone, he whispered into his own breath, almost amused:
"Well, well... someone is getting careless."
A quiet laugh escaped him. Low, from deep in his throat, barely audible—yet in its own way, complete.
"My work here is done," he murmured. "Time to go home."
He turned away, his gaze lingering like a taut thread on the three figures. Step by step he crossed through the crowd, his white robe darkening as though the night itself were swallowing it. The smile on his lips faded, giving way to stern hardness.
At the post he lifted his head, and for the briefest heartbeat his black eyes burned blood-red. In the next instant he was gone only the post remained, and a trace of black smoke torn apart by the wind.
And so the day came to an end.
The day the coast sang.
The day Ordenir's name became immortal.
The day the demon's disciple from the desert was erased.
Silence.
Then—breath.
A gasp, pressed and desperate. Air came in broken bursts. A boy jolted awake, drenched in sweat. He lay sprawled across his bed, the blanket half-slipped. A book rested open across his face, as if he had fallen asleep mid-reading. Around him the volumes were piled, stacked loosely, some already on the verge of toppling.
Now he stared at the ceiling.
Then flinched.
"What... was that?"
His voice sounded younger, lighter. The face still round, the hair shorter, the eyes innocent.
From the next room, a voice called:
"Hurry up! You'll be late for school, Zaire!"
"...Yeah. I'm coming," he answered, mechanical, confused, out of breath.
For a moment he sat still, then slowly lifted his gaze. And somewhere deep inside, he knew:
...This was no dream.