Old Testament of the Light: A Fanatic View
Burn the whore who tries to lay with the light. Burn the weak who offer nothing to the light. Deny beggars who seek the light. Only those chosen by the goddess are worthy of her salvation and mercy. It is not our place to judge who she offers light to, but to condemn those she offers no respite.
—Burned pages lost to time from the remains of a book of light
King Thorne's Room
Dark circles plagued his eyes. The days of stress and no answers wore him down to an edge he never knew could exist. He no longer felt fear; now all he had was apathy.
It was almost soothing, no longer having fear. If death came, let it. He would be free. He smiled to himself and enjoyed, for the first time in a while, a drink of wine.
"It seems you are doing well, being so calm in my presence. I take it you already expected the news?"
A gentle voice spoke but held a power he knew well, and he choked, trying not to spit his wine lest he lose his head from the insult in their presence.
He kept gagging as he noticed the carrier of the voice getting annoyed, waiting for him to recover. He wanted to beg for mercy and plead for understanding, but their face was morphing into disgust long before he recovered.
"Spare me your groveling. I see it in your choking, pathetic face. I came to deliver a message, or I would not be wasting my time."
Still choking but finally able to express acknowledgment, he nodded as best he could, red-faced in shame and lack of air, waiting for the message.
The angel watched him carefully to see if his words would be wasted among more coughing or groveling, but the king remained calm, minus his newfound shame that stayed firm.
A long, exasperated sigh left the angel as he looked around the palace. "This place smells of rot even with the goddess's blessing. It's a shame you waste her gifts." He waved his hand before his face, showing his distaste.
He wore polished armor; the king could see his face clearly, reflecting the red of his shame—the only color beyond silver and gold on the armor. A streak of white came from his wings as he now made a breeze, no longer bothering to use his hand to wave away the scent as his golden locks flowed in the air, his eyes golden with righteous anger.
"No," the angel said, eyes narrowing. "It smells of more than rot." Staring him down, the king was unsure what to say. But the angel made sure to say it clearly: "It smells of your failures."
He nodded to the angel, unsure how to appease the angered messenger, and waited for the real message, which came soon after.
"The goddess regrets the fall of your garrison, but it was necessary. The champion was called away for personal reasons."
The garrison fell? They died? And the champion is on a mission? The angel saw his blank face, which caused the angel to morph his expression to anger, as if being mocked.
"Do you doubt my message? Do you wish the goddess would tell you herself since I'm unworthy of your respect?"
"No," he bowed, collapsing onto the floor. "I understand. I will make sure her will is done, whatever is needed, I swear." He refused to look up, unsure of what he was supposed to say.
"The fact you understand their death was necessary will please the goddess. She was willing to offer restitutions for your loyalty if you pressed, but don't push her generosity; it was gutter trash death."
What? Restitutions? Oh, for the garrison. I don't care about that; she doesn't want my head. That's enough. I sent the lower class to the rot lands for that very reason.
"The goddess is too kind to offer me anything; she owes me nothing. We live to serve."
"The fact you let your city smell of rot is proof those lost had little value, and it is wise you kneel," the angel continued.
"We will inform you if anything changes. Till then, don't ask about the champion of light," the angel said before leaving swiftly.
Sweat dripped onto the floor. The king was happy he finally got an answer and lived, but it was unsettling that the garrison fell and his knights never told him. Maybe the goddess got to them first through the church.
That would make sense. He may hold the highest position in the kingdom, but he was worth the least when it came to information.
Where the hell was his spy? He told him to take his time and find out more, but how much time was needed? Maybe he found something and needed more time, or he was dead and had failed. He had other spies, but the way everyone stopped coming back after being sent or not giving information made him hesitate. Something was amiss, yet did he really want to know?
He looked at the wine he finally was able to drink after days of fear. How sweet he thought it was upon his lips; now, it was a bitter thing.
But he took it once more and drank it anyway. He knew his place. If the goddess was playing games and something was lurking in the shadows and they didn't want him to know, he was not going to ask. He would sit and wait on this throne. Sooner or later, they would come for him. He would deal with it then.
Day One
The spy reflected on the king's words as he left the palace: Find out something, and don't come back till you do. Could he be more vague? He acted as if they hadn't scoured the areas they could or asked the informants who would know. Yet nothing. So now he would watch and see instead of repeating the same searches once more.
He moved from the palace walls with practiced ease, passing beyond the buildings where coins flowed freely and all were welcomed—assuming you made it past the guarded walls where the rot was scrubbed clean and only the elite were allowed.
Then there was a second layer, more common, not as rich or free, but still considered worthy of being seen, where most of the work for the city was done. But he passed even that.
Into the third layer, where he now stayed hidden above the piss and rot among the smoke of fires burning freely to purge what the light refused to acknowledge—the lesser humans living in filth.
It mattered not to him; they were all just dirty faces as he scouted and searched for answers and ended up in this spot.
His face was masked to reduce the smell and help conceal his presence. Not that any in these places had need or desire to look up; only beggars and whores walked these roads, when not in the sewers among rot. Rarely, they stayed in an alley, risking a random drunk to pay for services.
That's why it was so surprising the church chose this spot to set up operations. He didn't care—the light meant nothing to him—but he knew his place. He was a shadow in the light and liked to keep it that way. He had seen what happened to those who tried to step into the light.
The yelling and beating were a dull affair. Whores begging, clergy yelling, guards and knights shuffling drunks deeper into the rot alleys or randomly beating them. It was a common sight, but not why he was here.
Day Two
Adjusting his angle to get a better view—this was his best lead so far. He'd tried talking to the guards in the district with coin but got nowhere. Same with the knights' quarter, but at least they were more blunt: You want answers? Seek the light.
It wasn't casual dismissal. It was a literal truth: the church of light was everything, and paying the lower class coin wasn't going to change that. So he had no choice but to watch and wait.
Even from the church's roof, hoping to see better, it wasn't anything new. Random people came begging for salvation and got beaten or ignored. He did see some leaving relieved, but nothing really changed.
Day Three
The routine was mundane. Guards and knights took turns beating whores or mocking them in the streets—nothing new there. But what was surprising was one girl who seemed to move freely among the middle class and lower districts, doing something. He didn't notice her at first. Why would he care? It was only watching her leave to the middle-class area that she caught his eye, so he adjusted to a new roof and watched once more, hoping it would lead somewhere.
Day Five
He kept watching the woman among the whores and broken humans mixed with the rot. Her actions were always clear: find girls or beggars, talk briefly, feed them, and leave.
Sometimes the girls seemed to run in fear; others embraced her warmly. It was boring, really. He cared nothing for slum drama. The fact that one girl—probably a secret whore—managed to avoid the church and set up elsewhere meant little to him.
Day Six
More of the same routine, but something nagged at him. That guard—the scar over his eye stood out—usually went out of his way to kick beggars into the gutter. Today he just walked past a group of them. Didn't even glance their way. Must be having a good day, or nursing a hangover. Still, it stuck in his mind as he watched the girl make her rounds again.
Day Seven
The only leads were the church and that girl, who kept the same damn boring routine: the church yelling, smacking some girl, preaching the light, and staying indoors. Same with the girl wandering among the broken.
Nothing here was telling him anything he could report, even as he felt a growing unease that something was here and he was missing it. His instincts—honed by years of shadow work—whispered that there was a pattern, but every time he thought he glimpsed it, it slipped away like smoke.
It was hard to tell, but there seemed to be fewer guards and knights starting fights. There were still drunks beating whores, so he got a laugh here and there, but even that seemed to be less.
Day Eight
He found himself studying the faces below more carefully. Some of the girls he'd been watching—the broken ones who usually looked half-dead from hunger—seemed different. Less gaunt. Standing straighter. One even had color in her cheeks. Probably found better clients, he reasoned. Or maybe that charitable girl was feeding them more regularly than he'd noticed.
Day Nine
From his new perch on a crumbling tower, he watched a knight he recognized—the braided beard was one he had seen many times—who usually delivered zealous beatings to anyone who looked at him wrong. But today, the man just nodded curtly at a group of beggars and moved on. No violence. No shouting about the light's judgment. Just nothing.
Am I imagining things? The spy rubbed his tired eyes. Days of watching the same streets, the same faces—maybe his mind was playing tricks on him.
Day Ten
The days kept passing, and weariness mounted with the same routine and mounting frustrations. There was nothing he could report that was clear.
Yet even with those musings, a silence broke his thoughts—a calm that was unnerving. Where were the smacks, the yells of drunks, the demands that whores leave?
True, they were still happening, but it was becoming rarer. That one girl was still doing her routine, which amazed him—her resolve to never stop.
But ignoring her pointless actions, he noticed less gutter trash in the streets looking for fights. The sounds of beatings were more absent. Yelling from guards and random knights seemed to be lessening.
No—the girls seemed to be increasing? Before it was a scattered few no matter where he looked; now there had to be nearly fifty wandering the streets. And they were openly working too. That was odd.
He watched, wondering what the church would do. The feeling of being watched—of missing something crucial—crawled up his spine. His instincts screamed danger, but he couldn't identify the source.
Am I the hunter, or have I become the prey?27Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ607LbD1gHx
and then Add to home screen.