A hooded man swung gently in the breeze, his limp feet thumping slightly against the frame of the gallows.

  It took Jack a painfully long moment to realize this wasn’t some macabre Halloween decoration. When he did, he couldn’t look away. Horror and disbelief crept up from his gut and took root in his mind.

  This is wrong.

  The corpse was backdropped by black storm clouds. Pinned to the edge of the platform was a writ of crime, which declared this man a “Sullier of truth, and despondent of freedom.”

  Below this were written the specifics of his crime:

  This man, one Harold Kilnsie, was found guilty of besmirching

  the good name of our glorious protectors and keepers of the truth,

  The Truthbinders and their holy mandate from Ardent to maintain

  the histories of humankind.

  For openly decrying the Truthbinders’ insurmountable wisdom,

  the punishment is death.

  For insinuating the genetic heritage of Mayor Taulkin Vaskir

  to be derived from an equine progenitor, the punishment is death.

  Harold Kilnsie will hang until dead, and his EXP

  is returned to Ardent via his most gracious servant,

  Lord Mayor Taulkin Vaskir, Mayor of Thistlebrush of Kieheart.

  This is wrong.

  People went about their day, skirting around the elevated stone platform like it was merely another adornment of the town.

  Jack waited to see if this was some grand, if deranged, hoax. It wasn’t. The smell from the dead Harold was evidence enough.

  How is this real? They executed a man for disagreeing with those Truthbinder jerks, and for calling the mayor’s parents horses?

  All Jack had to go off was the writ of crime posted to the stony platform, but he thought he would’ve liked this Harold Kilnsie. Anyone who stood up against propaganda and arrogant mayors was a friend in his book.

  Only one figure stood motionless by the gallows, his blonde hair obscuring his bowed head. He wore gray-white robes accented with yellow and orange. They were in poor repair and had that indefinable look about them that spoke to the clothes having not been taken off in quite some time, like they were the gentleman’s second layer of skin.

  Jack inspected him.

  [étain Destrier - Level 1]

  Surprisingly, no other information was forthcoming. Jack briefly wondered about that. Was there another skill that allowed people to hide their information? Or even change it?

  He’d have to ask Olric later about it, assuming the farmer would ever talk to him again.

  étain’s voice cut through the chatter of the crowd, and Jack took a few halting steps toward the gallows. The robed man’s voice hadn’t captured Jack’s attention because it was loud. On the contrary, it was akin to a single green leaf that was swept up in the river of conversation that swelled through the town square.

  But still, Jack heard it. He couldn’t make out any of the words, but again, that wasn’t what drew his attention. It was the melody.

  étain was singing.

  Jack navigated around a group of extremely well-dressed nobles, one of whom bore a red sash and a thin rapier at his side. None of them paid Jack any mind, so he didn’t bother to look them over more carefully. He would come to regret that choice.

  Hesitantly, Jack came to a stop where he could just barely hear the man’s unwavering tenor. There were still a few stragglers between the pair of them, nor did étain notice his newest eavesdropper. Nonetheless, Jack was immediately transfixed by the song as much as their lyrics. They rose and fell with the cadence of a Celtic ballad, yet each note stretched into something wider.

  Grander.

  And infinitely more tragic.

  “The light that once bore you has fled.

  Your strength was given to darkness instead.

  Ardent called your name, yet you turned aside.

  Choosing power and pleasure and painful lies.

  The light calls you. You do not listen.

  The End is met with silence and an unlit flame.

  Ye who is now buried with unlifted shame.

  Listen, oh soul of light. Listen to Ardent’s plight.

  Come back from sorrow, from the unnamed.

  Return to our Lord’s side again.”

  The more Jack listened, the more it reminded him of worship songs he’d heard as a kid back in church. Yet, where those had been largely sugarcoated in happiness, this was anything but. Harder still was the way étain sang it. His voice clipped against the final words, as if it were a plea as much as a prayer.

  So lost was Jack in his thoughts and the mesmerizing music that he didn’t even notice when étain was punched in the gut.

  The song ended abruptly. étain doubled over, and a tall, handsome man stood over him. Jack recognized him as the young man with the red sash.

  “You’re ruining the festivities, Ciellian,” the young man commented dryly, as if he were discussing the weather or a particularly boring shoe.

  His ruby eyes fell on étain from beneath his upraised chin and hooked nose, and he spoke with the authority of an executioner.

  “Apologize,” the man commanded étain, much to the jeering laughter of the six sycophants to either side of the sashed attacker.

  étain lifted his head to meet those ruby eyes, defiance clear in the set nature of his jaw. Yet, when he opened his mouth, the words were congenial, if strained.

  “I apologize, young master,” étain said.

  Jack inspected the newcomer even as he gritted his teeth.

  [Jeremy Vaskir - Level 9]

  [Description: Firstborn son of the Lord Taulkin Vaskir, Thistlebrush’s Mayor, and Initiate of the Red Knights. He is 16 years old and believes himself a titan of his generation.]

  Well, dammit, Jack thought. This prick is everything I need to avoid right now. He’s nobility and a red knight!

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  That didn’t make what happened next any easier.

  Jeremy punched étain in the stomach again, and the young singer fell to his hands and knees.

  “You may address me as Lord Vaskir, or your lordship,” Jeremy said while he inspected his nails for scuff marks.

  étain did not respond, just looking up at the arrogant noble while his friends all leered.

  “You’re Ciellian,” Jeremy stated.

  It was not a question.

  “I hear your kind are particularly hospitable,” Jeremy continued, like the topic already bored him. “You rats will give anyone anything save your bed or life. Is that correct?”

  Jack really did not like where this was going, but he couldn’t figure out what he should do. If he went over and punched Jeremy in the face, his friends would easily pounce on him. He might be at level 10 in his Pugilism skill, but that meant very little against their average levels of 8 and 9.

  This wasn’t a fight he could win.

  Worse, for all he knew, harming a noble might be an executable offense. If naming one a horse got poor Harold killed, mugging one in broad daylight would not be much better.

  “That is correct,” étain responded with that same controlled politeness, even managing to give the sixteen-year-old jerk a smile.

  “No ‘your lordship’?” Jeremy demanded, looking quite delighted at the decision. “Well, for that, I say we must really try the Ciellian generosity. Don’t you agree, gentlemen?”

  “Oh, I quite agree with that,” one boy no older than fourteen sneered, kicking some dirt in étain’s face.

  “It’d be a shame not to give the poor bastard the chance to treat us nobles with the proper respect,” said another, this one looking closer to nineteen.

  Jeremy crouched down. A crowd was beginning to gather. Most of those who were stopping appeared bemused, like this was all some improvised show. Still others were wary, yet none interfered. Jack was soon pushed back as yet more gathered around the noble and his prey.

  The sashed nobleman noticed his audience and his grin turned predatory.

  “What say you, Ciellian? Care to prove the legends true? Prove that your people care nothing for worldly possessions, just like oh-so-mighty Ardent told you to? Wouldn’t want to disappoint the bastard, now would we?” Jeremy inquired, much to the laughter of the crowd.

  étain stood up slowly.

  Jack could spot the taut muscles of his neck and fire in his eyes, yet when he spoke, it was with that same politeness.

  “Of course, your lordship. What do you require for your journey?” the Cillian asked. His accent reminded Jack of the French, but there it was more singsongy than that.

  “Give me your robes,” said one nobleman, joining in the ‘fun.’

  “And give me your trousers!” said another.

  “I want his sandals!” shouted a woman from the crowd with a parasol shading her from the overcast sky.

  Within moments, étain had stripped down to his underclothes, which were little more than a loincloth and a beaded necklace with a leathered pendant at its base.

  Jeremy approached the naked man, smiling all the while. “Give me that.”

  He pointed directly at the amulet. It was a simple design of a sun or star, with sharp lightbeams frozen in metal streaming from its amber center. étain hesitated. The crowd stilled, and Jack sensed that this went far beyond asking for mere clothes. This was personal. This was a true violation.

  “Give me that, or suffer my blade, you insolent rat,” Jeremy whispered, but everyone heard him.

  Still, étain hesitated.

  Jeremy slapped him across the face.

  “GIVE ME THAT PENDANT!”

  The Ciellian lifted a hand to where he’d been struck, and blood trickled between his quivering fingers.

  “I want to be reminded of Ardent’s love. You wouldn’t deny an infidel like me that privilege, now would you?” Jeremy asked, and everyone laughed.

  Slowly, painfully, étain unclasped the necklace with a quick jerk of his free hand. The beaded jewelry fell into Jeremy’s outstretched hand. He took it, squeezed it, then threw it to the cobblestone ground in a wicked blur. The amber centerpiece cracked and exploded out of its chassis, but Jeremy wasn’t done. He stomped down on it with his immaculately polished boot.

  “NO!” étain screamed, falling to grab the pendant, but Jeremy did not halt in his final tirade. He stepped on the young singer’s fingers, and there was an audible crack as nearly a dozen bones snapped at once.

  étain cried out.

  “Listen to the rat squeak!” Jeremy shouted to the crowd over the man’s uncontrolled sobs. “Go ahead! Pray to your damned god! Tell him to smite me! Go on!”

  étain did not. Instead, his broken and gnarled fingers fumbled for the amber, but he couldn’t quite grab it.

  “Is that how you lot get through the shroud unharmed?” one of the young nobles demanded.

  The singer shook his head, still trying to clutch the amber that was partially wedged between two cobblestones.

  “I don’t believe the word of a rat! I’ll take it, just in case!” the noble said, leaning down and plucking the amber from around étain’s bloodied fingers. He bent one of the man’s fingers back even farther, causing the Ciellian to cry out again.

  “Please,” the singer sobbed. “Don’t.”

  “Damn your god, shroudwalker. If he can’t even protect one of his faithful, why even follow him?” the man demanded.

  “Let’s go, Thackolin,” Jeremy called out to the noble leaning over étain.

  The spell that held the crowd’s attention dispersed, and soon the townsfolk left to go about their business, the naked man and the corpse behind him equally forgotten beneath the troubles and plans of their day.

  Jack merely stood there, unable to move. A cold sweat had long since formed and frozen over across his back and up his neck. His fists were clenched so tightly he wasn’t sure he could unclench them if he tried.

  In the far distance, thunder rumbled, and the sun was blotted out by the coming storm.

  Why didn’t anyone step in?! He silently demanded. A lot of them were clearly uncomfortable with the abuse they’d seen! Why didn’t anyone help this poor man?!

  Before him, étain continued to sob, clutching the bent metal clasp of the amulet now deprived of its gemstone. His tanned skin was lined with thin jagged scars, and he was painfully thin. Bones whiter than teeth stuck out of a few of his fingers, but still, he clutched the torn and twisted pendant to his chest and rocked back and forth.

  Jack’s anger twisted and rotted in his gut until it took on a new name. Shame.

  He’d wondered why no one had stepped in, but that wasn’t what mattered. It was all just a way to mask his guilt at not stepping in himself.

  Why has it been so difficult? Was he really so desperate to live that he’d just abandon all of his morals at the first sign of trouble? He’d known what he was getting into when he fought off Tony and his goons to help Stacy back at the gym. How was this any different? Tony and this ‘Jeremy’ kid were two peas in a freaking pod!

  Am I really so afraid to die?

  No. That wasn’t it.

  He was afraid to fail.

  Staring down at étain’s broken form, with the dangling corpse behind him, Jack made a promise.

  I am never going to be passive again. Damn the consequences. I know what’s right, and I’ll fight for it, even if that means I never leave this accursed place.

  Freshly invigorated with his renewed purpose, Jack unclenched his fists. He took the ten strides to Etain’s crumpled form and knelt down beside the man.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jack muttered.

  étain met his gaze, confusion written there in the midst of all his pain. “What… do you have to be sorry for?”

  “I… I just watched,” Jack answered, hating every ounce of guilt the admission stirred back up.

  “Everyone watches. Only Ardent moves,” étain answered as if this were the simplest answer in the world.

  “Here, let me,” Jack said, extending his hand to the singer’s crushed fingers.

  Hesitantly, étain ascquiesed, his entire arms quivering from the cold and shock of it all. Relieved that he’d agreed, Jack quickly used his teeth to bite out the hems of both of his sleeves. It was far easier than he’d expected, but he figured he could blame his stats for that. With a few jerking tugs, he tore the sleeves free and began ripping them into long strips.

  Then, before étain could regret his decision to trust a stranger, Jack took the man’s hand and started to set each of the bones. He’d had to do this to himself on a number of occasions, thanks to a combination of fights and car pieces dropping on his fingers.

  The Ciellian clamped down his tongue to stop another scream of pain, but neither did he pull his hand away. When the right hand was as good as Jack could make it, he wound the freshly made strips of cloth in and around each joint, doing his best not to jolt or twist any of the injuries.

  “May I?” Jack said after he’d finished with the first hand.

  “Thank you,” étain whispered, extending his left limb out.

  Jack repeated the process. It was grueling, and Jack’s own hands were soon covered in the singer’s blood. But he paid it no heed. It was a small price to pay for his earlier behavior.

  When both hands were bandaged, Jack got to his feet and helped the Ciellian stand up as well.

  “Why did you do it?” Jack had to ask. When the man’s exhausted features tilted to one side, he continued, “Why did you give up all of your things? I heard what they all said, but I just don’t get it.”

  étain laughed. It was a bright, pure sound that had no place next to a gallows.

  “I’m one of the Cielle,” he said, his accent making the words sound even more winsome. “I am commanded by Ardent to provide whatever I can should a fellow traveler request it. Those Brutain had it all wrong. I like my things. But I like making Ardent proud more. If he asks me to give, I give. That is that.”

  étain gave him a knowing smile and started to move away. “For what it’s worth, you are no watcher. I see the spirit of our God inside of you, and he is a flame. And flames don’t stay idle, do they, stranger? Be his flame. The world is dark enough already. No need to add to it.”

  étain winked and gave Jack a small bow. The singer turned and started to walk toward the city gates with more dignity than even the nobles displayed, despite the lack of clothes.

  Does he know? Jack wondered.

  It was far too much of a coincidence for someone who clearly worshiped this Ardent fellow to insinuate he had a special flame inside of him. And that last bit about not adding to the darkness?

  There’s no way.

  Feeling a little childish, he still peered up at the air above his head.

  Good. He hadn’t accidentally re-equipped the Banisher title.

  Still, as he watched the Ciellian leave the city, he couldn’t help but reflect on his recent experience and promise.

  I will never sit idly again. I’ll be that flame, even if it kills me.

  Jack laughed and shook his head.

  Kills me again, at least.