“I have seen many people disparage the state of our world, the morality of us mortals. Even amongst fellow members of the Church I have heard and read opinions on the degradation of our moral fiber. We look to the past for ideals on which to judge our present, forgetting that while we see the mundane dangers of the day, we do not fossilize mundanities. We can remember wars, and times of strife, and see the heroes and villains, but forget the everyman. We do not live in a time of moral failure, we all merely live. It is our duty as followers of the High Father to remember this. So go out and help your neighbor, do some good in the world. Do not let the gripes of the old and the scared dissuade the action of the now.” – From the Compilations, Vessel Atilan Itterarkh, Entry XVII

  Atilan’s night ended up a grisly affair. The sun peaked over the walls of the church, casting brilliant light on a scene from a campfire tale. Atilan leaned atop a balcony overlooking the courtyard. He was caked in blood. A faint flicker of bronze sputtered in front of him and gave out. He blinked, then again. His chin hit the railing, and he stumbled back. “Ow,” he grumbled, rubbing at his mouth, grimacing. He shook himself awake, he couldn’t sleep yet, there was still too much to do. So much to do.

  He exhaled, feeling the flow of air move from mouth to foot, filling his being with life. Again and again, he breathed, expelling all worries and images burned in his brain from the night. Some of them he would not let go of, nights like this needed to be remembered, but he also needed the ability to sleep–eventually.

  His hands left crimson marks on the wrought-iron railing. It would have to be cleaned later; the entire building would have to be expunged. He shivered. Forty-three people. Those would be the ones who he should dwell on. Forty-three lives he and Nathan, and all the others who had arrived had managed to save. Forty-three lives that would have been lost if not for his actions.

  He could have saved so many more if he had been faster, smarter, more proactive, more–

  No, there was always more that could be done, always more to do.

  He knew that all too well. Atilan sighed, and shook his head, trying to expel exhaustion. He was only marginally successful. He stared at the doorway into the nave for a long moment, and could almost taste metal imagining his entrance there. He had enough of that for the moment. He climbed atop the balustrade, carven of stone and painted with great effort. The wind had long eroded the finer design of it though, and left behind only a ghost of the artist’s original intent. Atilan wondered when would they grow faded enough for a new artist to be called to renaissance this church? Atop the stone railing, Atilan observed the courtyard for a moment, feeling the morning’s wind flutter across his shawl. It was cold, and bit at his skin, enough to drive a bit of wakefulness into his being. Feeling more alive, Atilan stepped off the balcony.

  A staircase spiraled beneath him, made of stone–organic material would probably have been too much at the moment, much as he hated to admit it–and strode onto the pavilion. It felt good to escape the tang of death, even better to see eyes drawn towards him. It was an odd group which had gathered, soldiers, members of the clergy, workers, families of the deceased, even a member of House Itterarkh was present. This was a tragedy, and one that would be recognized by most, unlike the other event of the night. The riot only some would be able to admit it for what it was. Work was left to be done there, so much work. Atilan drew attention as a circus performer would. Once, he had loathed attention, and craved only doing his duty. Yet, at the same time, he had loved it, in his own fashion. Attention built reputation, and reputation was a potent currency. There were far too many people in the world who sacrificed everything for that manner of wealth. If only they could divine its true purpose of exciting change for the better.

  But it was a task impossible even for the High Father to enact, a true unity among man, elf, and spirit. Yet, that was no excuse not to try. So, feeling the weight of all those people seeing him, knowing him, building his currency of reputation, Atilan had to do his duty. He paused in the center of the courtyard. It was empty, save for a crumbling circle of stones with an overgrown patch of nothing in its middle. Once a great statue had stood there, Atilan himself had seen it in his youth, but a protest had turned into a riot here, following the death of a beloved Pastor amongst the poor. Marcus Theofaun’s death by the noose resulted in half the city devolving into chaos. So fell the statue of Vessel Fallon Itterarkh, one of the more controversial Vessels in history.

  Atilan planted a foot atop one of the old stones Fallon’s visage had once stood. It would have been twice his size, and had been coated in gold if his memory recalled. By Dragon’s Decree, those who could ordain Mid or High Strand could not create precious metals for fear of destroying the economy of Artaghan. How funny, that was where they drew the line. Precious things to be kept only for the wealthy. A sea of coats and shawls and shirts all waited for Atilan, standing higher now than them. Atilan raised a hand high over his head, and it took every ounce of effort to keep it from trembling. He clamped down his jaw, feeling his muscles tighten in focus. He was utterly spent, and yet needed more. He had nothing left to give, no energy for a symbol or gesture.

  That would not stop him.

  Stranding was unlike other Gifts, scholars still debated if it even was a Gift. Atilan didn’t care, one way or another, let them argue, so long as he could do good with it, the name mattered not. Expending your own energy was a part of its use, like the use of any other muscle or function of the body. However, Stranding could also derive its energy from elsewhere, though usually only by a Vessel. Faith had a power to it, a manifestation of the High Father, or a spirit, or some other source that could be tapped into, drawn into the Ordainment of Strands. Atilan rarely used it, he worked and lived where faith tended to withdraw, and thus relied only on himself. But here he stood in a bastion of faith. Sure, the night's event had shaken it, but a crowd still watched him, still expected him to do something. So, something he did.

  Golden light to rival the sun began to expand out from Atilan like a corona that encompassed the entire courtyard. It bathed everything in radiance that fell upon people with a warmth Atilan knew daily. Slants of light shattered shadow and all was lit and covered. There were no individual Strands to see, no small amount to ordain, existence itself would heed his word. Atilan could feel the pulse of Artaghan, of the continent, of the very world at his fingertips, a beating heart in his palm. The Gift of creation itself was his. And he smiled, momentarily forgetting his exhaustion, his worries, his burdens, and let that energy move forth from him and out into the world.

  It flowed like a ripple of a stone befalling water, waving outwards in visible blurs of reality. Where they went, flowers blossomed, wounds and bodies healed, and broken edifice knit back together. Finally, the light faded. Bone-deep weariness returned like a blanket upon his back, and all seemed normal, though noticeably brighter. His knees wobbled, but he took a step as sure as he could manage from the statue’s crumbled base and forward.

  “Tonight,” Atilan spoke, making sure his voice carried. His audience was quiet, even before his little miracle, tonight had not been a night of much talk. “is a night I doubt we shall soon forget. There is a darkness that has seeped across the realm and which has made itself evident in the very halls of our institution. This Red Wraith has slaughtered without discretion, no longer are they an executioner of individuals most would celebrate, but they have butchered our friends, or servants, our youth. I do not know why, I cannot fathom why. It is nights like this that encroach our dreams, or memories, that plague us with nightmares when we close our eyes and refuse us sleep.” Atilan drew the Unicorn Horn, and right at that moment, the sun barely peeked over the church’s wall, and a beacon of light glittered and sparked off it in an array of beams that lit the courtyard a second time. Atilan smiled. “But, where there is darkness, a light can come to burn it away. I will find answers, and I will face this terror. Red Wraith, if you are here, if you hear these words, I promise you the chance to speak to me, to find redemption. There is no soul beyond a second chance. I am silver, not steel. But, refuse me, and I will not hesitate to protect as is my duty.” Atilan rammed the horn into a patch of dirt that had formed from his first miracle. The flowers which bloomed there began to explode in fertile growth beyond normal reckoning. They quickly grew taller than Atilan and displayed vibrant colors exceeding their typical hues. The air was filled with the scent of perfume, and he heard the crowd began to clap, to cheer, and to cry. A night of mixed emotions.

  And, as he began to walk towards the gate, he saw a man approaching him. Atilan’s day, already surpassing twenty-four hours, had barely begun, for he saw Lacian Cicero, another of the Twelve Elders–rulers of the entire church of Artaghan. Atilan stopped, and bowed his head. It was custom to bow the back or to kneel, but Atilan did neither.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Lacian was elderly–naturally–and utterly bald, covered in liver spots. He wore a purple shawl, its twelve spoke wheel silver, and walked with a spryness not befitting his aged appearance. His trousers were billowy and his boots were black and tall and cut almost to the knee. There were heavy spurs on them that clattered almost as much as the heavy things did atop the cobbles. He wore a gaudy amount of jewelry–something Atilan knew Lacian had received pushback from other Elders on–and was followed by two Inquisitors. Atilan recognized their faces, but not their names. He was sure he had trained them both in swordsmanship when they were but fresh-faced youths, but that had been before Mellow, before his own personal redemption.

  He inclined his head to them, just as deeply as for Lacian. The older man gave no indication he noticed, as he waltzed all the way to Atilan and grasped Atilan’s hand before he could even register they were shaking.

  “Greetings Sir. Vessel, how long was it since we last met?” Lacian wheezed, overly friendly, his hands clammy. Atilan felt a small slip of paper left behind in his grasp. Lacian winked at him, and a chill fell down Atilan’s spine as he felt a bit of his weariness drain away.

  Unfolding the paper discreetly in his hands, as he went to clasp them behind his back, Atilan replied, “Twenty years, almost to the date,” Atilan replied, as he stepped back and went to cough. As he did, he glanced at the slip of paper.

  We must talk without others.

  Atilan returned to his hands clasped, and slipped the paper into a pocket on the back of his pants. “I believe the last thing you said to me was, "You are being an utter disgrace to the Church. Despite your personal grievances with the function of the Inquisition, it is beyond repugnant to so blatantly disparage their stated purpose and the failures of the church for the entire world to read, especially within the sacred pages of our holy text as your first contribution to the Compilations.”

  Lacian smiled. “Did I say that? Goodness me, I was very assertive.” He managed to somehow grin deeper. “Well, perhaps, on a day such as this, we could if not forgive old words, forget them for a time and forge some unity amongst disparity, especially between people who should be on the same side?”

  Atilan hesitated. He was being mired in a web of church politics, he could feel it. The easiest way out of such traps was to cut them apart at the start and run away. Yet, not since his early days as a Vessel, had he and the Elders so blatantly were at odds. They very quickly came to an unspoken agreement to keep at arm’s reach and to not show outward signs of disagreement. Not in the entire history of the Church had a Vessel and the Elders been at war against each other. “You are quite right, Elder Lacian. You were close friends with Duhnlaid, were you not. I offer my deepest condolences. As I said, tonight is a dark day, and I intend to rectify this tragedy.” And he meant it. The words were forced, but he had sympathy for the Elders. He disagreed with them, but he also recognized their function in serving as the governing body. They were the hand which directed the entire efforts of the church, both internal and external. Atilan was an outsider to their goals, their efforts. He did not have thousands of people working directly under them. They had a responsibility of an entirely different weight to bear from his. Disagreements were bound to happen. Besides, this felt like no happenstance. The world seemed to be moving at a rapid pace, not since Dragon Hyrth’s death and the onset of the Succession War had the world seemed to be in more turmoil.

  Lacian set a hand on Atilan’s shoulder, and it felt solid, assuring. “Perhaps we can have lunch together, or breakfast might be more apt.”

  “There is more work to be done here,” Atilan began, but Lacian gave him a sharp look. “Of course, Elder Lacian, I have not eaten in…” Atilan trailed off. It was hard to remember when he had eaten. His pickings yesterday had been slim aboard the Salty Pelican. He could not recall his last proper meal, his last proper bath, his last proper anything. Still more to do. At least with this, he can have something hearty in his belly. That would be enough to keep him functioning for a few hours more. Atilan palmed his head, forcing himself to focus.

  “Have you any good suggestions in this town?” Lacian asked. “I have only briefly stayed here, and the one place I knew I could not stand to visit, it would remind me of Duhnlaid, and that will not do.”

  Atilan narrowed his eyes. He tried to discern beneath the elderly man’s facade. Lacian’s bright and cheery eyes seemed to hide tears, yes, Atilan could see the faint redness, a barely straightened slump to his shoulders all too familiar. He was far better than Atilan at hiding his exhaustion, his grief. Why should he though, it was only human to mourn the lost. “There is a small little place, near the Sunbrick Inn I would like to go.” Close to where his mysterious note told him to visit. Might as well prepare for the next thing to do.

  “Very well then.”

  “Tis a crowded place,” Atilan said, eyeing the two Inquisitors. “I can table us, but not they.”

  Lacian waved a hand, “No worries from me, I am sure I will be fine with you.” Lacian continued to wave his hands to dispel their rising complaints. “If the Vessel insists, so do I. He will keep me quite safe. I will have no complaints from you two, if Atilan sacrificed his night and energy to help this place, so should you. It is the duty of the Inquisition to do the work no others are willing. That is a commandment.”

  Atilan saw their arguments fossilize into following, as they bowed their heads and retreated towards the church. As they went, he called out, “Forgive me for not knowing your names, but I do recall you. I am glad to see you have progressed the ranks. I am proud of your achievements.”

  They said nothing, did not even turn, but, their countenance turned, a more sure stride was adopted as the two walked. Atilan smiled. It was a miracle what words could accomplish. If only he had lived his entire life with such a mantra. Gesturing ahead, Atilan began to walk on, “Follow, I am curious to hear what you have to say.”

  Lacian followed, hands clasped behind his back, feet rattling. “What makes you think I have something to say?”

  Atilan eyed him, they passed beneath the gate to the church, bolstered with several guards. They saluted towards Atilan, and he nodded back to them, one of them, Atilan recognized from the protest. He wore the same faux wakefulness Atilan adopted. More and more to do, had that really only been hours ago? Atilan blinked a few times, trying to force away weariness, as they continued forth, down Iron Hill and towards where it met Market Winding. “I have not met a member of the Church outside the Inquisition not eager to talk anyone’s ear off.” Atilan inspected the Elder. Yes, there was something greater beyond those eyes, behind his fox smile. “I am sorry for Duhnlaid’s loss,” Atilan said, looking forward. The city felt quiet, the streets emptier than they should be.”

  “We all are,” Lacian said. Finally, he gave a tell. It was subtle, but his voice was constricted.

  Atilan licked the inside of his mouth, then broached, “You need not disguise your grief, Lacian.”

  Lacian paused for a brief moment, before shouldering on. “No, I do not need to, Sir Vessel. But last we spoke, we ended on uncertain terms. I do not wish to show weakness.”

  Atilan did not respond. They walked in silence for a few minutes, the sun still slowly rising. The city was following suit, though not eagerly.

  “You were at the protest last night?” Lacian asked, and Atilan realized the Elder was observing him, looking him up and down like a book to be read.

  “Yes,” Atilan replied with a nod and a shrug of his shoulders. “It was happenstance, I returned on one of the ships which deals in the shipment of bodies. I did as my soul felt was right.”

  More silence. “You’ve spent far longer than I here and at Ghost…” Lacian said, trailing off. He left the question unspoken.

  Atilan took the bait, it was the best opening he saw to perhaps pry some information from Lacian. “What do I think of Ghost, the fact we condemn hundreds of people a year to an island to die? It is loathsome Lacian.”

  “So, your time in Ghost, these last twenty years. Is it charity that keeps you, or is it penance?”

  Atilan could feel his fingers digging into the flesh of his skin. An old anger, an old grief clawed at his insides, like a writhing squid swallowed whole and fighting to escape. “Your intentions confound me, Lacian,” Atilan said.

  “Please, answer my question,” Lacian walked on, hands still firmly clasped behind his back, without a care in the world. But, behind those words, still the Elder’s own fire burned.

  “Penance and shame, Elder,” Atilan answered, honestly. “At least at first. I owed them for the festering wound I left behind. Mellow and Hadian’s deaths are blights upon my soul, sins caused by zealotry and strict adherence to doctrine. You should be more than aware.” Atilan nearly spat the final words. He had thought himself over this anger, but evidently not.

  Lacian looked back, face contemplative and very punchable. “I severely misjudged you, Atilan. I am sorry. I was a complete and utter idiot who dismissed you and your words since they challenged my long held beliefs, and I was too cowardly to admit they were correct.”

  Atilan’s mouth was agape. It had first opened to continue arguing, then fell further open and stayed so hearing each word. The Elders rarely admitted wrongness, at least not so blatantly. It shocked his body to the point his weariness left him for the moment and returned to mind full lucidity. Unless of course, Atilan was dreaming. It would make more sense than reality.

  Lacian continued to stare at him. Atilan began to laugh, Lacian looked so serious, arms now crossed over his chest, eyes sorrowful. Lacian quirked an eyebrow. “Is this a laughing matter to you?”

  “No, not at all Elder Lacian,” Atilan said. “But I have had a very long day, and you have left me speechless. Forgive my composure.”

  “You are forgiven, I suspect I would be just as subject to such foibles, were I in your position.”

  Finally, ahead, Atilan saw his destination. He hoped there, at a little cafe, he could pry some answers from Lacian.