A rifle erupts, blasting fire, gunpowder, and a bullet from the barrel. Everything and everyone freezes, bringing the world to a standstill.
I watch as the rifle that was pointed at Morgan's back shoots a bullet. It cuts through the air, its unstable trajectory continuously speeding toward Morgan's spine.
As soon as the bullet strikes, it will kill him at best, and paralyze him at worst. A fate much worse than death. Morgan's hands clutch the helm, readying himself for the bite of metal.
The bullet draws a silver line through the world. It makes contact with his coat and—
Light explodes.
A blind flash of gold rips across the deck, intersecting the path of the bullet, pure and sharp as a blade. It erupts as if someone carved the air open and poured the sun through a crack.
For a heartbeat, everything goes white.
Then sound catches up.
The screeching rifle resembles the crack of thunder, echoing across the harbor, replacing all sound.
The bullet shrieks off course, its path punched sideways by something I couldn't see. It buries itself into the mast, only inches above where Morgan's shoulder would've been.
He doesn't flinch.
The marines stagger back, surprised by the sudden light, some ducking by instinct, their rifles jerking up
No one understands what happened. Neither do I.
Smoke curls lazily from the barrel that fired at Morgan. Beside the marine holding the just-fired weapon is a tall figure wrapped in a long robe, slightly covering their trousers. He wears a pair of shoes that glisten in the remaining sunlight.
Two lapels sat on his collar, one holding a pin that resembled the red feather insignia of the duchy of Seine. And the other holding the symbol I saw in the church where I slept—the sigil of a triangle over an eye within a circle, wreathed by crossed two swords. He was bald, but he had a tattoo that began at the top of his head, running over his eye, down his jaw, and down his neck, disappearing into his robes.
"Who dares harm those under those who surrender under the Saints' gaze? Who permitted you to harm these men, Lieutenant?" The man's voice booms across the deck of the Albatross.
I see many of the marines begin to step away from the man, as if they could feel what I could. There's an aura coming off this man, surrounding him in a faint golden-white light. I presume I'm the only one who could see the light coming from him.
"What do you say, Lieutenant?"
The Lieutenant drops his rifle, training it toward the wooden deck as he lowers his head. "I apologize, sincerely, Inquisitor. I beg for your forgiveness."
Inquisitor? So, that's what an Inquisitor looks like.
The Inquisitor softens his expression, placing a hand on the Lieutenant's shoulder. "It's quite all right, Lieutenant. Since you've asked, you're forgiven, such is the way the Saints would have wanted. But, adhere to my words, you shall not act out of order again, is that understood, Lieutenant?
"Yes, Inquisitor. I understand."
The Inquisitor smiles. "Good. I did not want to admonish you, but lessons are meant to be learned. Now," the Inquisitor shifts his gaze toward Morgan, then toward me. "Put the captain in shackles, then place him into cells with the rest. Acknowledge?"
"Acknowledged!" The surrounding marines repeat, moving instantly. They surge across the deck, exiting the Albatross. They wrap Morgan in chains and drag him from the helm. He tries to resist, but a marine rams the butt of a rifle to his gut, doubling him over.
Morgan shouts and yells to leave his ship alone as he's dragged off the deck. His boots pull splinters from the planks below him, attempting to keep himself aboard. It takes four men to haul him.
Two men come toward where I'm lying, holding chains. They suddenly stop as the Inquisitor speaks: "I never said to chain the boy."
The marines hesitate. The two closest to me stop midstride, their chains swinging like a pendulum. One of them tries to speak, but the Inquisitor's harsh stare makes him quit.
"Did I stutter? The boy is not to be touched."
The marines acknowledge and nod as they back away, moving toward the pier.
The Inquisitor walks toward me, his robes trailing softly over the deck, almost touching it. Every step he takes makes a dull thud that echoes off the wood. The way he moves, his slow, deliberate stride, has a certain authority that forces the air around him to adhere to his whim.
As he nears, the faint golden-white light around him intensifies, nothing harsh, but pure. Radiant.
I try to sit up, but my body protests. Pain echoes through my body, I can't even lift my head anymore. I collapse back to the deck, gasping.
The Inquisitor stops just before me. And the Radiant light surrounding him disperses into nothingness.
His eyes are strange. They're human, but there seems to be some kind of influence behind them. I could've sworn his eyes were a different color before, yet for some reason, I can't recall what it was.
The Inquisitor's eyes lock with mine, however, they're not looking at me. They're staring through me, inspecting me as if I were a book that's worthy to be read.
"Look at you, how hurt you are. What's your name, child?"
"…Cole," I breathe. "Cole Sear."
The Inquisitor nods. He crouches down beside me, placing the back of his hand on my forehead. "Oh, child, you have a growing fever."
The Inquisitor turns around and gestures toward two lingering marines to come to us. "Take this child, and bring him to my study. Make sure to take care of him. I don't want him to be put in any more pain."
The marines approach us at the Inquisitor's command and carefully carry me. I can feel their hands beneath my shoulders and knees as they lift me with practiced care. My eyes shift toward the Inquistor: his grin doesn't move past his eyes, yet he seems to be a gracious person. Something unlike the rumors that surround an Inquisitor of the Seven Saints.
"Be careful with the boy," The Inquisitor says before the marines take me away. "He was seen much. I don't want him to be frightened before I get to speak with him."
His eyes stare into my soul as he speaks for one final time: "I'll see you later, Cole Sear."