It was dark.
Not the dark of a moonless night, or the comforting dark behind closed eyelids. This was a void, an absolute negation of light and form.
It was a suffocating emptiness that pressed in on all sides, a sensory deprivation so complete that Bradley wasn't sure he even had a body anymore.
Then, he felt it. Not a touch on skin, but a contact deeper, more fundamental. Something cold and sinuous was coiling around the very core of his being—his soul. It was a tentacle of pure intent, not of malice, but of indifferent purpose. It pulled, and he had no choice but to be pulled. There was no fear, only a profound, unsettling detachment, as if he were a leaf caught in a cosmic current. He was a passenger in his own existence.
And then, even that tenuous awareness faded. Consciousness surrendered once more.
—
Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a violent explosion of sensation. Agony was the first thing he registered—a searing, metallic pain that encased him, as if he were bound in chains fresh from a forge. It was the pain that anchored him to reality, a cruel welcome back.
The second thing was the sound. A cacophony of hatred, thousands of voices raised in a unified, venomous chant that hammered against his ears and vibrated through the stone beneath his knees.
"Punish the sinner!"
"The defiler! The blasphemer!"
"Stain upon the temple! Purge him!"
The screams were so full of vitriol they seemed to make the very air tremble. Bradley's vision swam, blurred by pain, finally clearing to reveal a grim tableau. He was on his knees, his head bowed as if in penance. He was looking down at dark, polished stone.
What… the… hell?
He became acutely aware of the weight of countless gazes, each one a needle of pure malice pricking his skin. The sheer, concentrated loathing was a physical chill that ran down his spine. Forcing his head up, he beheld his accusers.
Hundreds, no, thousands of them. They stood in a vast, seething crowd, their forms humanoid but their substance utterly alien. Their skin was not merely dark; it was the color of crushed obsidian, a shifting, liquid blackness that seemed to drink the light. From their bodies emanated a faint, wispy aura of deeper shadow, like smoke but with a sentient, clinging quality. Their hair and eyes, in stark, terrifying contrast, were a brilliant, metallic silver, glowing with an inner light in the gloomy atmosphere.
Fucking hell. What are these things? His mind, ever analytical even in crisis, scrambled for reference. Shadow people? But their features… the silver… This was no creature from any fantasy book he knew.
Was I banished into the shadow realm or something?
The sky above was a ceiling of bruised, roiling clouds, hiding the sun and casting the world in a perpetual, depressing twilight. How utterly bleak. Is this it? Is this the reflection of my soul? A damned, gloomy theater for a execution?
He tried to move, to stand, but the source of his agony made itself known. Thick, black chains, cold as the void and unnaturally strong, bound his arms and torso, snaking down to his legs. They were rooted to the ground itself. A frustrated grunt escaped him. Oh, well, I'm damned indeed. Then he felt it—a strange, phantom weight on his back, a presence that was both a part of him and utterly foreign. Craning his neck, his blood ran cold.
Wings. Two large, magnificent, black-feathered wings, now cruelly pinioned and bound by the same dark chains that held the rest of him. They were torn and ragged, but their shape was unmistakable.
Hah. Am I hallucinating? There is no conceivable reality where I am some kind of bird-man. An angel? The thought was absurd, yet the evidence was irrefutable. With his pale skin, dark hair, and now these imprisoned wings, he looked less like a celestial being and more like something that had been cast out of heaven.
That instructor said the trial is a reflection of the soul. But what part of my soul is a winged creature in chains? I'm no angel! I'm a killer, a sinner, a bastard who fed a woman her own guts! The disconnect was jarring, a profound cognitive dissonance that threatened to unravel his sanity.
His internal turmoil was interrupted by the presence he had missed. A tall figure stood before him, a man draped in flowing black robes that pooled around his feet like spilled ink. His long silver hair was tied back severely, emphasizing a face of sharp, unforgiving angles. He was a priest of this grim faith, and his silver eyes held a contempt so deep it was glacial.
"You filthy crow," the priest's voice cut through the crowd's noise, cold and sharp as a shard of ice.
"Who granted you the audacity to defile our sacred land?" He took a measured step closer. "Not only did you trespass, you breached the inner sanctum of the temple itself. You stole a relic consecrated to our God. Where have you hidden it?"
Bradley's mind reeled. Crow? Not an angel, a crow? The distinction felt important, but the accusation was nonsense. "I don't know what you're talking about," he managed, his voice rough. Did I possess someone? Is this a memory that isn't mine? A role I have to play?
"Blasphemy!" a voice shrieked from the mob.
"See! He denies it even now! The crows have no shame, only deceit!"
The crowd's fury swelled, a wave of sound ready to crash over him. It ceased only when the priest raised a single, pale hand.
"You creatures of darkness are treachery given form," the priest said, clicking his tongue in disgust. "This is why we, the Children of Shadow, despise your kind. You are drawn to what is not yours, like maggots to rot."
So they are shadow people after all. Bradley was suspecting that because of the vibes they gave, but their hair color made him doubt. I mean, shadow people are normally full black and do not have silver hair in fantasy books. He frowned at his thoughts. I should stop thinking that this is a fantasy book.
The priest's lips curled into a smirk. "You cannot escape. These bindings are forged from the essence of this temple. Without your wings, you are nothing."
Hah. What kind of trial is this? Isn't this a bit extreme for a first-time user? The bitter thought was a weak shield against the rising dread.
The priest took another step, his voice dropping to an intimate, cruel pitch. "Since you refuse to confess your sin, you will be punished for it. Not with death—that would be a mercy you have not earned. No, we will take from you what your kind loves most—"
He's not going to kill me? A flicker of desperate, foolish hope.
"—we will rip your wings from your body."
The hope shattered into a thousand icy shards.
"Huh?" The sound was a stupid, involuntary puff of air.
The crowd roared its approval. "Yes! Tear them! Let him never fly again!"
The priest lifted his hand, palm open, and slowly began to close his fingers. As he did, the chains around Bradley's wings constricted, the metal biting deep into the feathered limbs.
A gasp was torn from Bradley's lips. The pain was immediate and shocking. It wasn't like a broken bone or a cut; it was a deep, rending agony that felt like it was tearing at his very spirit. The wings were not appendages; they were him. "W-wait! Stop! We can talk about this! I swear, I didn't steal anything!"
The priest's face was a mask of serene indifference. He continued his motion. The chains tightened further, shearing through black feathers, which drifted to the ground like ashes. A hot, wet sensation bloomed across his back as blood began to flow, staining the black chains a dark, glistening crimson.
"Aghhhhhhh! Stop, you bastard!" Bradley screamed, the sound raw and tearing from his throat.
The priest paused, his fist half-closed. The pain receded from an inferno to a throbbing, unbearable ache. Bradley sagged in his chains, chest heaving, face and back drenched in a cold sweat. For a fleeting second, he thought his plea had been heard.
He was wrong.
The priest offered a smile that was pure, undiluted devilry. Then, with a final, decisive motion, he clenched both hands into fists.
The sound was wet and final. A horrific, tearing crunch that Bradley felt in his teeth, in his soul. The chains didn't just break the bones; they ripped the wings completely from their moorings on his back.
The world dissolved into a white-hot sea of pure, unadulterated agony. His scream was not a sound of protest, but a visceral reaction of a body and soul being violently unmade. The heavy, sickening thuds of the severed wings hitting the stone floor were barely audible over his own shrieking. A warm pool of his own life spread beneath him.
The shadow people watched, their silver eyes alight with a fervent, joyous light. His suffering was their symphony.
"You see?" the priest's voice was calm, almost conversational, over the din. "This is the price of sin. Now… you will never fly again."
Bradley could only gasp, each breath a ragged, painful effort. He felt hollowed out, a fundamental part of his being carved away. "Huff… huff… I will… kill you…" The words were a bloody promise.
The priest chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Unfortunately for you, your punishment is not complete."
He moved closer, grabbing a fistful of Bradley's hair, yanking his head back to expose his face. The priest's free hand came up, and Bradley watched in horror as the index and middle fingers elongated, the nails thickening and curving into two wickedly sharp, black claws.
"For daring to lay your filthy gaze upon a relic of our God," the priest intoned, his voice dripping with sanctimonious venom, "I shall tear those eyes from your skull."
A chill, colder than the chains, shot down Bradley's spine. Real, primal terror seized him. "F-fuck! You took my wings! Isn't that enough? How is this justice?"
"Blame only yourself."
The clawed hand lunged forward with the speed of a striking serpent. "W-wait—!"
It was too late.
Spurt.
A sensation of incredible, sharp pressure, followed by a bizarre, wet popping. Then, the agony. A pain so specific, so violating, it eclipsed even the loss of his wings.
"Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! MY EYEEEEEEES!" Bradley's body went into violent, uncontrollable spasms, straining against the unyielding chains. The world didn't go dark; it was replaced by a universe of pure, searing red pain. He felt hot, thick fluid—his blood—streaming down his cheeks like tears of liquid fire. He screamed until his throat was raw, until he was drooling and choking on his own anguish.
The priest pulled his hand back, and with it came a final, excruciating rip.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK… MY EYES! The internal scream was a silent, desperate echo of the one tearing his throat apart.
He was blind. Not the dark of the void, but the absolute, permanent blackness of empty sockets. He tried to blink, to cry, but only more blood welled forth.
"Disgusting," the priest muttered, flicking his wrist and sending the two ruined orbs skittering across the stone. A subordinate hurried forward with a cloth, meticulously cleaning the blood from the priest's fingers.
"...kill…y.." Bradley mumbled through broken lips, his voice a ruined thing.
"What was that?" The priest leaned in, his silver hair brushing Bradley's cheek, his ear close to the boy's mouth.
"I WILL KILL YOU!" Bradley roared, lunging forward with the last of his strength, teeth snapping shut on empty air as the priest effortlessly leaned back.
"What a savage. A treacherous crow to the last."
"Remember," the priest said, giving Bradley's shoulder a condescending pat, "you brought this upon yourself."
He gestured to two burly shadows. "Throw him into the Hollow Lands. Let him suffer for eternity in the depths."
They unchained him from the ground, but his arms remained bound. They grabbed him under the shoulders and began to drag him away, his boots scraping uselessly against the stone.
Blind, broken, and bleeding, Bradley could do nothing but scream his rage into the uncaring twilight. "I SWEAR! I SWEAR ON MY NAME, YOU BASTARD! YOU BETTER PRAY I DON'T SURVIVE! I WILL COME FOR YOU! I PROMISE YOU, I WILL KILL YOU IN THE MOST PAINFUL WAY IMAGINABLE!"
The priest merely watched the pathetic spectacle, a faint, dismissive smile on his lips. "If you survive, that is. But even if you do, you will never climb out of the abyss."
Bradley's screams grew hoarse, then faded to ragged, wet gasps as his vocal cords finally gave out. They dragged him for what felt like an eternity, the sounds of the crowd fading, replaced by the whistle of a cold, biting wind.
They reached a precipice. Even blind, Bradley could feel the vast, open emptiness before him, the air currents shifting, carrying a scent of deep, ancient decay.
"I hope you become a hollow creature," one of his captors spat, his voice full of loathing, "and suffer until the end of your worthless life."
With a final, concerted heave, they threw him forward.
There was a moment of weightlessness, a terrifying lurch in his gut. Then, he was falling, the wind whipping past his torn back and bloody face, his silent scream stolen by the descent as he plunged down, down, into the waiting darkness of the clouds below.