Chapter 7: The Inquisitors' Arrival
His eyes shifted to the carriage approaching from the distance. It moved steadily into the district, rolling over the cracked cobblestone road that was marked by deep potholes from long-term disrepair and heavy traffic. The vehicle passed between rows of deteriorating houses, their brick walls eroded by weather and neglect, roofs sagging under loose shingles, and doorways cluttered with debris. The four black horses pulled in unison, their hooves striking the ground with sharp echoes, steam rising from their nostrils in the cool air. Residents reacted with caution—pedestrians stepping aside quickly, shopkeepers pausing at their stalls to watch, and children being pulled indoors by wary parents—as the carriage's presence signaled authority and potential trouble. The Inquisitors' emblem on the side caught the light, reinforcing the sense of impending scrutiny.
It was the Inquisitors.
The cool morning wind stirred his hair as he stood on the cracked balcony of the shelter where the dreamless mortal dwelt, its surface worn from years of exposure. His silhouette blocked the sunlight streaming from behind him—that relentless orb warming his back while prickling his skin, making him appear as a shadowed figure with eyes that gleamed like polished silver.
It seemed the puny female mortal had done her job.
Quite credible.
He thought with a smirk, his mind drifting to their discussion earlier.
"What do you mean, Mephis? Earn four thousand vals? How?" Her gaze scrutinized him—an act he found audacious and irritating. A mortal questioning his decisions? Quite insulting. But at the moment, it didn't matter; only the perfection of his act did.
"If it's a heist, Mephis, count me out. And by the grace of Saint Peryl, you have to stop pulling these stunts. You literally have the Inquisitors on your tail, and..." Her voice trailed off as her gaze landed on him. He held the paper in his hands, one finger pointing to the reward: 4000 vals. He watched her eyes shift from the paper to his, her expression shifting to one of surprise, her mouth opening slightly as the implications registered.
"What?" she screamed, her voice echoing through the empty bakery, loud enough to draw the attention of old lady Myre.
He facepalmed. Just how short-sighted are these mortal creatures?
"Everything okay? You two having a fight?" Myre muttered, eyeing them apprehensively across the counter. But their forced smiles, now directed at her, suggested otherwise. With another suspicious glance, she resumed her baking.
His gaze returned to Auriel, watching with feigned apprehension as she slicked her dark hair back.
"Mephis, I understand you need money so badly, since your parents disappeared and all," she said with a sigh, locking her eyes on his. Then, in a low whisper, she added, "But this? No. You narrowly escaped being caught last time, and now you want to play a hex on the Inquisitors? Doesn't that trickster brain of yours understand risk?" Another sigh followed. "Everyone in the slums knows the Inquisitors are no joke. They despise us lower castes, Mephis. And how do you plan to escape if I sell you out to them? I'm sorry, I can't be your accomplice in this." Her eyes left his, focusing on her clasped hands.
"You don't play a hex on the Inquisitors?" he murmured, more to himself, his silver eyes glinting. "Who decided that? Look around, Auriel. You said it yourself—the slums deserve a better life. Everything here is broken: the houses, the people." He spoke softly, his gaze darting across the old bakery—the walls streaked with water damage and peeling paint, shelves bowed under sparse loaves covered in dust, the counter marked with scratches from constant use, and the coal oven leaking faint smoke through its rusted seams, filling the air with a musty odor of mold and burnt bread. He watched her eyes follow his. "Things are going to remain like this, Auriel, if we keep living in fear of the people who took everything from us. Someone has to tip the balance. And by the way, 4000 vals would do a great deal in our lives. Think about the reward, not just the risks."
"I understand you, Mephis. Truly, I do. But I still don't get it. Remember the Golden Rule: Slums don't sell each other out. No one needs you to be a martyr for our sake," she replied, her eyes softening as she placed her hands on his shoulder. He almost recoiled but held steady. This mortal was truly hard to convince.
"We need a hero, Mephis, not a martyr. And that's what I plan to be. We need a revolution, not just a planned theft," she added, the sunlight from the window highlighting her pale features—a common trait among slum residents—her blue eyes sharp with determination.
"You can't base the hope of hundreds on you, Auriel. It isn't certain yet if you'll succeed. I'm sure the Hypnoapotheosis you wish to undergo is no easy rite," he said. Then, with a sigh, he stood up, a faint chill running through him like a reminder of his borrowed form. "You know, Auriel, I always wanted to find my parents. It was my goal—find them, ask why they left me. You probably would understand that, wouldn't you?" He continued, his gaze drifting to the window where a songbird chirped on the rooftop of a dilapidated building, its structure crumbling from neglect. "Was it because they hated me? Or was I simply a mistake, unwanted? I really wanted to know, to ask them face-to-face why they left me in a cold, ruined district, all alone. Depending on their answer, I could add a punch to their faces." His eyes met hers, which faltered, clouded with empathy—and maybe more.
His plan was working.
"You know, over time, I promised myself I'd get over it. It's no big deal—after all, most kids around here were like me. And I had you and old lady Myre, always giving me leftovers even when I had nothing to pay back. You telling me stories from beyond the walls of Valen, the outside world, even when I had none to share. That was the greatest warmth I ever felt, more than my parents ever gave. But still, I felt empty. It felt fleeting, transient, like a moment that wouldn't last. And at some point, when you get fed up, you'll leave me behind too. After all, I was a burden." Then he felt her hand clutch his.
It seemed his clinical facade had worked. Mortals—such simplistic, sympathetic creatures.
"We never saw you that way, Mephis. Mom saw you as the son she never had, and I saw you as a friend, the only and best I ever had," she whispered, her blue eyes locked on his with intensity.
"Is everything alright?" Old lady Myre's words interrupted, forcing Auriel to pull her hand away.
"All good, Mom!" she called absently, her head lowered.
"Oh, okay. Thought for sure you folks were having a fight, but it seems not," Myre said across the counter, resuming her work by placing leaven into the coal oven. The scent of rising dough filled the room, warm amid the decay.
He crouched down beside her, his gaze meeting hers—the highest level of humility the Dream had ever attained, and the last he'd ever be.
"I understand, Auriel, but I need this. I need the vals. A thousand is enough for me to venture in search of my folks. And if it's futile or not, I'll still return. After all, my home's right here." He spoke with feigned desperation, his cold hands grasping hers. Her blue eyes searched his with scrutiny. "Please, Auriel. I need you for this."
She sighed, pulling her hands away and raking her hair again. "What if everything goes wrong, Mephis? I'm talking a decade or worse in jail. It's a huge risk for me." Her voice emphasized the risk.
"You undergoing that perilous rite you refuse to tell me more about is also a risk for me," he shrugged. "And Auriel, worry not—it's going to work just fine. I got this. Would it kill you to trust me?"
"I don't get it," she heaved. "Where's all this confidence coming from? It's almost like you don't see the possibility of being caught. Tell me how you plan to escape the Inquisitors. Tell me that. If I'm convinced, I'll aid you." A tired expression crossed her face as her eyes stayed on him.
"Hm?" she prompted.
"Ugh, alright. They give you the coins, you direct them to my abode, then I'll do my stuff," he said, his hands ruffling his hair.
"What is this 'stuff' of yours? Specify, please," she demanded.
"I'll trick them, then rendezvous with you, take my share, and blip—I'm out of Valen before they discover it's a hex," he shrugged again.
"Then what about me? They'll probably trace me into the district. And my mom—would she be safe?" She glanced at her mom across the counter, whose expression showed surprise at their intense stares.
"You'll probably be undergoing the Hypnoapotheosis. You plan to do so today, don't you?" He replied, his gaze returning to hers. "They probably don't know you enough to trace you to her. And as you said, the Golden Rule: The slums don't snitch on each other, right? So your mom would be safe, though heartbroken."
"That's quite a nice plan," she murmured to herself before fixing her eyes on him. "But it isn't enough to..." She halted when she noticed his pleading gaze meeting hers with intensity.
"Please, Auriel," he pleaded softly.
He watched her shut her eyes with a deep heave, then open them again, her gaze softening. Her hands parted the strands of hair covering his silver-glinting eyes.
"Let's say I agree to this," she said, her hands framing his pale face. "Promise me, Mephis. Promise you won't get caught. Reassure me you won't."
He flashed a smile—the brightest he could draw from the dreamless mortal's memory, the final disguise to perfect the act.
"I promise, Auriel. I'll bid you goodbye at the rendezvous point. Probably the Broken Wall where we first met—you and me, Auriel," he said.
That itself would be the foremost lie he, the Dream, had told.
Truly, how low had he fallen.
He opened his shut eyes, his silver gaze glinting in the dark, window-closed room of the mortal, Mephis.
That feminine friend of Mephis—she probably would be waiting at the Broken Wall by now.
How futile.
He clutched the golden pendant in his hands, its metallic luster dimming under his grasp. Rhythmically, he heard the sound of steel boots clanging against the stone-slabbed floor—hurried steps echoing up the stairs, accompanied by low whispers: terse commands, muffled suspicions, the occasional clink of weapons shifting in their holsters. The air thickened with anticipation as the group neared the door.
It seemed they were here already. The Inquisitors.
The air around him slowed, the space distorting like heat waves over pavement.
Vortagem... I sincerely hope you have successfully played your part.
He murmured as his gaze tore through the space before him. With a fluid motion, his hands plunged into the encroaching darkness, grasping the Helm of Fate—now darkened, its convoluted vortex gleaming in red auroras. Its presence warped the entire room, clouding it in a darkness laden with the tapestry of stars and auroras, draining the light until the chamber pulsed with otherworldly shadows. His other hand drew from the void the unholy sword of Death, its red runes igniting like embers in the gloom. The moment it fully emerged into reality, time itself died—a frozen hush enveloping everything.
And when the Inquisitors, laden in golden and blue livery, finally swung the door open, their figures descended not into a concrete, moss-laden room... but an ethereal expanse of darkness, devoid of matter and time. Only the blinks of distant stars and the silhouettes of galaxies lingered, little more than whispers from afar.
Before them swirled the convoluted iridescent vortex, turbulent and alive, from which a voice too glorious to belong to a man—too divine, like a dream—resounded.
"Welcome to my humble abode... my dear mortal pawns."