It was early in the morning in the Kingdom of Tirria, and yet half of Kingsmount was present in the capital city's courtyard. The lot of them gazed in unfiltered repulse at Sky and the rest of the children, bound in chains engraved with complex runes like lambs to the slaughter.
"Darn Brandeds," a man in the crowd spat, nose wrinkling like it was pushed up by a thumb. He eyed all of them in disgust, his gaze burning into the mark of the blackbird on their foreheads. "Impure filth should all die in the purifying flames of the sanctuary!" he added, subtlety be damned. And the crowd picked up his sentiment.
Sky returned their stares, his blue eyes dulled from years of the scorn he'd faced. He twirled his wrists in discomfort, the cold metal over them chafing his skin.
Their hatred was completely unfounded. He was human.
"Patience!" a voice roared from behind the podium; the crowd heeded at once like cattle with no mind of their own. Footfalls followed after, each one graceful and slow. And before long a white-robed man with black hair as thick as a wig appeared at the front of the podium. His presence radiated brightly as the rising sun bathed him in a lukewarm glow of orange, and in his eyes was an even stronger malice than that which the crowd possessed.
Savant Calistor.
Every Branded knew his name. He was the one who had passed their judgement for decades now. And unless he croaked anytime soon, it would carry on for a couple more.
"You need not soil the ground of the city with your spittle any longer, people of Tirria," he began, voice curt and arms tucked gently behind his back. "The Devils of Midnight will be cast out soon for cleansing."
A deafening cheer resounded in the courtyard, arms raised to the air, and joy abounded.
Devils of Midnight.
Sky's heartbeat hastened, a painful ache lodging at the back of his throat.
All because we have the memories of our past lives.
Savant Calistor took a deep breath and exhaled. Then he gestured at the Branded and resumed, "Fifteen years have passed since this batch of sinners were thrown into our world. You all have endured their presence and your children have had to share the same air as them." He grit his teeth and clenched his fist. "But no more!" he voiced. "Today they shall leave our lands as is customary. Praise The Nine, people of Tirria, for granting you the opportunity to witness this day of glory!"
The crowd erupted into chaos, chanting. Savant Calistor took that time to breathe in the scene with a smile before turning to the children bound in chains. Then his smile faded like the last wisp of smoke from a fire.
"However," he resumed, the crowd falling quiet once more. "Despite the Branded being souls of darkness, the doctrine dictates that even darkness should be given a chance to live as light." He gestured at a heap of shabby weapons on the ground a few paces from where the Branded stood, numbering to approximately a hundred. "This will serve as a chance for you wretched lot."
"Praise to The Nine!" The crowd cheered.
"How merciful! How benevolent!"
Sky spared a single blink as his eyes settled upon the weapons, then glanced at the rest of his kind. There were more than a hundred of them, almost two hundred, if not more, and all were doing the same as he was: exchanging glances with one another.
They had come to the same conclusion.
There weren't enough weapons for all of them.
Savant Calistor's lips spread apart, forming a nasty smile. "If you believe you can survive without the mercy of The Nine, then remain standing where you are in defiance. If otherwise, then scurry in desperation for the weapons like the rats you are."
No other words needed to be said. Every Branded present was mentally ahead of their current age. They knew a lifeline when they saw one.
But as the rest of the Branded rushed at the weapons, Sky stood, his toes curling within his soleless boots and his heart thumping hard against his rib cage. His mind urged him to move—to reach for a weapon just like the others. But he defied it.
He told himself that going through an ordeal where he would have to defend against attacks, and more certainly than not, die to one, would be foolish.
Breath in his lungs mattered more than steel.
He forced his eyes away from the stampede so that he was not tempted.
Savant Calistor anchored his attention on Sky through the bloodbath occurring on his podium—a form of entertainment for all who cheered in ecstasy. Limbs fell and heads rolled, and the man didn't look one bit bothered by it.
"Brazen," he said. "You have chosen defiance?"
Sky simply stared back. He clenched his fists, restraining his will to rush at the man before him, rip out his neck with his teeth, and bathe in his gushing blood. But despite how much he longed for that, he lowered his gaze instead, hiding the fury bleeding into his eyes.
That action would be unwise and only make certain of the death he was trying his very best to avoid. He had to stay alive long enough to watch the sanctuary and the Order of The Nine crumble at his feet.
The commotion ended as quickly as it had started, and the podium became the equivalent of a gladiator's arena, thick with blood and guts and lifeless bodies. Those who remained standing, holding weapons in their hands, were stained red from head to toe, out of breath, and riddled with cuts and bruises.
Sky was the only one alive without a weapon.
But not for long.
Luckily for him, the barbaric battle had seen more killed than survived. There were a few weapons left without a wielder.
Sky hesitated for a brief moment, then walked forward under the intense gazes of both his kind and persecutors to a boy gurgling, hanging on for dear life.
Sky locked eyes with the waning ones of the lad, pausing for half a second. Then he leaned over and pried the longsword the boy was clutching tightly in hopes of survival.
Perhaps mercy would be ending the boy's suffering, but Sky had no intention of entertaining the crowd.
Just when he was about to turn away, an unsettling feeling crept up his neck, followed by an intense urge, pulling his eyes towards the pool of blood beneath the dying boy.
Sky's throat dried up, forcing him to gulp as his heart raced and his fingers twitched. His orgone slightly resonated with the thick liquid, expressing its desire for their coalition, and his stomach barely suppressed a growl.
Sky almost moved, unable to resist his thirst, but he held himself back quickly. Biting his lower lip slightly, he forced his gaze away from the blood.
Not here, not now, not before the devils staring.
Sky looked up and met Savant Calistor's probing gaze, steady, scrutinizing, like a lion stalking its prey. His heart stilled.
The savant narrowed his eyes for a brief moment, then turned around to face the crowd.
Sky relaxed. His very brief moment of weakness had been missed.
"The Branded have made their choice," said Savant Calistor. "The time is now." He snapped his fingers towards a group of sorcerers to a corner and they sprung into action at his request.
Their first spell loosened the chains that bound the remaining Branded. While the second brought forth a gust of wind that swirled and coalesced to form a rift in the space to the rear of the podium.
Three seconds later, a red portal as bright as blood appeared. The gate to the Otherworld.
Savant Calistor turned once again to the Branded and pointed fiercely at the rift.
"In," he voiced, a single word carrying the weight of a thousand.
Sky rubbed the scars on his wrists and turned towards the portal. He momentarily glimpsed his parents then, and as he had expected, they had anything but a look of confidence on their faces.
His heart ached as he watched them wrap their arms around each other, tears streaming down their eyes.
His parents were different from the rest.
Despite being both a Branded and a Blood Sorcerer, they hadn't discarded him. They had taken care of him in the best way they could, and helped him prepare for this day, in hopes that he would survive.
Sky would try to. And he intended to make it back in time to witness his mother give birth to his little sister.
He turned towards the rift. It was like a jewel, beautiful, but at the same time it radiated the most eerie aura he had ever felt, like it was the maw of an unearthly beast patiently waiting to devour whoever stepped into it.
Sky tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, and followed behind the rest of the Branded.
As soon as he stepped through the portal, a pressure slammed into him, like he had been pushed off a hill and into a river. It was hard and repelling. And then there was a pull, as though he was being dragged towards another portal, unnerving him and making him a tad too nauseous. But it was brief. And just as his rattled bones were regaining their composure, his Divine Voice announced his arrival in the Otherworld.
*You have arrived in the Otherworld*
*Current location: Tomb of the Fallen*