Desecration of a saint

The horses stopped before us, their riders towering above, their silhouettes stark against the fading light. The lead man dismounted with practiced ease. He was massive, his frame fully encased in the same pale metal as the captain's armor, though his seemed… better somehow. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what made it different—perhaps the craftsmanship, the polish, or the way it seemed to command respect. Draped over his armor was a colored cloth, dyed to resemble a cracked wall. It covered the front and back like a sigil of authority.

He strode toward us with heavy steps, the ground crunching beneath his boots. Then, to my surprise, he knelt before the Lord.

"Lord, Knight Hert requests to address you," he announced, his deep voice carrying a measured respect.

Lord Thorne straightened, and in that moment, he seemed to transform. Gone was the weary man who had trudged through the Dire Forest with us. In his place stood someone entirely different—a figure of cold authority, as cruel and commanding as when I'd seen him with the king.

"I grant you permission to speak," the Lord said, his tone sharp and formal.

The knight bowed his head low. "Lord, we have a horse ready for you to ride back to your keep. Unfortunately, we only have the one for you…"

Before the Lord could respond, the pale contractor—the one who had always been by his side—spoke up, her voice calm but tired. "Don't worry about us contractors. I have that covered."

She raised her arm, and before my eyes, the horses that had once pulled our cart appeared out of thin air. Their forms shimmered briefly, solidifying as if summoned from nothingness. The contractor swayed slightly, her complexion even paler than before. The effort had clearly taken something from her.

"We contractors will ride these back with the Lord," she said, her tone steady despite her obvious exhaustion. "So you only need to worry about the guards and the boy."

The knight's gaze shifted briefly to us, his eyes lingering before he turned back to Lord Thorne. There was a pause, a silent look of understanding, before the Lord walked toward the waiting horse. The knight assisted him, his armored hands steady as he helped the Lord into the saddle.

Once seated, Lord Thorne adjusted his posture, looking every inch the commanding figure. He glanced down at the knight. "Take over here. I'll speak with you back at the castle. The boy is to go to the pits. Have one of the doctores take him under their wing."

The knight responded with a sharp salute, slamming his metal-covered hand to his chest in a gesture of loyalty.

Without another word, we watched as the Lord and the four contractors rode away, their figures fading into the horizon, leaving us behind.

I hesitated for a moment before deciding to approach the knight. Everyone had been relatively kind to me so far, despite my status as a slave, so I thought I might be able to ask a question. I stepped closer to him, speaking timidly but with curiosity.

"Lord… Might I ask what a doctore is?"

Before I could register what happened, my head snapped to the side. A sharp, stinging warmth spread across my cheek, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. The cold air stung where the wetness spread, making the sensation even sharper.

"Don't ever fucking address me, slave," the knight spat, his voice dripping with venom. "The gods-damned nerve…"

I nodded quickly and backed away, lowering my gaze. He turned away as if I no longer existed, his dismissal absolute. My face burned with humiliation, and I fought the urge to cry. I had started to forget what it felt like to be treated as a proper slave, and now the memory came rushing back.

A hand rested gently on my shoulder. I turned to see one of the guards standing there, his expression heavy with sympathy. He guided me over to where the other guards were sitting.

"Don't worry too much about it, Edric," he said softly. "The knights are always like that. Even to us guards, they're often dismissive or downright rude."

His words were meant to comfort me, but they only partially eased the sting. I nodded silently and sat down with the others, my cheek throbbing as I tried to push the incident from my mind.

"So… what are you?"

The question came from the guard who had helped me. All eyes turned to me as he spoke.

"What do you mean, sire?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"The flames, the wings, and the way you fought. It seemed like you'd done that before," he said, his tone both curious and cautious. "Also, it's beyond strange for a lord to go out of his way to personally pick up a slave."

I hesitated, unsure of how to respond. My mind raced, searching for an explanation. Finally, I shook my head, trying to put my thoughts into words.

"I… I don't know what happened with the flames, to be honest," I admitted, my voice low. "That woman—she made that happen when she fed me her blood. As for the fighting… that just came to me naturally."

I avoided mentioning the surgery. It felt like a secret, something I wasn't ready to share. I also tried to downplay the mark hidden beneath my clothes, even though I could still feel its connection to the fire near us. The warmth wasn't just on my skin—it pulsed deep within me, like a quiet ember waiting to ignite. My gaze drifted to the flames as they danced, flickering and alive, almost as though they knew I was watching.

"Hmm… maybe she forced some kind of contract onto you then. Poor boy…" one of the guards muttered, his tone a mix of pity and sadness.

The others nodded solemnly, their expressions grim, as if I were some unfortunate patient they'd stumbled upon, someone marked by a fate they could neither change nor help.